It was the next morning.
Erica was hungover, and I was late for work. I rushed from my bedroom, but stopped at the sight of Wanker stretched out on our couch. Somehow, Wanker had slept over. His shoes had been kicked off. His shirt was pushed up as he was idly scratching at his chest, and he had his other arm flung over his face, his nose stuck into his elbow. He was snoring, too.
Erica came out of her room at that same time. She made a beeline for the coffee pot.
I held up two fingers. “One, I need a cup of coffee, too. And, two, how did he get there? He wasn’t at the Wine Cellar with us last night.”
She grinned, filling a cup. Before pouring the second cup for me, she lifted her mug and took a good whiff of it. “Heaven. My God,” she groaned, tipping her head back with a dreamy smile,
