Mason
The first thing I registered was the taste.
Static on my tongue, sour and heavy, like I'd swallowed a handful of old copper coins and washed them down with cheap vodka.
My skull felt thin, brittle as an eggshell, every tiny pulse behind my eyes threatening to hairline-fracture the whole damn thing.
I rolled onto my side, burying my face deep into the guest room pillow. God. The sheets smelled like laundry detergent and faint bleach, a sterile contrast to the gross, sticky heat clinging to my skin.
The hangover was a dull, thumping weight sitting right on the bridge of my nose. Last night came back in useless, blurry flashes, the noise of the concert, the bass vibrating through the floorboards, cold drinks, loud laughs, Noah grinning like an idiot, and…
Grunt.
I froze. My eyes peeled open, crusty and dry.
Grunt. 'Forty-two…'
