Mason Harrison is the captain of the hockey team, undeniably good-looking, and always knows just what to say. But he doesn't come without his flaws... After a traumatic relationship leaves him unsure and fearful, Mason doesn't know when he will be r...
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---- RILEY ----
motel 6 - river whyless
Waking up with a hangover is not something that I have much experience with.
Don't get me wrong, I love a good drink - especially when it comes to margaritas - but I don't feel completely comfortable mixing alcohol and my medications. So, most nights when I go out, I have a one or two-drink limit just to ensure I don't go overboard. But, based on the intense pressure in my head, dry mouth, and churning stomach, I can tell that I had a lot more than two drinks last night.
Squinting one eye open, I'm prepared to see an obnoxious amount of sunlight pouring in from the window above my bed and the dainty floral pattern sheets that cover my bed. However, that was pretty much the opposite of what my eyes see.
Instead of floral sheets and bright light, I am face to face with dark navy-blue bedding and very minimal light from the window next to the bed I was in.
As I stare at the window covered by grey curtains, I begin to panic. The last time I checked, there was no window beside my bed.
Frantically, I push back whoever's comforter I am tucked under and try my best to stand up. But the whole room seems to turn upside down, and I have to sit back down before I topple over.
After everything stops spinning, I finally notice the shirtless man lying on the floor. Even though he is face down and kind of blurry, I know exactly who that tuft of brown hair belongs to.
Oh my god.
I'm in Mason Harrison's bedroom.
That realization is the last straw in my haystack of misfortune.
Bile is quickly rising up my throat, and I am desperately searching Mason's room for a trashcan. I would've considered opening the door and sprinting out of his room, but I have no clue where I am and who could potentially be out there.
Through a cracked doorway across from Mason's bed, I spot a toilet and run towards it as fast as my wobbly legs can take me.
Let me just say... I barely made it.
My hands are on either side of the porcelain toilet bowl, and I'm trying my hardest to be as quiet as I can as I spewed my guts out. But it is no help because I am a blubbering, coughing mess as I throw up anything and everything that I have consumed in the last 24 hours.
There's no way this could get worse, I think to myself.
Wrong.
Dead fucking wrong.
Things automatically got worse when I feel a hand pull my hair back and rub slow circles on my lower back.
I could have very well passed away due to embarrassment at this moment. In fact, I think it is probably my best option right now.
