Chapter 3
Rachel
“AM I DEAD?” I MUMBLE but quickly realize no one is here to answer my question.
I feel dead. I pat myself down, as if I am trying to find a well-hidden weapon.
Nope, all parts of me are here, or at least it feels like it.
I hold my head with both hands, trying to ease the pain, but it is pointless.
It feels like a big elephant is trapped in there, trying to get out.
It’s pushing its big elephant body from side to side against my fragile skull, desperate to come out, and I am one moment away from banging my head against a wall to release it.
I am going to die from a hangover. I will be one of those cases of stupid death through alcohol intake and bad decisions.
As if the possibility of going to prison isn’t enough.
I try to stand, hoping to get a better sense of what had happened last night, but instead, I question my entire existence as my eyes take in the state of my living room.
Everything is spinning. The room is brighter than usual; empty wine bottles are on the coffee table in front of me.
The aroma of coffee fills the house, and music comes from the kitchen.
I force myself to walk there one step at a time, trying to steady myself by holding on to the couch, the armchair, and the wall.
When I arrive at the kitchen, it’s even brighter.
Who decided to bring the sun inside my house?
And that music—it sounds like it’s playing from inside my head.
I bet the elephant is dancing to it. Noah stands in front of the stove, flipping pancakes, and the smell alone makes me want to vomit.
It’s too early for food. It’s too early to be alive.
Someone should kill me. I will pay them.
“Good morning, sunshine,” Noah chirps in a very hyper mood, and I think about how nice it would be to press his head on the hot pan and see if I can make a Noah-shaped pancake.
Why is he so hyper? How does this man never get a hangover when we have been drinking the same amount all night?
I am over here half-dead in zombie mode, pulling myself from room to room like the ghost of my past, and Noah is cooking breakfast like this is the best moment to be alive, with that stupid grin on his face that I want to punch off him.
He is ridiculous. I get it, dude; you are a god.
You never get a damn hangover, but us mortals who do would like you to pretend at least once that you are dying with us and not mock our inability to process alcohol like it’s water.
“Coffee,” I manage to say as I sit at the kitchen table.
It’s probably more of a bark than a word, but that’s the best I can do.
I can barely balance myself on the chair, and the room has now chosen to start tilting to the side instead of spinning.
At least pick a mode; are we on a bumpy carnival ride, or are we in a boat?
Make up your damn mind, room. I have enough problems as it is.
I am not sure if tilting is better or not.
Noah places a coffee mug full of fresh coffee and a plate of pancakes in front of me.
I push the plate away because even the idea of food makes me want to puke up all the alcohol I drank last night.
I take the mug in my hand as if it’s going to solve all my problems. I stare at the black liquid.
It looks like my soul but smells better.
I inhale the delicious aroma of the dark roast, and my brain slowly starts to wake up.
The image of the guy with the blue hair tied to a chair in my bedroom flashes before my eyes, and I am suddenly wide awake. I am missing information.
“What the hell happened last night?” I ask frantically before I take a sip of my coffee.
That’s good coffee right there. It might even have the power to actually solve the mess that is my life—you know, if I hooked it up to an IV and let it enter my veins like a blood infusion, replacing my actual blood with it and letting it make all the decisions from now on.
A me pumped full of caffeine would probably make better decisions than the me pumped full of wine.
“Do you mean after you kidnapped a guy?” Noah smirks and takes a seat on the other side of the table with a coffee of his own.
He pulls the plate that had been made for me and dives in, devouring my food while I try to piece things together.
I remember the guy. I remember the kidnapping.
I remember a tall, broody guy coming to rescue him. Everything is blank after that.
“What happened when the tall guy came to get him?” I ask again, this time guiding him to the last point I remember.
“Okay, you didn’t lose your mind then,” Noah smiles. “I was kind of hoping you had a mental breakdown and weren’t yourself when you kidnapped that guy.” Yes, buddy, we get it. You disapprove of my new hobby. Get in line. I am not too happy with the results either.
“I get it,” I say with annoyance as I take another sip of the coffee. “I fucked up.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Noah laughs. I am starting to think again about how cute a Noah pancake would look right now as his laughter pierces my brain. Why is he so loud? Man, I am dying over here; get the fucking memo.
“That doesn’t really answer my question, though,” I remind him.
“Okay, fine.” Noah finally decides to cooperate with me.
“Leo came to the rescue for the biker, then we went to the living room, had a few bottles of wine, and you passed out in the armchair. I went home, slept for a couple of hours, took a shower, and came back to make you breakfast because we have a twelve-hour shift to attend in an hour, and I am a good friend.” He gives me a toothy smile, highlighting the fact that he feels fine while I feel like I died, went to hell, and someone forgot to inform me.
Noah, good fucking friends don’t rub the fact that you’re a mess in your face.
They ignore it. They let you be the mess you are and hype you up while you’re trying your best. But then again, best friends do exactly what Noah is doing.
So, he may be right. He is a good friend.
“Twelve-hour shift,” I repeat the words, trying to pinpoint what day it is, or even what year.
The idea of working in the state I am in sounds like torture from hell designed especially for me.
I’m not going to make it through a twelve-hour shift.
I am going to die. Like, actually die. Like a funeral-will-need-to-happen type of death.
And all the damn clients always want to chat.
Why do they always want to chat? Why can’t you just shut the fuck up and let me work on your nails while I’m silently dying?
I am professional enough to do my job while on the verge of death; why can’t you be a good client and shut the fuck up in return?
Okay, now my thoughts are more aggressive than they should be.
I need to fix this before I end up being charged with murder today.
“Yes, Rachel. At the hair salon, the one we work at.” Noah’s sarcasm doesn’t escape me.
When I feel better, I am going to take revenge for this, but for now, I think I am going to focus on not dying or killing anyone.
Yes, those are good goals for the day. Don’t die.
Don’t kill anyone. Coffee! I drink the rest of my coffee and push the mug toward Noah.
He fills it with fresh coffee, and right now I like him a little more than I did a minute ago.
“Why?” I murmur. This time, I don’t need an answer. It’s a rhetorical question to the universe, but Noah responds anyway.
“Because they were crazy enough to hire both of us.” He is not wrong.
Who in their sane mind would hire the pair of us to work together?
And keep us for all those years? Yet someone did.
And in return, we have turned her salon into the most profitable, most popular one in town.
Because even though I am currently half-dead, I am a fucking good nail artist, and Noah is a god when it comes to hair.
He’s a fucking miracle worker. He can take you from ugly duckling to beauty in an hour, and then compliment you and sell you about ten different products on your way out.
He is that good. He’s our best salesperson and our best hairstylist all in one.
“That’s not what I was asking.” I drink my new, fresh mug of coffee as if it’s water and abandon my seat.
I start walking upstairs to my bedroom, with Noah following me like a puppy.
I will admit, I am feeling a little more human after two cups of coffee, but I will definitely need around twenty more during the day if I want to make it.
“Do you need something?” I ask as I go into the bathroom.
He folds his arms across his chest and leans against the wall next to the door while I start shedding my clothes.
I turn the shower on. I am not too worried that my best friend is standing right there.
I am too feminine to be his type. And right now, even if I were, he would have more luck getting choked to death than getting frisky.
He is annoying in the mornings, especially the ones after a bad decision—or several—that I made.