Hard Ware by Misha Bell

Author:Misha Bell [Bell, Misha]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Mozaika Publications

Chapter Twenty-Four

I wake up in my bed and wish I didn’t.

Never. Drinking. Again.

My headache has a migraine, and the taste in my mouth is against the Geneva convention.

How did I get here?

Did last night happen, or was it a cruel nightmare?

Given the smell of vodka in the air, it happened. I must’ve fallen asleep in the RV. But then what?

Did Dragomir bridal-carry me home?

That actually sounds kind of nice. I hope that’s what happened, and not, say, that he and Fyodor carried me together by my arms and legs like a sack of fermented potatoes.

I peek under the covers.

No clothes.

Interesting. He also undressed me?

If so, no big deal. He saw me naked at his place anyway. It’s also possible I undressed myself, but can’t remember due to alcohol-induced amnesia.

Hmm. If I undressed myself, maybe I had my way with Dragomir as well?

But no. I’m pretty sure I’d remember that momentous of an occasion. Also, given Everest’s girth, I’d feel some soreness, and I don’t. Almost the opposite. There’s a gnawing emptiness in my girly bits that probably won’t go away until I get Everest in there—assuming that’s possible after my faux pas last night.

With a groan, I sit up and slide my feet into the slippers someone left by the bed.

Boner rushes into the room, his tail wagging too fast for my addled brain to process.

“Ma chérie, you smell like the butt of a dog who ate fermented escargot in vodka sauce. Délicieux.”

I stumble to my feet.

Hmm. My motor control seems to be back. That’s a start.

When I reach the living room, the couch catches my attention. The pillows are not where my cleaning lady usually leaves them.

Did Dragomir sleep here?

It’s possible. If our roles were reversed, I’d stay to make sure he didn’t choke on his own prayer.

“Dragomir?”

No answer, but when I stumble into the kitchen, my theory is confirmed.

A pot of oatmeal is sitting on the stove, a glass of some strange liquid is sitting on the table, and my coffee pot is loaded and ready to go.

There’s also a note on the table:

Off to work. In the cup is a Ruskovian hangover cure. Drink it, and you’ll be good as new.

I down the miracle cure. It tastes like Pedialyte with pickle juice, milk, and cherry coke. Not sure how effective this is as a hangover cure, but if someone made me drink this every time, it would be a much better deterrent from drinking than a hangover alone.

By the time I’m done forcing oatmeal into my stomach, I remember what it’s like to be human again.

Pouring myself a cup of coffee, I text Dragomir:

Thanks for the breakfast. And bringing me home.

His reply is instant:

My pleasure. Do you have a second for a videocall?

Leaving my coffee on the table, I sprint into the bathroom, apply makeup, and examine my face.

I’m not looking my best, but not my worst either.

Sure, I reply and plop back into the kitchen chair.

A videocall from Dragomir shows up right away.

I accept.

Behind him must

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