CYAN
The first thing I felt was the bill. My body was handing me a very long, very expensive invoice for services rendered over the last twelve hours.
It started at the base of my skull, a sharp, rhythmic drumming that suggested a tiny person was trying to hammer their way out of my forehead, and then it trickled down my neck, settling into a dull, heavy ache in my shoulders.
I blinked. My eyelashes felt heavy, like they'd been dipped in honey.
The view was unconventional. I was looking at a vast expanse of black, perforated leather. It was cold against my cheek, smelled faintly of expensive citrus and old money, and was definitely not my bed.
I was lying sideways on the backseat of the car, my pink hair a tangled mess across my vision. There was a damp patch near my mouth. I decided, with the remaining dignity I possessed, not to investigate its origin.
