“Nope.” Jim stands slowly, hands braced on the table. His gaze travels his fellow card sharks. “Gents. You know what we need to do.”
Mitch sighs, scrubbing his face. “I’m going to have to call in sick tomorrow, aren’t I?”
“You’re retired, asshole,” Lou grumps. “I’m the one who’s gonna be hating himself in the morning.”
“Oh dear,” Itsuki says quietly.
“What?” I bark. “What the hell is going on?”
Jorge pats my hand and smiles. “It’s best not to ask questions and just go along for the ride.”
My tongue is sandpaper. My head pounds.
“Fuck.” Groaning, I blink open my eyes, hating the existence of daylight. I’m on my bed, still wearing last night’s clothes, reeking of sweat, fried food, and syrup-sweet tiki drinks.
A vague memory of the night flashes through my mind. The poker guys piled into my Land Rover, commandeering my sound system, dragging me to some hole-in-the-wall that Mitch promised me “nobody who’s anybody knows about.”
I groan again as I slowly roll to my side, then sit up. My body screams in protest over how I slept—my sore knee bent off the bed, my always-aching back twisted sharply.
Breathing slowly, I shut my eyes and try to piece together the rest of the night as pain pulses through my body. I remember karaoke. I definitely didn’t sing. I never would. But the poker guys did, especially Jim, who stuck to mocktails and brought down the house with his version of Kelly Clarkson’s “Stronger.”
Clearly I drank a metric shit ton of tropical drinks with those damn tiny paper umbrellas to survive the experience.
Gingerly, I ease off the bed and stand.
“Shit. Fuck. Shit. Shit.” Each step toward the bathroom is agony. My knee hates me. So does my back. So does my neck. Waves of white-hot pain radiate through my body, so intense my stomach churns.
Or maybe that’s the alcohol talking, too.
I vomit, and the pain of my torso contracting, engaging my spasming back muscles, nearly makes me vomit again.
Cursing under my breath, I flush the toilet and gingerly ease myself upright. I avoid my reflection in the mirror, knowing it’ll show me something I don’t want to see, and rinse out the taste of last night’s poor choices.
Fuck, I should not have drunk like that.
After gingerly peeling off my clothes, I step into the shower, hissing as the hot water hits my skin. Once I’ve showered, changed, and gulped down my usual complete-meal breakfast shake, I grab my practice bag, wallet, and keys, pocket my phone, then head out the door.
Which is when I realize my car is nowhere to be seen.
“Fucking hell,” I growl, dragging down my Ray-Bans. The sun’s trying to fry my retinas right out of my head.
“Morning, neighbor!”
My jaw clenches at the sound of his voice. Yes, this is the worst part. Not only do I have to see Oliver Bergman nearly every goddamn day, January through December, I live next door to him.
That’s right. He’s my fucking next-door neighbor.
We live in mirror bungalows in Manhattan Beach, a few blocks inland from the beach itself. It’s not entirely surprising he’s in the neighborhood—a lot of players for LA’s professional sports teams live in Manhattan Beach—but of all the houses I had to pick, it had to be this one. Right next to his. I wish I’d known. After I signed with the Galaxy, before I bought this place, I’d give anything to have known that he’d be next door. I could have avoided so much misery.
“Mighty fine day, isn’t it?” he says, smiling brightly.
“Glorious,” I deadpan.
Oliver frowns thoughtfully, glancing at the empty spot where my black Land Rover is normally parked. “Hmm. You seem to be missing your typical mode of transportation. I don’t see that beautiful gas-guzzling beast anywhere.”
My teeth grind. I don’t respond. Nothing I say will paint me in a favorable light.
Oh, well, you see, Bergman, I was out getting shit-faced with a handful of seventy-year-old men, and I got so plastered, I had to leave my car at a questionably hygienic tiki-slash-karaoke lounge. Then I woke up this morning smelling like an overworked deep fryer and bottom-shelf bad decisions, and here I am.
“You, uh—” He scrubs the back of his neck and smiles, pale blue-gray eyes squinting against the sunlight. “Want a ride?”
“No.”
He frowns again. A thoughtful frown. Not sour or sullen or glum, because he’s constitutionally incapable of it. “No,” he repeats. “Hmm.” Sniffing, he peers up at the sun and smiles even wider. “Well, enjoy the walk!”
How he knows that I hate any chauffeuring system—being placed in the back of a vehicle with some rando in control, capable of fuck all, while they engage in small talk and make me wish for a swift, merciful death—is beyond me. But he does. And that means he knows, right now, I’m screwed.
“Fine,” I grumble, storming toward his absurdly compact hybrid car.
“Hop on in,” he says, as if he expected this, which just makes my teeth grind harder. After unlocking the car, he pops the trunk. “It only took you twenty-four months and three weeks to accept my carpool offer, but who’s counting?”
“I like personal space,” I grumble.
“The environment likes lower emissions.” He points to the sky. “But what’s a colossal carbon footprint to the personal preference for solitude on a twenty-minute, twice-daily commute?”
“Exactly.” I throw my bag in the trunk, then walk to the passenger side. “God, man. I can’t fit in there.”
“You’re only an inch taller than me, and I fit fine,” he says with another one of those infuriating smiles, before he drops into the driver’s seat and shuts his door.
Cursing under my breath, I ease into the passenger seat and slide it back until I bump into something. I glance back to see what it is, barely holding in a groan as my neck burns from the movement. I’m so fucking tired of hurting already, and I’ve only been awake for thirty-five minutes.
“Sorry about the car seat.” He smiles, tracking my gaze as he presses the car’s start button. “Gotta keep the little niece safe on Uncle Ollie days.”
I grunt in response.
We’re in the car for all of fifteen seconds before he turns on what sounds dangerously like a Broadway musical, so loud the bass rattles his speakers. My skull’s still pounding, and I need silence like I need another cup of coffee. Very badly.
I turn off the music. Oliver throws me a smile, but it’s a little tight at the edges. He turns it back on. I turn it off.
“Now, Mr. Hayes,” Oliver says. An odd something zips down my spine, hearing him call me that. “I’m a simple man with a simple need to start his day on the right foot: sunshine filling the sky and the best of Broadway filling my ears as I cruise in my environmentally conscious vehicle.”
“And I have a raging headache. The music stays off.”
Oliver stares ahead, exhaling slowly. Sixty seconds pass in blissful silence. Until he starts whistling.
It sounds like the trill of songbirds, Bing Crosby in White Christmas, whatever shit is so perfect it’s unnatural. In fact, it’s lovely. At least it would be if my head didn’t have a jackhammer rattling inside it.