I awoke to a pounding headache, guttermouth, and the stench of stale beer. God, what happened last night? I hadn’t felt this bad since… well, last weekend.
I threw the comforter to the floor. The headboard was broken. The lamp from the bedside table was on the floor, the bulb shattered into a million pieces. My jeans lay inside-out in a heap in the corner, belt still in the loops.
And then I saw them. Black stilettos kicked off by the door: one upright, the other on its side, a fallen soldier of fashion.
Oh my god! That model! Or was she an actress? Christ, she’d been more than a 10, she was a goddamn 11. Had I really? Did I? Never in my life had I gone home with a woman that hot, let alone when blackout drunk.
But where was she? Had she slipped out already and left her shoes behind? It didn’t matter. I didn’t care. Ugh, I ran my hand down the side of my face. I had only one problem right now and that was dealing with this massive hangover. Water, I need water.
I shuffled into the kitchen, feeling like death, and froze. There she – Tiffany, her name had been Tiffany – lay, naked on the tile of the kitchen floor in a puddle of blood, the chef’s knife from the block deep in her back amidst a forest of red stab wounds.
Collapsing against the wall, I slid down to the floor. I realized now I had bigger problem.