He could have sworn somebody had crammed an electric guitar inside his head. A racket screamed between his ears—half-music and half-insanity—and a riff repeated amongst his tonsils that threatened to drag his gut up to his throat. The racket and nausea had begun to plague him six months ago, and damn if he knew how to pull the plug.
Britt Jordan kicked away the tangle of sweat-soaked sheets, bounded from the bed, and staggered across his dimly lit hotel suite. Bypassing the bar that had been stocked just for his taste, he yanked open the refrigerator door and grabbed a pitcher of ice water. Plunging his hand into it, he splashed a good douse of freezing water onto his face. Twice.
“Aaihh!” he screamed, pounding the wall with his fist. Throwing up, he had learned, did nothing to dispel the nausea that accompanied the racket. Ice water and a good, gut-deep scream, now that helped.
The door of the suite’s adjoining room opened, and in stumbled Britt’s assistant, tugging on drawstring pajama bottoms, blonde hair tousled. “God, Britt, it’s five o’clock.”
“And a jolly good morning to you, too, Darrell,” answered Britt in his distinct, morning-raspy voice that had made rock and roll history for over two decades.
Darrell glanced at Britt’s bed, which hadn’t been shared with anyone since the previous summer. “What you need is a woman,” he advised.
“What I need is a car. Get me one.”
Darrell switched on a light and the two men squinted at each other. “A car? What for?” Darrell asked, looking his boss over suspiciously.
Britt grinned. Tormenting Darrell always started his day off with a bang. He was still holding the pitcher, water dripping from the three-day stubble on his chin and running down his bare chest. “To drive. Where am I, by the way?”
Exasperation crossed Darrell’s face. “Britt, you’ve got a show tonight.”
“Right. So if you’ll tell me where I am and where I’m supposed to be tonight, I’ll just drive myself on in.” Britt made a sweeping motion with his free hand, palm down.
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