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I’ve always hated mornings.
Growing up, they were when my dad darted out to catch an early flight to fly this celebrity or that CEO or that rich aristobrat wherever they needed for however long they needed, keeping him not only away from us but taint deep in the vices he repeatedly swore to my mom he’d given up.
And after he died?
Mornings were when my mom would drag her exhausted frame into the apartment, practically dead on her feet from working extra hours, scrubbing an executive suite for some pricks that partied too hard with barely legal pussy, stripper salt, and enough booze to restock a fucking liquor store.
College didn’t exactly help my hatred either.
Attending Clover Rose University – where late night frat parties were life and early morning classes were death – simply expanded and re-instilled my ongoing love affair with life before sunrise.
Even most of my gigs have been night shift shit.
I claim it’s because that’s when I prefer to work – and I do – but it’s also prime time for most of the things I manage to get myself employed to do.
Just as I nuzzle deeper underneath the white, high thread count sheets, clearly on my way back to the dream I was having about Cooper Copeland – J.T.’s fault – an obnoxiously loud phone rings preventing my return.
Knowing it’s not my cell – not even sure exactly where I left it charging or even if it’s charging – I send my glare to the slick black device on the bedside table that’s flashing a green light to indicate the call is coming from inside the house.
Correction.
Mansion.
Or…manor?
Mega castle?
Whatever.
The ringing eventually stops, yet when I begin to let my lids close a second time, another round starts prompting me to grunt.
Grab the receiver.
Wedge it unhappily against my ear and grumble, “What. The. Fuck. Do. You. Want. Puppet Boy?” Shutting my eyes is successfully completed. “It’s not even noon yet.”
“So, you’re not a morning person,” J.T. cockily chortles. “Noted.”
“Yes, please put that in the file next to no calls that aren’t about my mom before eight a.m.”
“It’s nine.”
“And is this call about my mom?”
“Hamilton hasn’t made his morning round yet.”
“Then this call is premature.”
“This call is a courtesy I’m extending on behalf of Lucky, the chef whose cooking you refused to eat last night.”
“I wasn’t hungry.”
Lie.
I was fucking starving.
But I’ve gone for longer on stale Sour Patch Kids and cough drops.
I didn’t wanna eat.
