Ray seriously, seriously missed his gun right about now. Logically, he knew he was in no shape to be handling firearms when he could barely lift his head, but it would be so fucking satisfying to blow the hell out of his phone. He kinda regretted setting Brad's ringtone to Barbie Girl. And then calling Brad Barbie Girl last night. And then trying to get him to show everyone in the bar that he was an anatomically correct action figure. Fuck.
Had he really said all that?
The details of the night before were a little sketchy after he and Walt had downed that fourth or fifth round of shots. And after the pitchers of beer. Double fuck. Ray hoped all that shit hadn't ended up on his bar tab.
For some stupid fucking reason, his phone was on the opposite side of the room, even though he was still fully dressed. His shirt stuck to his belly when he moved, rough and gross where something had spilled. The room spun when he stood up; his hangover was almost enough to rival that weekend they had spent in Mexico. He wasn’t quite sure what he had done, but it had better have been fun, because he was sure as shit paying for it. And his goddamn phone was still ringing.
Ray glanced out the window as he stumbled across the room. His car was in one piece, even if it was also parked sideways across the yard with one of the tires in the middle of Mrs Verdena's flowerbed. It was a good thing his landlady loved him, and an even better one that she was away visiting her grandchildren for a couple weeks.
"What?" Ray's grouchiness was only made worse by Brad laughing on the other end of the phone line.
"Good morning, sunshine! Just calling to make sure you're alive this morning."
"Fuck you. What happened last night?"
"What do you remember?"
"Er... Alcohol? Q-Tip dancing on the bar? Lilley and Garza doing Britney karaoke?"
"Do you remember trying to undo my belt in the middle of the bar in front of those college girls?"
Oops. "Uh, yeah, not really... Sorry about that, Brad."
"Oh, I got you back, don't worry."
Ray was afraid to ask what exactly Brad meant by that, so he just hung up the phone and turned the ringer off. Fucking Brad.
It wasn’t until he started stripping for the shower that Ray caught sight of the marks on his back. He had to do some fancy maneuvering in front of the mirror to read what it said.
Property of Brad Colbert.
At least it was only sharpie. Ray wondered who had the pictures.
no subject
Had he really said all that?
The details of the night before were a little sketchy after he and Walt had downed that fourth or fifth round of shots. And after the pitchers of beer. Double fuck. Ray hoped all that shit hadn't ended up on his bar tab.
For some stupid fucking reason, his phone was on the opposite side of the room, even though he was still fully dressed. His shirt stuck to his belly when he moved, rough and gross where something had spilled. The room spun when he stood up; his hangover was almost enough to rival that weekend they had spent in Mexico. He wasn’t quite sure what he had done, but it had better have been fun, because he was sure as shit paying for it. And his goddamn phone was still ringing.
Ray glanced out the window as he stumbled across the room. His car was in one piece, even if it was also parked sideways across the yard with one of the tires in the middle of Mrs Verdena's flowerbed. It was a good thing his landlady loved him, and an even better one that she was away visiting her grandchildren for a couple weeks.
"What?" Ray's grouchiness was only made worse by Brad laughing on the other end of the phone line.
"Good morning, sunshine! Just calling to make sure you're alive this morning."
"Fuck you. What happened last night?"
"What do you remember?"
"Er... Alcohol? Q-Tip dancing on the bar? Lilley and Garza doing Britney karaoke?"
"Do you remember trying to undo my belt in the middle of the bar in front of those college girls?"
Oops. "Uh, yeah, not really... Sorry about that, Brad."
"Oh, I got you back, don't worry."
Ray was afraid to ask what exactly Brad meant by that, so he just hung up the phone and turned the ringer off. Fucking Brad.
It wasn’t until he started stripping for the shower that Ray caught sight of the marks on his back. He had to do some fancy maneuvering in front of the mirror to read what it said.
Property of Brad Colbert.
At least it was only sharpie. Ray wondered who had the pictures.