Millionaire Daddy (Freeman Brothers 2)

29

Darren

I might have gone to bed Sunday night feeling like I’d drowned the anger and was mentally better off than I had been for the rest of the weekend, but I woke up Monday morning physically feeling like I’d been hit by a truck, backed over, and hit one more time. Even before I opened my eyes, I could feel the pain. Since I didn’t go out all the time and usually drank only sparingly when I did, having a hangover wasn’t a terribly familiar sensation. Of course, I’d had them before, particularly early in my days of drinking when I was still testing out my tolerance level or attempting to match up with those around me who drank much more. But even when I got drunk like I did at Quentin’s house on family Sundays, usually I didn’t suffer a hangover afterward.

That Monday was a reality check if I’d ever had one. I was lying flat in my bed, yet it felt like the entire world was tossing back and forth. Pain crept in around the edges of my eyes and up the back of my skull, soon taking over my entire head. It felt like somebody had stuffed my brain cavity full of sand and turned on a faucet, gradually soaking it so it expanded and created more intense pressure. I didn’t want to open my eyes. I knew as soon as I did, the pain would be much worse, and I might face getting sick to my stomach. That was just what I needed. Feeling like the world had smashed me down into the ground and jumped around on me for a while because of what Kelly told me, then adding to it the feeling of my stomach sloshing around and wanting to return all the liquor and Colby’s stupid smoothies I drank to its maker.

The phone rang beside me. It sounded like the loudest noise I’ve ever heard in my life and pierced into my ears, so the pain rocketed through me even harder. My hand flopped around on the bed, trying to find where my phone ended up the night before. I had a vague memory of Nick, Quentin, and Colby getting me into bed and putting my phone under the pillows so I’d have easy access to it. But it wasn’t there. It just kept ringing, seeming to get louder and sharper the more it rang. Finally, I had the sinking realization the phone had slipped down behind my bed, so it now rested on the floor up against the wall. Hanging upside down in the way I had to in order to retrieve the phone was one of the least pleasant experiences of my life. I looked at the screen and saw it was just Vince.

“What do you want?” I asked by way of greeting him.

“How are you doing?” he asked.

“Dying,” I told him. “But if that’s my goal, I’m doing really well.”

“Don’t come into work today,” he said.

It wasn’t a suggestion or giving me permission to take the day off. It was a direct order, and I could only imagine it’d come down straight from my parents. Even though Quentin technically owned Freeman Racing, it was only because our father had passed it along to him when he decided he wanted to slip slowly into retirement. That was many years ago, and my father was still working almost as much now as he did before he retired. The company belonged to Quentin, but we all knew he wouldn’t defy Dad If it wasn’t for a very pressing reason. Considering keeping me off the complex for now was probably in everybody’s best interest, this wasn’t one of those pressing situations.

“Fine,” I said.

I hung up and shoved my phone back under the pillow. Closing my eyes and pulling the blankets up over my head, I fell back to sleep quickly. I fully intended on that being the way I spent my Monday, but Mom was having none of it. She wouldn’t let me just wallow in misery and the negative effects of pickling myself over the weekend. Instead, she showed up around lunchtime with a massive basket overflowing with food. Just like she did when I had chicken pox as a child, she pulled me up by my elbow to help me sit and propped me up against a stack of pillows. She leaned down to kiss the top of my head, then gave me a look.

“Have you changed your clothes today?” she asked.

“No. But I took a shower last night. The guys forced me into it,” I told her.

“Get up,” she said. “You’ll feel better if you take another shower and put on fresh clothes. I’ll put clean sheets on the bed for you.”

“Mom, I’m a grown man. I don’t need you to put new sheets on my bed,” I argued.