Rude Awakenings: A Novel of the Terribly Acronymed Detective Club (Book 2)

Chapter Six: Lauren, Sunday

Strap on, she told herself as she wiped bile from her mouth. Strap on! 

She'd experienced scarier moments in her life and prevailed. She'd walked into the house of an abusive man to save her friend when she was thirteen, and could have been hurt or killed herself. She'd helped get rid of a body two years ago, to help a woman she didn't even know, and she'd been terrified of getting caught and thrown in prison, losing her job as a private investigator, losing her kids. Both incidents had been worse than that picture on Al's phone, so why was she coming undone now?

No. She couldn't. She took a deep breath, pulled herself together, stood up and flushed the toilet. There was hardly anything in her vomit, just whatever alcohol had been swimming around in her stomach. She should probably eat something, even though she didn't feel hungry. It would be good to have some protein in her system to help her think clearly and stave off a hangover. 

That was the thing, though. She didn't feel that haze of post-drunkenness that accompanied a hangover, which she hadn't had in years. She was on high alert now; she just couldn't remember the last six to eight hours.

She checked herself over in the mirror. She didn't feel injured, but she looked for cuts and bruises anyway. There was a spot or two of blood on the sheet, and that had to come from somewhere. Nothing on her face. Nothing on her chest or abdomen when she unbuttoned her blouse. Nothing on her ass when she pulled down her pants. That was encouraging. The picture she saw didn't suggest any assault, and she didn't think Al capable of anything violent, but the missing hours scared her and made her certain they hadn't fallen into bed out of any conscious desire, certainly not on her part.

She strode back into the living room, unable to avoid looking at those stained sheets in the bedroom again along the way. She found Al filling the cat's food and water dishes, and couldn't help smiling; even in the midst of a crisis that could end their marriages, he still found the time to look after the cat. Not for the first time she wondered why Rachel and Al didn't try for a baby; it wasn't uncommon for women to have children in their forties anymore, and she knew they were both caring people who would have made great parents...

That was when she remembered something. They were applying to be foster parents, but they hadn't fostered yet because they needed a place with at least one more room. That knowledge was reassuring. It meant that her lack of memory only covered the previous night.

Al stood and turned, and saw her standing there. He was crying, she could see. "I'm so sorry," he breathed.

He was killing himself over the picture. She opened her arms, and he fell into them like a kid being comforted by his mom over a scraped knee. Even though he was bigger than she was, she held him up like she'd held Joe when they were thirteen, when he'd despaired that their friendships would sunder when they all went to different high schools. Maybe it was her low centre of gravity, or she was stronger than she looked, but she always held her own with bigger men, seemed to prefer them bigger, actually.

"It's okay, Al, it's okay, it's not the end of the world," she said. "We'll figure this out."

"You don't hate me?" he blubbered. 

"Of course not. You're one of my best friends."

"Oh, God, what am I going to say to Rachel and Joe? Joe's going to kill me! Why did I do that?"

"Was that why you got sick too?"

He sniffed and said, "Actually, no, there's something else. Oh, God..."

She rubbed his back, said reassuring words, and to her amusement felt him harden against her, just like Joe had that first time she'd hugged him. Why were men so predictable?