Cullen rolled over and cursed under his breath. His first thought was to get up, look for the two-by-four someone had hit him over the head with last night, and then finish the job. But the getting up part would be too difficult and way too painful. He opened his eyes and squinted against a cabin full of bright sunshine. Morning or afternoon? One glance at the clock told him it was after eleven. He brought his arm up to cover his eyes and wished like hell he was dead. His mouth was dry and as gritty as the Mojave. His head was pounding, and his stomach was churning and weak. Need water. Rolling over as gently as possible, Cullen froze when he saw the Advil and a bottle of water on his bedside table. Yes, Virginia, there is a drug fairy! He pushed up and rested on his elbow, opened the bottle and poured three pills into his hand, popped them into his mouth, and downed the entire bottle of water. Cullen rolled over, buried his head in the pillow, and cursed the likes of bourbon forever. THE NEXT time Cullen woke, he rolled over onto his back, raised his head gingerly, and took stock of his physical condition.
