12.45 am. Ugh. I should be sleeping, but my mind keeps going over the abomination of that press conference. Being publically setup is not my idea of a good Sunday afternoon. The thing I took from the whole debacle was that Murray is an even bigger dick than I thought. And now I have to spend the rest of my career with a group of guys who hate me as much as I do them. I pull the black silk sheets off my naked body and walk out into the kitchen, my throat dry. I open the fridge and get out some orange juice, drinking it straight from the carton. Some escapes my mouth and trickles down my neck onto my chest. The coldness feels good against my hot skin. The only thing missing is some hottie to lick it off my skin. I wipe a layer of sweat from the back of my neck. It’s so goddamned humid, which is odd, considering it’s the middle of fucking winter. I walk over to the heater, examining the settings. Mystery solved.
