Chapter One
Fiona woke up under an avalanche of pillows. She
felt horrible. Without moving or opening her eyes, she thought she could
actually feel her brain; it felt gritty and dry and slightly shriveled, like it
had been left out in the desert sun, and then roughly grabbed and slapped back
inside her skull. Without putting too fine a point on it, she felt like shit.
The bed wasn't her own. She could sense that. But
she barely spent any time in her own bed anyway. In the past twelve months,
she'd spend two hundred and fifty days on the road. In the twelve months before
that, it had been two hundred and ten road days. She'd been a busy girl.
Sometimes when she woke up in her own bed, she thought she was still on the
road.
It was daytime. The light was seeping in through the
pillows, and Fiona became aware of the rest of her body. She had to pee. And
her stomach felt wretched. It felt twisted and empty, but she still felt
nauseous. Judging by the taste in her mouth, she'd thrown up the night before.
She struggled to get her head up. The fluffy pillows
felt like concrete blocks, and the weight of them made her head feel like it
would crack. She managed to get into an upright position and looked around. She
was in a bedroom. The walls were painted a light powder blue, and the bed was
covered in a warm, red and blue quilt. There was an old-fashioned dresser and
some amateurish landscape paintings on the walls, one of a mountain and one of
a lake. It was all very homey.
Then she remembered: she was at a lake. She was in a
cottage that her manager had arranged for her. It belonged to one of his
friends or something.
She had to pee. Badly.
Fiona got to her feet and lurched toward the bedroom
door. She made her way through the living room, with its fireplace, couch, and
wall of windows hidden behind thick curtains. She passed through the kitchen,
which looked like it had been decorated in 1940, and into the bathroom. The
motion of walking through the little cottage almost made her puke, but peeing
was the critical thing at the moment. She pulled down her lime green thong, sat
down on the toilet and finally relieved herself.
When she was done in the bathroom, Fiona wandered
back into the living room, and pieces of the night before came to her. The
coffee table in front of the couch told the whole story. There was an empty
vodka bottle, a drinking glass, a small plate serving as an ashtray with
cigarette butts and joint roaches, and an empty chip bag. She arrived late last
night, brought in some of her stuff, and then sat down and got completely
destroyed before throwing up and going to bed. She hadn't even looked around
the property. She just sat down and got miserably wrecked.
In the kitchen was her water. Ken, her manager,
didn't have a lot of details on the place, except for some very detailed
directions of how to get out there. But she didn't know what the drinking water
would be like, so she brought along two flats of her favorite bottled water,
which she'd lugged inside in the dark the night before. Also in the kitchen was
the case of vodka. One bottle down, eleven to go.
She pulled out a bottle of water and drank half of
it down. She was very dehydrated. She looked out the kitchen window. There was
her rented Lexus in the gravel driveway, and trees all around. There were other
cottages around too, but the place was half-decently sheltered. There was
supposed to be a lake here somewhere, but she couldn't see it. Ken said the
cottage looked out on the lake, so the big view must be behind the curtains in
the living room.
Taking gulps of water, she wandered into the living
room and over to the curtains. They were made from a heavy brown material. This
place was so out-of-date. It was unbelievable that Ken thought she would be
able to relax out here.
The last thing her brain needed at the moment was a
whole bunch of daylight, but she wanted to see the lake view. Setting
Fiona woke up under an avalanche of pillows. She
felt horrible. Without moving or opening her eyes, she thought she could
actually feel her brain; it felt gritty and dry and slightly shriveled, like it
had been left out in the desert sun, and then roughly grabbed and slapped back
inside her skull. Without putting too fine a point on it, she felt like shit.
The bed wasn't her own. She could sense that. But
she barely spent any time in her own bed anyway. In the past twelve months,
she'd spend two hundred and fifty days on the road. In the twelve months before
that, it had been two hundred and ten road days. She'd been a busy girl.
Sometimes when she woke up in her own bed, she thought she was still on the
road.
It was daytime. The light was seeping in through the
pillows, and Fiona became aware of the rest of her body. She had to pee. And
her stomach felt wretched. It felt twisted and empty, but she still felt
nauseous. Judging by the taste in her mouth, she'd thrown up the night before.
She struggled to get her head up. The fluffy pillows
felt like concrete blocks, and the weight of them made her head feel like it
would crack. She managed to get into an upright position and looked around. She
was in a bedroom. The walls were painted a light powder blue, and the bed was
covered in a warm, red and blue quilt. There was an old-fashioned dresser and
some amateurish landscape paintings on the walls, one of a mountain and one of
a lake. It was all very homey.
Then she remembered: she was at a lake. She was in a
cottage that her manager had arranged for her. It belonged to one of his
friends or something.
She had to pee. Badly.
Fiona got to her feet and lurched toward the bedroom
door. She made her way through the living room, with its fireplace, couch, and
wall of windows hidden behind thick curtains. She passed through the kitchen,
which looked like it had been decorated in 1940, and into the bathroom. The
motion of walking through the little cottage almost made her puke, but peeing
was the critical thing at the moment. She pulled down her lime green thong, sat
down on the toilet and finally relieved herself.
When she was done in the bathroom, Fiona wandered
back into the living room, and pieces of the night before came to her. The
coffee table in front of the couch told the whole story. There was an empty
vodka bottle, a drinking glass, a small plate serving as an ashtray with
cigarette butts and joint roaches, and an empty chip bag. She arrived late last
night, brought in some of her stuff, and then sat down and got completely
destroyed before throwing up and going to bed. She hadn't even looked around
the property. She just sat down and got miserably wrecked.
In the kitchen was her water. Ken, her manager,
didn't have a lot of details on the place, except for some very detailed
directions of how to get out there. But she didn't know what the drinking water
would be like, so she brought along two flats of her favorite bottled water,
which she'd lugged inside in the dark the night before. Also in the kitchen was
the case of vodka. One bottle down, eleven to go.
She pulled out a bottle of water and drank half of
it down. She was very dehydrated. She looked out the kitchen window. There was
her rented Lexus in the gravel driveway, and trees all around. There were other
cottages around too, but the place was half-decently sheltered. There was
supposed to be a lake here somewhere, but she couldn't see it. Ken said the
cottage looked out on the lake, so the big view must be behind the curtains in
the living room.
Taking gulps of water, she wandered into the living
room and over to the curtains. They were made from a heavy brown material. This
place was so out-of-date. It was unbelievable that Ken thought she would be
able to relax out here.
The last thing her brain needed at the moment was a
whole bunch of daylight, but she wanted to see the lake view. Setting
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