Oh God . . . what had she done?

Chase lifted her head and winced.

Jordan. She remembered him asking her over and over last night. Say my name, babe. Come on. Say it.

He’d had blow—a lot of it. His skin looked waxy, almost corpse-like. She watched him to ensure he was breathing.

His stomach rose and fell.

Thank God. She didn’t want to deal with the police. Been there and done that before. Besides, she was supposed to be clean. She wriggled her foot, feeling the court-issued SCRAM on her ankle. The battery had died yesterday afternoon, and no one from the monitoring company had called by the end of the day. So she’d called her girls and said, “Let’s go out before they change the batteries.”

Which had been so stupid. But in her defense, she’d spent weeks doing nothing but eating takeout and watching Real Housewives. She wanted to move, to feel like a real person again. She wasn’t going to drink much. Maybe one glass of wine. And she damn sure wasn’t going to do drugs.

Chase carefully lowered her throbbing head back onto the mattress, telling herself she could figure this out.

Carefully, she rolled over. Empty champagne bottles dead soldiered the carpet, and her lacy thong lay like a surrender flag in the threshold of the large room. That’s why her head hurt so bad. Champagne messed her up.

She pulled her hair from beneath the shoulder of the guy. Jordan’s eyes fluttered, but he stayed asleep. Chase slid her own naked bottom toward the edge of the bed, which was flanked with swaths of linen. She winced as she sat up. The bright-white room tilted, so she grasped the edge of the mattress and stilled herself until the world stopped moving. Then she stood.

As soon as she reached for the bedside table to steady herself, the nausea from earlier made a curtain call. She headed toward the closed door, praying it was a bathroom. The door banged against the bedroom wall as Chase sank onto her knees and hugged the porcelain like it was a lifesaver tossed to her. She pleaded with her body to not heave forth the contents of her stomach.

“What the hell?”

Chase couldn’t answer whoever was asking the question behind her. She was focusing on not throwing up.

A shadow fell across the toilet.

Jordan.

“Hey, you okay?” he asked, moving in her line of sight. He wore boxers. Thank goodness.

She didn’t answer because she was too busy hugging a toilet and praying for the strength not to puke.

“Whoa, you feeling sick? Lemme get you something.”

She was afraid opening her mouth to answer might be an invitation to her body, so she focused on the tiny blue writing on the lid and tried to fight down the nausea. Nothing so humbling as tossing your cookies into a stranger’s toilet while naked. But she’d done it before. Halfway to a habit now.

God, she hated herself.