<em>Ingrid, wanting the license plate of that Mack Truck</em><br/><br/>Her stomach rolled at the thought of the Gatorade but she nodded, reaching for it slowly and pulling it into her tight little huddle.  Thank god that he spoke so softly, her head was splitting open and moving hurt. Her arm hairs hurt as did her eyelashes and brows.  Fuck, her teeth hurt.<br/><br/>When the cold wash rag settled onto her head, she whimpered and curled up more tightly.<br/><br/>Muh. Even pretend action was something," she said softly.  She couldn't even remember the last time that she'd gotten laid.  Her last time with Daniel had been interrupted by her shoot, that potential threesome had been cock blocked by the letter from the investigator.  She couldn't win lately.   The room darkened and she was thankful for that.  "Thank you, Morgan," she said softly, her lips barely moving and her eyes still tightly shut.<br/><br/>Her brow furrowed when he spoke again, and she tried to remember how she'd gotten there. "Mmm," she grunted and rolled over onto her other side, fingering the cool bottle of Gatorade as she tried to recall the events from the night before.  "I suppose I wanted to cuss you out, or tell you that you're a cut rate jack off, and an even shittier photographer. Even if the latter isn't true. You insulted my work. It pissed me off. I wanted your flesh under my nails."  That made sense to her.<br/><br/>"I remember getting off of the elevator, crawling, I think, but I couldn't get your door open and couldn't remember how to get back up stairs or couldn't make it. I'm not a big drinker, I don't do it often.  Half a pint of Jack... bah."<br/>