A plastic thud startles me awake. I crack open an eye to see Lisa's alarm clock skitter across the floor, her arm still extended from the throw.
"I can't do this anymore," she moans into her pillow. "Everything hurts. I think my eyelashes are sore."
I laugh, but it turns into a groan as I slide out of bed, my muscles screaming in protest. Four days of Jericho's training from hell, and my body still hasn't adjusted. I'm not sure it ever will.
"Do you think the bodyguards would murder Jericho if we asked nicely?" Lisa's voice is muffled, her face still buried in her pillow.
"Stop dreaming." I limp to the bathroom, each step an agony. "And get ready. You know he'll just make it worse if we're late."
