Aldo had some pretty shit luck these days.

Eyes adjusted to the bright light of the sun as he stepped out of the motel room he had somehow ended up in, attempting to figure out where the hell he was.

Bare feet hit hot concrete as Aldo stumbled out the door, hand over his eyes to search for a location marker without the sun glaring and blocking his view. Angry with him for doing this. Again.

Because this was not the first time this had happened, and more than likely wouldn't be the last. A mix of drugs and booze and chaotic energy that should have settled down at twenty five. Aldo could still feel his headache between his eyes, and almost turned right back around back into that motel room to pass out for a little while longer. But instead, he fumbled for the pack of cigarettes in his unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt pocket, free hand scratching his bare, tattooed chest. Nevada super eight motel the sign read near the lobby of the motel.

Nevada? Aldo groaned. He was in New York, last he remembered. At a party, or was it a club? No. A birthday party at a club. Whose birthday was it again?

Aldo sighed.

Oh yeah, it had been his.

He dropped to sit on the chair beside the motel room door, lighting his cigarette and trying to piece together his memories. He didn't even know where his phone was, or what day it was. But Aldo was a professional, he wouldn't panic, although he was more than a little annoyed by it.

He just had to figure out how to get back home. Or if he even wanted to.