Regrets. With a capital R. And perhaps a capital EGRET and S.
Look, alcohol is one thing. Breen’s done dumb things pissed.
But, as he’s found out this morning, absinthe is quite another.
He squeezes his eyes shut, hoping that the weird, weird walls of Gina’s bedroom will disappear into a dream state, but they don’t.
He opens them again.
Oh God, is that a whip?
That could easily explain the pain in his… everything - but he’s resoundingly Not Going To Think About It.
The bedroom door opens. Gina comes in, wearing a lurid pink flowery dressing gown, and little else, and Breen feels a little nauseous yet again. He’s sure he enjoyed it in the moment, he doesn't disagree that Gina's got a sort of... violent appeal... but oH gOD.
If Kristen ever hears about this, she’ll laugh and laugh and laugh.
Kristen will never hear about this.
“You are an interesting specimen, Samuel.” Gina says, completely unawkwardly, and sits down on the side of the bed. “However, In Russia, men like to…”
Well, good to see nothing has changed.
He's definitely going to hell.