Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 60081 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60081 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
“Other than Wren?” I ask.
He nods. “I promised I’d take care of this for her before she got home tomorrow morning.”
“She’s staying over at Tatum’s place?” I ask, once again curious about things I shouldn’t be curious about. But I’m having a hell of a time moving Tatum to the “just friends” category in my mind. Hopefully next week we’ll be able to spend more time apart, and things will get easier. Though the thought of not seeing her isn’t a happy making one. Not one fucking bit.
“Yeah.” Barrett rises from his squatting position behind the bushes. “They’re going dancing at that honky-tonk outside of town and staying at Tatum’s after. Probably a good idea they stick together. I’ve heard that place can get a little rough late at night.”
I stand next to him, my pulse picking up. “You mean Bubba Jump’s? The bar where that guy got stabbed by a biker a few weeks ago?”
“I think so,” he says, starting toward his car in the fading light.
“What the hell, Barrett?” I ask. “Did you tell Wren it was dangerous? That she and Tatum should find somewhere else to go?”
He glances back at me like I’m the crazy one. “No. I figured it was none of my business. I doubt they’re going to stay late enough to get into trouble anyway. And it was a man who got stabbed, not a woman.”
I shake my head. “Your brain.”
“What about it?”
“I don’t get the way it works. At all.”
“The guy didn’t die,” he adds, continuing to miss the point.
“But it’s still dangerous. That wasn’t the first time someone got hurt there.” He stares at me blankly until I add, “Imagine you and Lane were still married and she wanted to go dancing there with her friends. Without you. With her hair looking amazing and a really short skirt and a top that shows off her cleavage.”
Understanding flickers in his eyes. “Wren isn’t the kind to show off her cleavage. I’m not even sure she has cleavage.”
I roll my eyes. “Of course, she does, Barrett. And she and Tatum are both drop-dead fucking gorgeous. They’re going to walk into that bar, and it’ll be like someone dumped a bucket of chum in the shark tank.” I pull out my phone, leaning against my car as I pull up Tatum’s contact information.
I hesitate for a second, remembering how irritated she was when I treated her like my little sister on Wednesday with Peter. But this isn’t the same thing, at all. I’m truly concerned about her safety and would be sending this text even if it were a guy friend of mine who was going dancing tonight. I might not be as worried, but I’d still be giving him a heads up.
“I’m going to text Tatum,” I continue, “Give her a heads up and the name of a few places that would be safer. Riff’s downtown has dancing on Fridays, too, if that’s what they’re looking for.”
I shoot off the text and continue to stare at my phone, waiting for a reply. Tatum and I don’t text that often, but she’s always gotten back to me quickly.
I wait, huddling deeper into my coat as a cold wind whips across Wren’s yard.
“Call her,” Barrett says, turning up the collar on his jacket. “Faster that way.”
“Only monsters call instead of text their employees when they’re off the clock. Monsters and old people.”
Barrett rolls his eyes. “Fine, I’ll call Wren. I give zero shits about playing it cool.”
Before I can explain to him that this isn’t about playing it cool—it’s about respecting Tatum’s privacy—he has his phone to his ear. “It’s ringing,” he informs me.
“I can hear it,” I say dryly.
The phone rings four times and then Wren’s voice comes on the line, saying she isn’t available right now, but to please leave a message.
Barrett scowls at the phone as if it’s personally offended him before saying after the beep, “Wren, it’s Barrett. Call me when you get this. The turkey’s still hiding, and you shouldn’t go to that club tonight. It’s dangerous. Go somewhere else instead. I’m trying to find something to bait a trap for Kyle. Text you an update later.”
He ends the call and starts back toward his truck, as if that wasn’t the worst message ever.
“What was that?” I ask.
He turns over his shoulder. “What was what?”
“You just ordered her around like she’s your employee and hung up?”
“She is my employee,” he says, looking mystified.
“Not after hours she’s not,” I say.
Barrett waves a dismissive hand. “It’s fine. Wren doesn’t care. And she’ll listen. She always listens to me. I’m like her big brother.” I want to roll my eyes, but considering I was acting much the same way two nights ago, I really don’t have any room to judge him. “Now come help me find bait,” he continues. “If we hurry, we might be able to make it the feed store before they close. They carry corn feed and turkey calls in season. Might be a little early, but we can see what they’ve got in stock.”