Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 77857 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77857 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
“How the hell did we get on that tangent?” Dad says.
“You were explaining the bond between you and Uncle Bryce.”
“Right.” Dad sighs.
“I can’t, Dad. I want to go home. I can’t go see Doc Sheraton. I need time to process all this.”
“I agree with you. If Doc Sheraton is somehow involved in whatever is happening here, we can’t alert him to the fact that we may know.”
He starts the engine, and the truck rattles to life.
“What now, then?”
“We go home,” Dad says. “Then we send our guys out to search Doc Sheraton’s property. People who can stay hidden when they need to. People who are trained for this.”
I swallow, nod, stare straight ahead out the windshield.
And I wonder how…
How in God’s name did this all happen?
CHAPTER NINE
RORY
I’m back in my studio, and after a couple of afternoon lessons, I decide to begin the dreaded job of organizing my music. I’ve been putting it off forever. Now that I’ve got all the boxes out of the apartment across the hall, I can finally get everything in some semblance of order. I always imagined my studio would have shelves and shelves lined with music books, opera scores, and everything in between.
So now I’m going to. In fact, I think I’ll build my own bookshelves too—wooden bookshelves to house my music and my books.
All right here in my own little studio.
Maybe if I get my own place, I’ll move some of it there. Maybe, if I get a big enough place, I can actually have a studio and I won’t need to rent this little place over the salon.
I start to unload the first box when my phone dings with a text.
I need you. Can you come over?
From Brock. I hastily look at the clock on my phone. Wow. Nearly six o’clock. Have I been working on my books and music that long?
I haven’t eaten since lunch at Lorenzo’s.
Of course he’s not offering me dinner. He just asked if I could come over. He’s going to at least have to feed me.
I text him back.
I’m starving. Can we get dinner?
I get a response almost immediately.
I’ll cook. Just please come. Please.
Two pleases?
He must really need me.
Since I’m in love with the man, I’m going to go. If nothing else, I’ll get a meal out of it.
I get to a good stopping point and then lock up my studio and walk down to my car. A little less than a half hour later, I’m meandering up the driveway to the guesthouse where Brock lives.
I get out, and then I stand at the doorway for a few moments without knocking.
Last time I came over here, Bryce was stinking drunk on tequila after having nearly thrown me out of the place for having sex with him without a condom.
Yet here I am. Unable to stay away from him. Coming when he calls.
He did say please.
Twice.
I raise my fist to knock on the door.
A tail-wagging Sammy smiles—that tongue-hanging doggy smile—at me through the window next to the door.
“Hey, girl,” I say through the glass.
Then I jerk when the door opens before me.
Brock stands there in nothing but jeans again. No shirt, bare feet, hair a mess.
I inhale.
Nope. No tequila on his breath or oozing out his pores. I don’t smell any alcohol at all.
“You all right?” I ask.
He threads his fingers through his disheveled hair. “Come in. Please.”
The third please.
Something’s definitely wrong.
“Thanks for coming,” he says.
“What do you need, Brock?”
“I think you know.”
“Yeah, I think I know too. But I’m starving. I need something to eat.”
I expect him to grab me and smash our mouths together, but he doesn’t. Instead he takes my hand and leads me through the foyer into the big country kitchen in the back.
“No filets mignons tonight,” he says. “I didn’t have time to plan.”
“That’s fine. What are we having?”
“Burgers.”
“With…”
“How should I fucking know? A salad maybe?”
I roll my eyes, walk to his refrigerator, and open it. “What do you plan to make a salad with? Shredded cheese?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you have any green vegetables, Brock? There’s nothing in the refrigerator.”
“I’ve had my mind on other shit.”
“So have I, but I do manage to get my greens.” I close the refrigerator door and walk to his pantry. “You’ve got some potatoes in here. We can make oven-baked fries.”
“Do you know how to do that?”
“You said you’d cook.”
“I will. But I’ve never made oven-baked fries. I’ve never made regular fries. What the hell is the difference?”
I grab a couple of potatoes. “For God’s sake. Get the damned burgers on the grill. I’m too hungry to wait for fries. I’ll put these in the microwave, and we’ll have baked potatoes. Do you at least have butter or sour cream?”
Without waiting for a response, I open the refrigerator again. No sour cream, but he does have butter. I suppose it’s too much to hope that he has salt and pepper too.