Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
“Shepherd!” Mom warns, and though he grins, he scoots out the door too quickly for her to say much else.
But when they leave, I can’t sit here and do nothing.
I should call Sean. Ben has said twice to call him if anything went wrong, and this is definitely sideways and upside down. He’d want him to know, right? I don’t think he can do anything to get Ben out, but he’s Ben’s person, so waiting until tomorrow feels wrong.
I pick up Ben’s phone, type in the too-easy passcode, and scroll through his contacts, searching for one name and one name only.
Sean. I find a Sean Paulson and hit call. It rings twice before connecting.
“You ready to apologize now, fucker?” a rough voice spits out.
“Excuse me?” I say, pulling the phone away from my ear to double-check that I called the right person. Oh shit, what if there’s more than one Sean in Ben’s contacts and I called the wrong one?
“Who’re you, and why do you have Ben’s phone?” the man demands.
I swallow thickly. “Um, hi. My name’s Hope. Ben told me to call Sean if something went wrong. Like his emergency contact, I guess? Are you the right—”
He cuts me off. “What happened?”
“He was arrested . . .” I give Sean a quick rundown of Ben’s fight and subsequent arrest, making sure to say several times that it wasn’t his fault and we’ve got video proof of that, so it’ll probably all be fine, but . . . “I just thought you should know because Ben talks about you like you’re the most important person in the world to him. His brother, is what he said.”
A heavy sigh comes through the phone. “You’re her, aren’t you?”
“Who?”
“The girl he’s been writing lyrics about,” he explains slowly, which seems to be for my benefit, like he thinks I won’t understand what he’s talking about.
“Maybe? He told me a line or two. You’ve seen the song he’s working on?” I ask, praying that I’m not divulging something Ben would prefer to keep private. But Sean knows Ben’s been writing lyrics about me, so he must know something.
He scoffs, which turns into a full-on laugh. “Of course I have. He shows me all the songs, seeing as how we write them together.”
“Oh, okay. Good. So, about the arrest,” I say, getting back to the topic at hand. “I guess I’ll have Ben call you when he gets back? I just thought you should know.”
I hear a loud creak and some shuffling on the other end of the line, and I get the sense Sean just sat up from wherever he’s lounging. “Shit,” he hisses. “You don’t know, do you?”
I blink, not sure what he’s talking about. This guy might be Ben’s near-brother, but he’s confusing as hell and talks in riddles and circles, using curse words like conjunctions, a.k.a. to join every part of a sentence. “Know what?”
“Fuck, fuck, fuuuck. Okay, Ben’s arrested, hasn’t come back,” he summarizes. “Yeah? Where are you?”
“At the cottage where we’re staying, in Maple Creek.”
“Where the fuck’s that?” he demands, but immediately adds, “Hang on, I’ll find it.” I can hear him clicking on a keyboard. “Okay, I gotcha. Give me a few hours and I’ll be there. Where do I meet you?”
“What? You’re coming? Here?” I squeak. I didn’t expect that—not at all.
“Address. Where do I fucking meet you, Hope?” he repeats.
I give him the name of the resort and our cottage number, and he hums, which I take as acknowledgment. But wait . . . “Aren’t you in LA? How’re you gonna be here in a few hours from there?”
He laughs, the sound dark and low. “Girl, you have no fucking idea. I’ll see you soon.”
With that, the line goes dead. I look at the phone, thinking maybe we got disconnected, but nope, Sean hung on me. I look at Joy and Mom, then shrug. “That was weird as hell, but he said he’s coming.”
Chapter 20
BEN
I’ve gone through the gamut of emotions—starting with anger, looping around to resolve, making a pass through indignation, and even having a short stay in petty revenge. But now boredom has officially set in.
The floor got cold, so I’m perched on the too-narrow bench, and as I thought, my handcuffed hands are smashed against the wall. But if anyone’s curious, there are 83,147 spots in the drop ceiling acoustic tiles over the holding cell.
“Taylor!” a deep voice shouts from somewhere up front, and though I can’t see the yeller, I know who it is: Hope sent the calvary in the form of her dad.
Unless he’s here to do the unofficial Maple Creek greeting himself, bruises included free of charge. But I don’t think so.
When we had lunch with the Barlowes, he was understandably wary of me and concerned about Hope, but he seemed certain that she has a good head on her shoulders and a too-big heart in her chest. When he told me to take extra care with both, I answered that I fully intended to, and I was being completely honest. It was a sort of no-handshake deal I made—not with the devil, but with someone much more dangerous: a father who’ll protect his little girl, no matter how old she gets.