Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 72325 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 362(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72325 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 362(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
Her hair, a strawberry blonde, cascaded down her shoulders, her silver purse glimmering in the lush moonlight. As she came closer, though, my heart jumped in my throat. It took me a few seconds to recognize her, but, once I did, I cursed.
What were the fucking odds of this happening?
She’d noticed me, and zeroed in. “Slater Winslow?”
“Yes?” I said cautiously. I knew where I’d recognized her from—the pictures in Maggie’s apartment. But how the fuck did she know who I was? “Who wants to know?”
“Me,” she said, making me feel like the dumbest student in the class again. “When I find out that three bloody men show up on my doorstep, I make it a point to find out who they are.”
Oh shit. “You’re the one who owns the house Maggie and that nurse were staying at?”
“Yes.”
“My compliments on what you’ve done with the place.” It was a crappy thing to say, but couldn’t she at least have torn down that ridiculous wallpaper?
She glared at me, but I saw a small crack in her façade. My guess was that she didn’t like living in a place that looked like a cross between a nursing home and a Hallmark store any more than I would. “I’ve been on tour. I haven’t had much time to do anything with it.”
More pieces fell into place. She was a singer. Now that I thought about it, I’d heard a thing or two about her. She sang at restaurants, local festivals, and sometimes, events like tonight. “It’s Chloe, right?”
“Zoey.” She stepped off the path, leading me toward the trees, and I was amazed that her five-inch stiletto heels didn’t sink into the ground. “We have a friend in common. I don’t think I have to say her name, do I?”
No, since I’d done nothing except think about Maggie the last few days, she certainly didn’t. “No.”
Zoey studied me in the low light. “She mentioned you, you know. Before all this. She mentioned the three hot guys who came to her bar and kept to themselves.”
I tried not to react to the fact that Maggie had mentioned us to her friend. “So?”
“So, now she’s mentioning you three more. A lot more. I don’t know everything that’s been going on, but I know how things work with guys like you.”
“Guys like me?”
“Don’t play dumb. “I’ve been singing at parties like this for years. They’re full of mobsters and their henchmen. You don’t strike me as a mafia boss.” Zoey’s green eyes seemed intent on tearing a hole through me. “So stay away from Maggie. She doesn’t know much about this world.”
“She’s a big girl,” I said, as if I hadn’t spent days telling myself to stay away from Maggie.
“She is, but she doesn’t know this world. She doesn’t know what you and your buddies are and what you’re capable of. See that it stays that way.”
I bristled. “Is that a threat?”
The look she gave me was very steady. “It is.”
“Just checking,” I said in a casual voice designed to piss her off. “Because usually the people who threaten me don’t look as good as you do.” I deliberately let my eyes travel down her body and back up again, and let me tell you, it was quite the trip.
But Zoey didn’t take the bait, and I could respect that. She was doing her best to look out for her friend. So I went against my principles and told the truth. “I know I’m no good for her.”
“And your friends?”
I sighed. “They know, too.”
She nodded crisply. “If any of you forget that, I’m telling Maggie everything I know. That you’re criminals, that you’re killers, and that you all have super tiny dicks.”
Zoey strode off, and I stepped aside, walking her storm away. She was determined to look out for her friend, and I’d place my money on her talking to Maggie whether we behaved ourselves or not.
I downed a beer before resuming looking for my Rock and Julian. Two things were certain. The singer knew how to make an exit—and she wasn’t above delivering one hell of a low blow.
12
MAGGIE
The annoying buzzer shook me out of a deep sleep. Blearily, I fished around until I located my phone on the bed next to me. It was barely ten. Who the hell was here this early in the morning?
Bartenders were asleep at this time of the day—everyone knew that. And my friends sure as hell did. So whoever was here could just stay out front, except the buzzer just kept going.
What the actual fuck?
“All right, all right,” I said to myself as I swung my legs out of bed. They felt like lead, and my mouth was dry. That weird thing about working at a bar is that you could feel almost hungover the next day even if you only served drinks, not partake in them.