Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
The man finally seems to get his wits because he draws himself up and glares at me in outrage. “How dare you talk to me like that! How dare you assume those things when you know nothing of my son.”
“I know your sons better than you do,” I hiss.
“We’ll see about that.” Mr. Dumelin brushes past me, casts a wary glance at Odin standing there, and heads to my door. Glancing back, he growls, “You’ll be hearing from my attorney. And I’ll be lodging a complaint against you for unethical behavior. And I’m calling animal control on that dangerous mutt.”
I smile pleasantly at the man. “Have a good day, Mr. Dumelin. Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.”
The door slams so hard, my law degrees on the wall rattle.
CHAPTER 12
Stone
I turn onto my left side, tucking my hand under my pillow. The nightstand clock says it’s almost four a.m., and I haven’t been able to sleep yet. I’ve dozed a few times, brief snatches where I almost go under, but then my thoughts wake me back up. I never sleep well on the road, and this is a four-day trip, given we’re playing both New York teams.
I should’ve gone out with the team to celebrate. I played fucking amazing tonight against the New York Phantoms, racking up a goal and an assist, and still… I feel like a fraud.
Like I don’t belong.
Which is why I passed on celebratory drinks and came straight to my room. This trip, I’m sharing hotel accommodations with Coen Highsmith. Team Services has us rotating through road roommates in an attempt to speed up the process of us getting to know one another. I roomed with Gage in Phoenix, and I’d prefer that because at least he doesn’t attempt to force conversation.
Coen’s not bad either. He’s still out partying—or most likely, with a woman—so I’ve had the room all to myself tonight. I enjoyed watching sports highlights, then caught Fight Club on TV. I surfed my phone, deleted emails and voicemails from my dad, and even thought a few times of reaching out to Harlow to check on the status of moving Brooks’s money and investment accounts into my name. I want to get my parents paid their share so I can be left in peace.
I didn’t, though. She gave me her cell phone number before I left her St. Patrick’s Day get-together and told me to call if I needed anything while I was out of town. She even offered to get my mail for me, but I wasn’t ready to ask her for anything.
In the last four days, I’ve been thinking a lot about her. She’s more than just a trustee, and she’s more than just a friendly neighbor. She’s probably the person who knew my brother best, and knowing that has all kinds of curiosities plaguing me.
More than anything, I have a feeling she was someone my brother counted on. Perhaps the one person who gave him unconditional support. She knew he was gay… a very tightly held secret, apparently, and I can’t imagine how lonely he must have been holding on to it.
There’s something special about Harlow Alston, and part of me wonders if I’m so lonely myself that maybe—
Nope. I stop my thoughts right there. I don’t need a close friend or someone I can count on. My family alone has proven those things are built on glass bridges, ready to break at any moment. Brooks might have needed a Harlow Alston in his life, but I don’t. I’m fine just the way things are.
Just like I’m fine leaving Brooks’s journals alone in his closet. I’m not ready to get to know my brother again. I’m afraid it’s going to make me feel even worse about stepping into his shoes and his life, all at the expense of his own. I know without a doubt it’s going to make me feel regretful for not attempting to patch things up with him, and I’m not sure I can handle one more negative emotion about my brother’s death without it consuming me.
I start to turn back to the right, begging my body to let go of all my worries so I can sleep, but my phone rings. I’m so startled by the noise—no one should be calling me at four a.m.—I don’t automatically reach for it.
Nothing good comes from a call at this hour.
But I lift my head, glance at the screen, and frown at a number I don’t recognize. It’s a New York area code.
Telemarketer?
Maybe.
Something more serious?
More likely.
I nab the phone and answer. “Hello?”
“It’s Coen.”
I blink into the dark. Did he lose his cell phone? Why is he calling me from an unknown number since he, along with the entire team, is programmed into my contacts? “What’s up?”