Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 95676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
He's quiet for a moment. I can hear faint scratching in the background, like he's writing down what I've said to him.
"So, to your knowledge, you're not acquainted with Mr. Clark?" he asks.
"Yes."
"Yes, you know him, or yes to my question?"
"Yes. I mean no." I'm not even awake yet and I'm hungover. He's talking circles around me. "To my knowledge, I don't know him," I clarify, frowning at my reflection in the mirror. My hair is sticking up all over the place. Mascara is smudged beneath my eyes. The usually bright sapphire blue of my irises is dull and reddened. I look like a hot damn mess.
"If he did attend any of your shows, would you remember him?" Detective Lewis asks.
"Honestly? I don't know," I say, grabbing the Tylenol out of the cabinet and tossing back two before I take a sip of water. "I'd be happy to look at a photograph if you have one, but I'm not sure how much help I'll be to you. When the venue is packed, it's a little hard to remember individual faces."
"I understand." His pen scratches across paper for another moment. "Do college students come to your shows often, Miss Kendall?"
"It depends on the venue." I grab a hairbrush and start working through the snarls in my hair. "The bars closer to one of the campuses tend to have more college students than those farther out."
"Do students ever drive in from out of the immediate area?"
Lord, his voice is seriously sexy. I can just imagine him whispering dirty things in my ear. An image of the mystery hottie wearing nothing but a smirk with a pair of handcuffs dangling from his hand slams into me.
God, why do I find that so hot?
"Miss Kendall?"
"Um, probably." My face flames with embarrassment. I push thoughts of the hottie from last night out of my mind, trying to focus on the detective's questions. "I'm not sure."
"Do you always perform in the San Francisco area?"
"Yes. Well, usually." Juggling the phone in one hand, I twist my hair up into a knot, tucking pieces in to hold the messy bun in place without a tie. Once done with that task, I grab my make-up remover and set to work on the mascara smudges.
"Oh?"
"I play in Los Angeles periodically."
"When did you last play there?"
What is this, an inquisition?
"It's been a while." Casting my mind back, I try to remember the last time I played in L.A. Erin and I were there visiting her parents, and she and Antonio talked me into giving a show at his bar. "Maybe seven or eight months ago? I'd have to check to find the exact date."
"I'd appreciate if you could do that for me. I'll also need the name of the venue and the contact info for the owner if you have it."
I momentarily stop trying to scrub the mascara off my face, uneasy with this request. Does he think I'm lying to him about not knowing this Rory kid? "What's going on, Detective Lewis?"
"Just routine questions," he says.
I'm not sure I believe him. He's prying a little too much.
Someone says something in the background and then Detective Lewis murmurs, the sound of his voice muffled as if he's covering the receiver. A few seconds later, his voice sounds again, to me this time. "Will you be available sometime in the next few days to look at that photograph?"
"Ah, yes?"
"Great. I'll be in touch."
"Okay…"
"Good luck with your hangover," he says with another wicked chuckle, and then he disconnects.
"I'm never drinking again," I mutter and drop the phone to the counter before picking it back up to fire off a quick text informing Erin that she's no longer my best friend.
Love you too, she responds immediately, making me smile.
I'm in the middle of brushing my teeth when the phone rings again. Rinsing my mouth out, I make sure to glance at it this time. Erin's name and number, alongside a photo of the two of us flashes on the screen.
"I'm killing you," I inform her, replacing my toothbrush in the holder. "I just called a cop a whore and told him that I'm naked. Why is your name and number written on my arm?"
"You don't remember?"
"No."
"A drunk frat boy kept hitting on you," she says, laughing. "When he refused to take no for an answer, you told him that I'm your girlfriend. He said lesbians should come with a warning label, so I gave you one before Mitch kicked him out of the bar for being a homophobic dick."
"Good lord," I groan, padding toward the tub to turn the water on, in desperate need of a soak. Maybe the water will wash away my humiliation along with her brand on my skin.
"Dammit," Erin mutters into the phone. "Push the peddle on the right, you old bird!"