Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 78227 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78227 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
I take the Scotch. “No, don’t do that to yourself. We’ll cover it.”
I take a drink.
Tastes like dirt.
Kind of the way I feel right now.
I excuse myself to go to the bathroom.
And who’s standing by the ladies’ room, seemingly out of nowhere?
Sequoia McAllister himself. He smiles when he sees me.
“You’re a pig,” I say dryly.
“What are you talking about?”
“My brother and I have been sitting at the bar for half an hour waiting for you to come back.”
“I’m sorry. I got a phone call that couldn’t wait.”
“A phone call that lasted half an hour? And that left you standing here by the women’s restroom?”
“I’ve been authorized to make you an offer,” he says.
“Oh? Let me be the first to tell you, I don’t think we’re interested.”
Though I do want to hear what he has to say. On the off chance that he’s on the up-and-up…
“My offer is this. I’ll be happy to sign your band. You guys are great.”
“Okay. What’s the catch?”
A lazy—make that sleazy—smile spreads across his face. “You’re a smart woman, Rory Pike. Why don’t you tell me what the catch is?”
“I’m pretty sure it has to do with you and me in a bedroom.”
“Like I said”—he curls his lips into a churlish grin—”you’re a smart woman, Rory Pike.”
I shake my head and let out a sigh. “And like I said… You’re a pig.”
“Clearly you’re not naïve. You know how this industry works.”
“I’m not for sale. Not at any price.”
“Not even for stardom? For your brother? For your family? For that fire that devastated you and your property?”
“How did you know—” I shake my head again. “You weren’t back here on a phone call, were you? You were back here searching for information on my family.”
“Like I said, you’re a—”
“Smart woman,” we say in unison.
I shift my weight to one foot. “What is it with you? You seem to think we have potential.”
“You have a lot of potential. You guys rocked it.”
“So why not sign us, then? Make a lot of money for us and for yourself?”
“I could totally do that. I’m that good.”
“Then why do I have to be in the equation?”
“Because I like you.”
“You don’t even know me. You just think I’m hot.”
“Smart woman,” we say in unison again.
“But seriously, why?”
“Because,” he says, “I can.”
I shake my head again, rolling my eyes. “It’s a power thing with you. With most men. I’ve even seen it with women—just last night, in fact. She was at least upfront about it. She had no intention of signing us. She just wanted to fuck some rockers.”
He laughs. “Selena was here?”
“Not here. At our venue last night. I take it you know her.”
“Everyone knows Selena.”
“Great.”
“Listen, I do believe in you and the band. Spend the night with me, Rory, and I guarantee great things will happen for you.”
Damn.
And the funny thing is? If not for Brock Steel, I would probably do this. It’s no sweat off my back to have sex with an attractive man, even if he is a snake. Of course I’d have to see the papers—with his John Hancock on them—first.
After all, I’m a smart woman.
But I’d do it. I’d do it for my family. For Jesse.
“I need to see the papers first,” I say.
“Of course.”
“And I need to see your signature on them.”
“Absolutely.”
I force a smile then. “Fine. Then let’s go.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
BROCK
After spending the day in Dad’s office with Uncle Bryce and him poring through all kinds of documents, we decided to hire a hacker.
The people moving bodies in and out of our property can’t be hacked. We knew that before we went in.
We hired someone to hack into Brittany Sheraton’s medical files.
Also into Doc Sheraton’s medical files.
Now I’m sitting in Dad’s office at home along with Uncle Bryce, and our hacker, Jeff Grayhawk, is on speakerphone.
“What’s the good news, Jeff?” Dad asks.
“Your hunches were right, Joe. Brittany Sheraton is responsible for the death of her mother.”
The blood in my veins runs cold.
“She was a kid,” I say.
“Kids can be…a mess,” Jeff says. “I’ve seen it before.”
“So Doc has always known this, and he’s kept it hidden,” Uncle Bryce says.
“Seems that way.” Jeff’s voice.
“I can’t believe she’s a murderer.” I shake my head.
“Technically she’s not,” Jeff says. “A child that age can’t technically be a murderer.”
“Semantics,” I say.
“Her medical history is full of mental health treatment. She doesn’t seem to know right from wrong. She was diagnosed with antisocial personality disorder shortly after the death of her mother.”
“Can’t it be treated?” I ask.
“I’m no doctor or psychologist,” Jeff says, “but her records show that she’s been hard to treat. Apparently she doesn’t always give accurate accounts of her thoughts and feelings, which is part of the disorder.”
“But she’s been on medication.”
“She has, but apparently there are no medications specifically approved to treat her disorder. She’s been put on antidepressants to treat anxiety and depression, which sometimes are associated with the disorder.”