Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 75188 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75188 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
I'd been in Navesink Bank for nearly three months now, though. And with nothing but an empty house to greet me day in and day out, let's just say I was looking for any reason to get back to work, to get a change of scenery.
Even if that meant I had to do the damn paperwork.
"Which is why I am offering to un-stick you. If Vegas is too close, we could go to one of the islands. White sand, clear water, coconut-flavored drinks, beautiful women wearing next to nothing..."
He was a hard man to turn down.
Still, I knew I had to.
"I can't this time. And," I started, pinning him with a look, "that does not mean 'Offer to get my coffee, and slip a pill in it, then take me against my will.'"
You'd think this did not need to be said, but this was Bellamy we were talking about. A man who had done as much before. A man often forgiven for it simply because he showed you the best time of your goddamn life after you woke up.
But when it came to Bellamy, if you didn't lay shit out in minute detail, he saw it as an opportunity to do whatever the hell he wanted.
"Suit yourself," he said, making his way toward the door. "Maybe I will find Fenway, see if he is game."
"Christ," I mumbled, shaking my head. If there were two people who absolutely did not belong out on the town together, it was Bellamy and Fenway. Both rich and carefree and oblivious to consequences. "Should I just tell Quin now to expect you two to be making headlines tomorrow?"
"You know us, we try to keep it out of the papers..."
"No, man, we keep it out of the papers. At a price. You will do what the fuck ever you want, and let someone else handle the blowback for you."
"Sounds about right," he agreed, eyes mischievous as he walked out into the hallway.
I reached for my phone, going ahead and shooting off the warning text to Quin, getting back a simple Not a-fucking-gain. I'll keep an eye out.
Then I got back to work.
It was well after two when I finally called it a night, sighing at the finished stack, which was still not nearly as tall as the to-do pile.
Eyes like sandpaper, brain slow from so much paperwork, I decided not to get behind the wheels of the Camaro, figuring that I was going to be stuck in the office for a couple of days anyway, so I might as well just crash upstairs.
On that, I closed down the office, making my way up the stairs to the second floor, punching in the code, moving inside.
Nothing hit me at first.
It was the same space I had seen dozens of times. The same seating area, the same small kitchen I knew to be fully stocked at all times thanks to the very diligent Jules who had the best eye for detail I had ever seen. There was the same hallway that had doors on both sides to the bedrooms, each sparsely decorated with utilitarian little bathrooms just barely big enough to turn around in.
Nothing seemed out of place.
Until I heard something I shouldn't have been hearing.
My coworkers were all at home or on jobs. Bellamy was likely bending a few local laws out in Nevada. And we had no clients seeking temporary refuge.
Why then was there shower water splashing on the floor? And the low, honey-sweet voice accompanying it, softly lilting out some song that tugged at the edges of my memory, something I'd heard, but couldn't quite place?
More curious than concerned, I didn't bother texting Quin first or going back downstairs for a weapon.
It had to have been someone we knew, someone who worked here, someone's wife.
I'd automatically figure it was Miller if I didn't know from many trips with her on jobs that her shower songs were of the early 00's hip-hop/pop genre.
Sometimes it was hard to see her without hearing her in my head belting out Ja Rule and Ashanti songs with all the enthusiastic confidence--and none of the talent--of a drunk couple trying out karaoke.
Singer-songwriter classic shit? Not Miller's thing.
Moving down the hallway, I found the voice coming from the last door. The one across the hall from where I typically stayed.
Definitely not the type to startle a woman when she was at her most vulnerable, I leaned back against the door across the hall, arms crossing, waiting.
The shower stayed on for an unfathomable amount of time. But let's just say I knew enough about women to know that they seemed to stay in there mulling over the secrets of the universe for an hour or so while their deep conditioner 'soaked in' before finally rinsing and getting out.
But the water finally cut off and about ten minutes after that, I heard the bathroom door open, footsteps on the floor in the bedroom. Then, finally, a hand on the knob.