Total pages in book: 235
Estimated words: 227851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1139(@200wpm)___ 911(@250wpm)___ 760(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 227851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1139(@200wpm)___ 911(@250wpm)___ 760(@300wpm)
The Manor. His sanctuary.
Drink.
Escape.
I wince. Again, I can relate. Fuck, he didn’t ask for this. Poor fucker. Sam hangs up to Kate and looks at me, and I shrug, heading for my car, Sam to his.
And this will be my afternoon. Watching over my friend while he gets wasted and drowns in his sorrows.
I’m here for him. But I will be monitoring the levels of consumption. And yet I know I don’t have to. Drew’s got way more self-control than I had.
Except, of course, for when he let Coral into his bed.
What a fucking mess.
44
I order two beers and a water, settling down at the bar on one side of Drew, Sam on the other. He’s quiet, staring into his beer. Coming to terms with his fate. After a few minutes, he swipes up the pint and necks it, slamming it down and ordering another.
Three pints in, we’ve not moved, and Drew’s doing some serious venting. Coral’s been called every name under the sun. She didn’t even deny it, and although Drew’s well aware he’s firmly in the frame, he still wants a test when the kid’s born. Wise. I don’t blame him.
“So there’s no chance of a proposal, then,” Sam says in jest. It’s not appreciated, Drew slowly turning a dark glare his way. I laugh and get up when John calls, excusing myself and stepping away.
“Where are you?” he asks when I answer.
“Consoling Drew.”
“Why?”
“Coral’s baby. It’s his.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Indeed. What’s up?”
“Okay.” He drags the word out, like he’s psyching himself up. It’s odd.
“John?”
“Don’t lose your shit.”
I still, staring at my shoes, my muscles becoming uncomfortably tense. All early warning signs that one is at risk of losing one’s shit. “Is that a request or a demand?”
“A request.”
“Spit it out, John.”
“Ava’s received some anonymous warnings.”
My lungs deflate on the spot, draining. “What?” I wheeze, eyes darting.
“When I took her to a meeting, a courier was outside her office. On a bike. He or she gave her an envelope. Inside was a message.”
“What message?”
“It alluded to the previous warning to stay away from you and some shit about Ava not knowing who you are. It got delivered with some dead flowers.”
“Jesus Christ,” I breathe, moving on unsteady legs to a nearby chair and dropping to the seat. “She had a warning to stay away from me? When?”
“I don’t know when she got the other one. She tore it up.”
I growl in disbelief. “She did what?”
“I said don’t lose your shit,” John warns.
“I’m not losing my fucking shit. Send me a picture of it,” I demand, hanging up and dialing Cook, standing, needing to feel my legs. Not so much the burn in my gut. She tore it up? And why the fuck didn’t she tell me? Cook doesn’t answer, so I try again. And again. And again.
He eventually picks up on a hushed, impatient hiss. “I’m in an operation debrief.”
“It’s important. I just found out Ava’s been getting threats. She didn’t tell me, tore the first up, but I have the second.”
“What did they say?”
“I don’t know exactly. Some rubbish about her not knowing who I am.” Fuck, she didn’t know who I was. “They told her to leave me. You need to talk to Coral Seymour.” It’s her—it’s got to be. It’s another dimension of shit for Drew to deal with too, but so be it. If he’s unlucky, his kid will be born in jail. If he’s lucky, he’ll get full custody so Coral will be out of his life.
“I’m nearly done here,” Cook says, sounding thoughtful. “I’ll head over to The Manor. You said you have the message?”
“I have a picture of the message. I’ll send it. John has the original.”
“I bet his hands have been all over it already, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Call him and tell him not to touch it again.”
“Okay.” I hang up and text John rather than call him, just as the boys clock me sweating pure stress nearby. Both turn on their bar stools, ready to come check on me. I hold a hand up, keeping them back from the blast that might happen. I dial Ava.
Breathe, breathe, breathe.
It rings and rings, and I see her in my mind’s eye plucking up the courage to answer.
Breathe, breathe, breathe.
“Please don’t shout at me,” she cries when she answers.
Breathing has not worked. “What the fucking hell were you thinking?” I ask, seeing Sam and Drew lean back on their stools, eyes widening. “You stupid, stupid woman!” I get up and start pacing, up and down, arms flailing. “I’ve been pulling my fucking hair out trying to work with Steve Cook and figure this shit out, and all along you had a handwritten threat? And you tore it up? Evidence, Ava. Fucking evidence.” I gasp for some air, hearing her quiet, emotional apology, willing myself to calm the fuck down before I send the bar up in smoke. Or burst my wife’s eardrums. She shouldn’t be stressed. Her blood pressure can’t get high. “Fuck,” I whisper, mentally punching myself in the face. “Tell me you’re not leaving that office this afternoon.”