Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 112917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
As Lou arrived, the poor girls were shaking with fear. They muttered apologies as they backed away from the door and scattered down the hallway. Lou put her hands on her hips and glared at me. “Did you have to make them piss themselves? Jesus. They’re just kids.”
“They’re kids who violated someone’s most personal space. Would you react that way if it had been teen boys barging in on a young woman who was in her underwear in bed?”
Lou’s cheeks flushed as she looked away. “Sorry, Zane. Didn’t realize you were in your skivvies. And obviously it’s a breach, Ryan, but I’m not sure it required pulling your weapon.”
I met her eyes long enough for her to realize her mistake. She shook her head. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to question your reaction. I know those decisions have to happen quickly, and you didn’t know who was barging in.”
“My finger never left the trigger guard,” I said. “And we had someone here earlier with an outstanding weapons charge, Lou.” I didn’t expound on the fact Zane’s extended family was full of questionable characters, and it was a constant challenge to keep an updated security profile on them because Lou knew all of that.
“You’re right. I was wrong. I’m sorry. Zane, you okay?”
“Yeah, fine, no worries.”
I glanced at him, wondering if Lou could hear the definite thread of “not fine” in his voice.
“Good,” she said. “Although, good luck getting any rest now.”
She closed us back in the bedroom, and I knew she would take a position outside the door for the rest of the time we spent in Zane’s room.
Zane threw himself back onto the pillow with a groan. “She’s right. My body’s full of adrenaline now.”
I stepped forward and clicked the button lock. “Sorry. That was my oversight.”
“Not your fault. Farrah knew better than to bring them up here.”
Zane got up and dragged on some clothing from his suitcase. While I hated that he felt uncomfortable being undressed—and, okay, slightly mourned the loss of all that smooth, tan skin on display—I had to smile when he turned around.
He’d chosen pajama bottoms and an oversized hoodie he’d bought years ago, the night he’d opened for Jude and the Saints. I’d overheard him telling an interviewer once that playing with Jude Marian had been one of the most surreal experiences of his life. Not many people knew that he’d since had Kenji scour the internet to buy up extras of the shirt—dozens of them, a lifetime supply—so he’d always be able to see his name appear in the same concert graphic as one of his idols.
When Zane’s first song had gone platinum, Zane’s brothers had tracked down the graphic designer, begged for a printable copy of the design to be made into a poster, and had gotten Jude Marian to sign it. The framed poster hung in his home studio in Malibu.
It was no wonder he’d pulled that shirt on now… and I loved that I knew him well enough to know this.
He flopped back down in the bed and curled his body around another pillow with his back to me. I wanted to move closer and rub his back, help him relax back into the drowsy state he’d been in before the girls had barged in, even turn on his stupid Bear Facts podcast to see if that would help him zone out.
Instead, I took a seat in the wooden desk chair and pulled out my phone. After a few minutes, Zane began to hum a tune under his breath the way he did when he was noodling through an idea for a song.
I could listen to him do that all day long. His voice was soothing and often soulful, depending on what he was working on. This melody was one I hadn’t heard before. It was light and playful… which surprised me, considering how much stress he’d been under lately.
He reached for his phone and started making notes in his songwriting app as he continued to hum the new tune.
The sound of his voice wove in and out of the sound of people downstairs. Periodic shouts of victory interspersed with collective groans of defeat came from the group in the family room, while women’s laughter came from the kitchen and a few shouts from younger kids accompanied the rhythmic, hollow-sounding bapbap of a basketball being dribbled on the driveway outside the bedroom window.
I understood why Zane craved being here. It made him feel as close to “normal” as he could get these days. But he was so desperate for that normalcy he refused to see how many of those “friends and family members” were mercenary users. Almost every single one of them, with the exceptions of his grandmother and one aunt, was desperate to trade on his celebrity image or take advantage of his wealth.