Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 110360 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 552(@200wpm)___ 441(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110360 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 552(@200wpm)___ 441(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
“Yeah, except for the tiny little detail that you love acting. You haven’t missed so much as a school play since you played baby Jesus in the nativity when you were six months old.”
I nervously twisted the ends of my damp hair. “Yeah, well, things change.”
“You don’t. But we’ll see. Listen, I’ll call Terry and have him reschedule the cruise. It’s going to cost a small fortune, but—”
“I’ll cover it. Whatever it costs. Just use my credit card to rebook.” Brooke coughed her objection behind me, but cruise fees were the least of my worries. “And pay for an upgrade too. I promise, I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“I know you will. You may not be punctual, but you always come home, eventually. Anything I can do to help you from here?”
Ignoring her backhanded compliment, I shrugged and wiped a rogue tear on the sleeve of my robe. “Maybe find me a time machine?”
“I’ll see if I can get in touch with Orwell. Until then, please stay safe. I really don’t appreciate you trying to beat me into that plot next to Mom.”
I half-laughed, half-cried. “You foiled my plan.”
“I knew it,” she teased. “Being buried next to her is the only perk of being older than you. It sure as hell isn’t the saggy tits.”
I shook my head, an unlikely grin sneaking through my grief. “Only you could weave your tits into a conversation like this.”
“What can I say? You aren’t the only talented member of the Beck family.”
I grinned. “So, how’s Daddy?”
“Oh, you know. Same old, same old. He called me a shitty bitty when I refused to tack up Salty the other day. The man is seventy-three and still thinks he can ride with the best of em.”
“Sad thing is, he probably could. Physically, at least. Is he still taking his meds?”
“Yeah. Mostly. He’s stubborn, but nothing that can’t be remedied by hiding them in his orange juice.” She paused as there was a rustling on the other end of the line. “Speak of the devil. I gotta go. I’m about to get yelled at for not bringing him the newspaper in time for his lunchtime potty break. I love you. Please stay safe.”
Another tear rolled down my cheek.
It was a lie that I only answered her call for the distraction. Jenn and I had a mountain of differences, but she was my sister—my biggest critic and supporter. “I love you too. Give Daddy a hug for me.”
“Will do.”
We said a quick “bye” and then I hit the end button, severing our connection. For a second, I curled the phone against my chest, clinging to a warmth I’d been so desperate to escape as a teen.
A time when life was easy.
A time when my father was kind—greeting everyone with a smile and a hug.
A time when my mother baked our birthday cakes because it was cheaper than going to the bakery.
A time when we ate every meal as a family, welcoming any neighbor or farmhand who happened to find a seat at our dining room table.
A time of happiness, love, forgiveness…hope.
But just like Marty and Derrick.
It was all dead and gone.
A loud knock on the door snatched me from my memories—full fight-or-flight mode activating.
“Easy,” Brooke said, already rising from the cream leather sofa. “The cops texted and said someone from Guardian Protection was on the way up.”
I nodded, but my chest remained tight.
Marty had been with me for so long that the idea of someone new felt… wrong. He’d taken sick days and vacations, but even then, he’d always called to give me a personal endorsement of whoever was stepping into his place. In a town where security seemed like a revolving door, I’d always known how lucky I was to have him.
But as Brooke reached for the door handle, I just felt unprepared.
Especially when she opened it, revealing six-foot-plus of irritation standing on the other side.
“Jesus-fucking-Christ,” he muttered. “How does it keep getting worse?” He dragged a hand down his face before his dark gaze locked with mine. “Rule number one. Don’t open the door unless you are certain who’s on the other side.”
“The cops told us you were on the way up,” Brooke defended.
His words were aimed at her, but his eyes never left mine. “We aren’t trusting the cops anymore. That’s rule number two.”
I stared at him, a strange sense of recognition tugging at the edges of my memory. From his close cut, brown hair to his clean-shaven jaw that was all sharp lines and angles, I would have guessed he was someone who worked in front of the camera, not hiding in the shadows. His broad shoulders strained against the confines of his white button-down, and navy slacks clung to his muscular thighs. I had no idea when or where I’d seen him before, but it was easy to see why I would remember him.