Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
I drop my stuff in my dressing room, touch up my makeup—it’s a little smeared from our liaison in the Brassica Rex courtyard—and walk out onto the stage.
And I sing the best show of my fucking life.
21
HARRISON
Sunday.
The Lord’s Day.
The day of rest.
At least for some.
Technically it’s a day off for me, but I’m on call for the hospital. If someone has to leave, they’ll need me to come in.
It’s the life I signed up for.
I’m never truly off the hook. Won’t be until I retire.
Even then, if someone called me saying it was an emergency and they needed me, I’d swing by.
I’ve tried to focus, home in on any clues Maddox and Alissa left behind, but my dumbass monkey brain can only think about Bianca.
The way she kisses me. The way she sucks my dick.
The way we made love—yes, made love; it was more than just fucking—in that courtyard behind Brassica Rex.
But it’s not just the sex. Don’t get me wrong, I love it. But it’s Bianca herself who has enchanted me.
She has this indescribable allure about her. One that draws me in every time we’re in the same room. Hell, she’s drawing me in now and I’m miles away from Aces.
Damn it. I have to do something productive with my day. We’ll be looking for clues about Maddox and Alissa later. Today, I can get something done around the house.
I strip my bed and toss the linens in the wash.
Okay, that took thirty seconds.
What else?
I keep a pretty clean home. I can get a little messy, especially when it’s a busy week at the hospital. But messy is different from dirty. I never allow things to get gross, and my kitchen and bathroom are in decent shape.
But they can always be cleaner. I wipe things down in the kitchen until I hear my washer beep, indicating that the load of sheets is done. I toss them in the dryer.
What else to keep me busy?
I really should look into Maddox and Alissa. But it’s not like I can go on Google and find out where they went.
I don’t know where Alissa lives. I could pull her information from the hospital staff directory, but that would be an invasion of privacy.
I do, however, know where Maddox lives. Right over his haberdashery in Uptown.
I don’t know why the thought hasn’t occurred to check out his place. I don’t have a key, but I can scope the area, see if anything arouses my suspicion.
Worst case, I can have the cops break in for a wellness check.
Hopefully it won’t come to that.
Technically, I have no evidence that Maddox is doing anything other than going on an extended romantic getaway with the love of his life.
But something is nibbling at the back of my neck.
I get into my car and make the drive into Chicago, up Lake Shore and then Sheridan to Maddox’s shop. His Rolls-Royce isn’t in his private spot, so I pull into it. It’s not like he’s using it, after all.
I walk the perimeter. Nothing out of place, except for the fact that it’s closed. The Maddox Hathaway I know would never miss an opportunity to make money, especially for such a prolonged amount of time. I can’t see through the windows as his curtains are drawn, but everything seems normal.
I walk up the back staircase to the rear of the apartment he keeps over the shop. I try to peek through the window, but again, the curtains are drawn.
Out of curiosity, I try the door. It’s locked.
Did I just drive thirty minutes for no good reason?
I have to keep looking until I find something. I walk the perimeter of the shop again, keeping a watchful eye out for anything out of place.
Of course, if there were any clues of foul play—footprints, evidence of a break-in—they’d be long gone by now. It’s been a month. And if Rouge is behind this, she would cover her tracks very well. She may be unhinged, but she’s not stupid.
Still, I keep my eyes fixed on the pavement for some sort of clue—something small that a perpetrator might have missed.
My eyes are so glued to the sidewalk lining Maddox’s shop that I walk right into his mailbox.
It hits me right in the gut, knocking the wind out of me.
Without thinking, I kick the post that holds the mailbox up. “Damned thing.”
And now my stomach and my toes are in pain.
But wait.
Maddox’s mailbox.
It must be filled to the brim if he’s been gone a month.
It’s a federal crime for me to open his mailbox. But I could say that I was a concerned friend, wanted to make sure his shop didn’t come under foreclosure or something like that.
Whatever. No one’s looking anyway.
I open the box.
It’s empty.
Maybe Maddox is having a neighbor clean out his mailbox. Or he had his mail stopped at the post office.