Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 90951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
And now, she’s gone.
“When will she be back?” I ask.
The pity in Clover’s dark eyes bleeds into genuine sadness. “I don’t know, Blue. I don’t know if she’ll ever be back. She was so upset. She told me she’d keep paying her half of the rent and bills, but…” Her shoulders hunch closer to her ears. “But that’s it. She didn’t even tell me where she was going. I honestly don’t know if she knows where she’s going. She just started packing up last night, and by the time I woke up to get ready for my shift at the diner, she was halfway out the door.”
She nods to the entry table, where the charging station sits next to a ceramic bowl full of change. “She was in such a rush, she left without her cell. She just called from the airport to say she’s going to buy a new one when she gets wherever she’s going, and port over the eSIM or something, but I was half asleep, so I—”
“I’ll take it to her.” Hope pricks in my chest, small but sharp enough to make me stand up straighter. “She just left a little while ago, right? Maybe I can catch her at the airport.”
Clover’s brows lift, but she reaches for the phone, unplugging it and dropping it into my extended hand. “I mean, maybe, but only if you buy a ticket. She was already at the departure area when she called. I’m sure she’ll be through security by the time—” She breaks off with a startled sound as I turn and sprint down the hall. “She was wearing jeans and a plain white T-shirt,” she calls after me. “And that battered old green ball cap she wears when she doesn’t want to get recognized. If that helps.”
“Thank you,” I toss over my shoulder as I haul open the door and pound down the stairs.
There’s no time to wait for the elevator.
No time for anything but getting to Bea as fast as humanly possible.
Chapter Four
BLUE
Less than a minute later, I fly through the lobby, lifting a “can’t stop now” hand to Clark as I pass.
A few minutes after that, I’m sliding into a cab I found idling in front of a ritzy hotel down the street.
“As fast as you can, please,” I grunt at the cabbie, grateful when he takes off with enough speed to press my back against the seat.
I clench my jaw and gaze out the window, turning Bea’s phone over and over in my hand, praying I’ll get a chance to give it to her. My lungs still burn from the Greenway run, but that has nothing to do with the burning sensation in my chest. That’s all shame. And fear.
Fear that I’ve fucked this up more than I even imagined.
Fear that Bea is so disgusted with me that she’s leaving her new home in the rearview mirror just so she’ll never have to look at my stupid face again.
She loves New Orleans. She’s been so happy here with her brother and Charlotte and all her new friends. Not to mention the music industry that’s welcomed her with open arms.
It’s been the fresh start she was so desperate for, and now…
Now, I’ve ruined her life, just like the last man she cared about. I’m no better than that son of a bitch, Kai. Just another selfish piece of shit.
Deep down, I know that’s not true. I’m not that bad, but I’m bad enough, and by the time we hit the I-10, where the swampy outskirts of the city smear into gray and green outside the window, my throat is so tight, I can barely breathe.
At MSY’s ritzy new terminal, I tumble out of the cab and dash into the departures area in sweat-soaked clothes and hair I only realize I’ve forgotten to brush when I catch my reflection in the sliding glass doors.
I’m a wreck, but there’s no time to spare for hygiene.
I just hope TSA won’t think it’s weird that I’m heading through security with nothing but my running pouch and a ticket.
I head to the least crowded airline desk, a local operation I’ve never flown before, but which seems to specialize in flights to Mexico and Florida. I buy a ticket for a flight set to leave this afternoon, grateful for the desk attendant’s complete lack of interest in my reasons for grabbing an in-person ticket, and bolt toward security.
The TSA line is a slow-motion nightmare, and I’m apparently the most interesting thing to stare at as we weave closer to the X-ray belts—the massive, sweaty man who many of my fellow travelers seem to find vaguely familiar. They stare from the corners of their eyes, trying to place me, while I tuck my chin to my chest and pretend to scroll on Beatrice’s locked phone. I look nothing like my picture on the glossy Voodoo team photos on the billboards in town, but at least a few of these people are likely hockey fans.