Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 65376 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 327(@200wpm)___ 262(@250wpm)___ 218(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65376 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 327(@200wpm)___ 262(@250wpm)___ 218(@300wpm)
It’s a Saturday. He could be home. If he doesn’t want to see me, he won’t let me past the gate.
25
Vance
The gate is open. That’s weird. I walk through it slowly, like I’m breaking the law. Maybe I am. When I see the garage door open, my heart hammers. He just came home. That’s gotta be the explanation. Maybe she’s with him. They’re distracted.
I walk into the garage, past the Tesla. I’ll try the door. It will be locked, of course. The damn thing has a fingerprint lock. When it’s locked, then I can go. This was crazy. I think I’ll fly home today.
I try the knob. It turns. It can’t really be unlocked, so I push inward.
The door opens.
Fuck. I’m staring at the Rothkos. I could take one.
Something hot starts in my head and moves through my chest…down my arms. My palms are hot. My cheeks are hot.
Luke? I almost call out down the hall, toward the kitchen. I’m met with a slap of resistance. Uninvited. You’re not wanted. You should go.
I steel myself and step toward the kitchen. Something’s weird about the space. As I reach the granite bar space, see the kitchen counter, I realize: it’s quiet. If he’s here and he’s distracted by her, why is it so quiet?
There’s a fruit bowl on the counter. I remember. Now it catches my eye because there are gnats above it.
My throat cinches. My head spins. Oh hell no. Jesus fucking Christ, Luke. No. You wouldn’t do that.
The staff. I tell myself he isn’t even here, nor has he been here. The staff fucked up. As I move down the hall, footsteps muted by the long rug, I cling to the idea that his room will be empty when I push open the door.
It’s not. There is someone in the bed. My brain screams. It’s afternoon.
I step inside on balloon legs. I’m not even near the bed yet, but I’m so sure he’s alone that I call for him. “Luke?”
Nothing.
In that moment, I am sure down to my bones that Luke is dead. I am so sure, tears are filling up my eyes, so I’m nearly blind as my body propels itself toward his bed.
“Sky, man.” My voice quivers, so the words sound wrong.
Then I blink and I can see him, lying on his side, his body partially swathed in blankets. The first thing I notice is his cheeks. They’re bright, candy-apple red.
“Luke?”
I reach out, my hand aimed for his face. When my fingers touch him, I draw back—because his skin is that hot. I reach for him again, spreading my palm over his forehead.
“Hey? Buddy? Hey, man…” I press his hair back off his forehead, find it sweaty. “Luke.” I make the word sharp. “Luke.” It’s a demand. Finally, his eyelids flutter. He makes a groan-like sound, and I notice his lips. They’re so chapped, they’re cracked in one spot.
“Hey, Sky. Open up your eyes and look at me. It’s Vance.”
That should shock him into action—and it does. His eyelids peel open, just enough so I can see how glazed his eyes are. His eyes squeeze shut. His shoulders jerk. I realize he’s shaking.
“Luke?”
Fuck, that’s some shaking. Is he seizing? I jump on the bed beside him, toss the covers off, and watch as he recoils, like the air burns his bare skin. He’s wearing just boxer-briefs. Too lean. Fuck, his abs look granite sculpted. I can see his hipbones.
He groans—a small, hoarse, un-Luke-like sound—and my gaze moves back to his face.
“Hey there, man.” I shake his shoulder, willing him to open his eyes. He’s shaking so hard it’s almost unreal. Then he starts to cough. Once he gets going, he can’t stop. I can tell because his eyes flip open in alarm, and his hand comes to his throat. It’s a low, rough-sounding cough with lots of wheezing at the end. Then, with no breather, another coughing fit. His dazed eyes grab hold of mine, and I realize I should be doing something.
I grab his arm, trying to pull him up, but he’s shaking so violently, and still coughing. Finally the coughing stops. He’s wheezing as bad as I do. I pat my pockets. Fuck. Why do I never have my inhaler when I need to?
I push his hair up off his forehead again. Fuck, his face is pale. What the hell is wrong?
I call Pearl with fumbling hands. The phone rings four times before she answers.
“Vance?”
There’s some noise behind her. Music.
“Pearl. There’s something wrong with Luke.”
“I know.” Her voice sounds small and far off.
“Pearl. He’s like…halfway unconscious. Have you talked—”
“He’s got the flu.” She says something else, but I can’t hear because there’s static on the line.
“I can’t hear you!”
Again—static.
“Call me back, Pearl.”
“No.” I make out that word, but there’s something after it.
“I can’t hear.”
“I got married,” she says loudly.