Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73880 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73880 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
More voices join the various conversations. It sounds as if the others are arriving — likely the rest of the brotherhood.
My phone buzzes.
Eden:
Hi, honey. I’m so sorry I’m not there. I’m home with the kids and an army of guards large enough to start a Third World War. I am so, so sorry to hear what happened. Sergio didn’t tell me details, but I can surmise. I love you. I miss you. I will see you as soon as this craziness blows over.
My heart feels like it’s caught in my chest. I sigh and shoot her a quick reply as the door to the hallway opens and Mercedes walks back in, bearing a large platter of pastries and muffins.
“Thank you.”
“Mercedes,” Sergio barks from the corner of the room. I wait for him to call me over, or even look my way, but he doesn’t. Timeo acts as if I’m invisible.
Well, then. I have work to do, and I have my phone. All I gotta do is find a quiet, private place.
Huh. Easier said than done. I stroll over to the bar. Fern, the resident bartender — tall and fit with a mane of luscious red hair—gives me a little wave.
“Hey, sweetie. How are you?”
Yeah, so Sergio’s going to pretend that everything’s just fine, unless he deems you worthy of the knowledge of the inner workings.
Got it.
“I’m good,” I lie. “Hey, you got some orange juice?”
“Of course,” she says brightly.
“And you don’t happen to have like a secret portal to a private location unencumbered by the prying eyes of the brotherhood?” I ask, half joking. “Storeroom, closet, hidden trap door.” I sigh. “Utility closet?”
Fern’s eyes twinkle at me. “Overbearing, eh?”
I shake my head. “You have no idea.”
Fern leans in. “Come here, and I’ll tell you a secret. But you have to promise not to tell anyone else. It’s useful to have a secret room, isn’t it?”
I nod eagerly.
“This one isn’t exactly secret, but it’s mostly Quinn’s, and if you go in the right way, you’ll know exactly why they can’t see you.”
“Ah. Got it. Okay, hook a girl up.”
A minute later I’m heading upstairs armed with a bottle of juice and a large blueberry muffin crowned with thick crystals of sugar.
That’ll do.
The hallway outside this bar is an almost-portal, according to Fern, with doorways to private rooms and a small entrance almost hidden that takes you to one of the least expected rooms here — a dance studio. Apparently before the Montavio brothers bought this place and fashioned it into an exclusive, members-only club, it contained several establishments, including a dance studio.
I open the door and smile. It’s gorgeous in here. And definitely secluded. I’m under no illusion that I’m completely off the radar by any stretch, but I’ll be able to hear footsteps if anyone actually makes an effort to track me down.
I check my phone. The only person I want to find me isn’t beating down the door, so I’m good.
I nestle in a quiet corner of the studio, sitting cross-legged in front of a mirror. I give myself a little wave, then a reluctant high five. I’ve heard that studies have shown giving your reflection a high five actually increases your ability to be productive, but who knows.
It’s fun.
I bite into the muffin and thank my stars my sister’s so good in the kitchen. Delicious. Yummy. I swig down some juice and when I’ve had enough sustenance, I open my phone.
I hit the state of flow I fall into when I’m working, that place suspended in time when you become unaware of the clock or your surroundings, you’re so submersed in creating. It’s an art to record just the right inflection of your voice, to speak just the right words. I stare into the camera and begin to tell my story.
My eyes grow heavy. My words grow slurred from exhaustion, and I start losing track of what I’m saying.
It’s warm in here. How much did I actually sleep last night? I lean my head on my arms, wiped out after the events of the past few days, and I fall into a deep sleep. It’s been so tiring, and God, the thoughts that have resurfaced have the power to absolutely knock me on my ass.
“What the fuck are you doing up here?”
I sit up abruptly and realize the room is dark and stifling. I blink rapidly, trying to get my bearings. Where am I?
When my eyes finally adjust, Timeo is standing against the doorframe. Backlit as he is by the light in the hall, I’m unable to see his darkened face but there is no mistaking his voice and stance.
“What?” I ask. “What’s the problem?”
“What’s the fucking problem?” Timeo asks, his voice tight with fury. What the hell?
He stalks across the glossy studio dance floor and prowls right up to me. I try to get to my feet, but they’ve fallen asleep.