Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 164705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 824(@200wpm)___ 659(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 824(@200wpm)___ 659(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
“You should get her back before some Hollywood hot shot with a bank account fatter than yours wins her over.”
“First – no one west of the Mississippi has a bank account fatter than mine.” I rubbed my jaw, forcing myself not to entertain Seb’s goading. “And second – I don’t need to get her back. She’s still mine.”
“She might not want you anymore,” he pointed out. “A lot can happen in twenty-eight days.”
I snorted. “Is this supposed to make me feel better?”
“Maybe. You’re drunk, so I figured it’s worth a shot.”
“You’re a terrible therapist, Seb.”
“From all the terrible therapy you forced on me. It’s called osmosis.”
But I accepted his therapy for what it was. A fragile bridge. A rare offering from a man who could barely see past his own tragedy, let alone someone else’s.
I turned to face him, leaning against the back rest. “You know what this means, right? That I’ll be in Los Angeles most days.”
My mind raced with all the logistics. The Grand Regent headquarters belonged here. I didn’t know how I’d shift my work schedule around, but I’d find a way to stay by Briar’s side. Especially if Dad could help me out, assuming he managed to stay functional this time around.
“Just …” Sebastian’s breathing slowed. Each inhale seemed to drag out of him. “Come back for Days of Our Lives. I meant it when I said I’m not giving you a recap, asshole.”
Chapter Ninety-Six
Oliver
Trial Day Twenty-Nine.
I woke up with a vengeance, determined to make it to the West Coast before my girlfriend returned from her work trip tomorrow. The plane awaited me on the tarmac, all fueled up and ready to go.
Then, it all went sideways.
The second I stepped out of my door, with every intention of hopping on my jet and chasing down the love of my life, a pair of hands grabbed me from behind. They jerked me back, knocking my phone out of my hand. It skidded across the motor court.
Before I could react, a scratchy black hood swooped over my head.
I stumbled as my vision went dark. “What the hell?” My bag hit the ground with a dull thud as I struggled against the hold. “Romeo? Zach? This reeks of you shitheads.”
I’d long since turned off my phone, thanks to their constant harassment. In the past month, they’d taken to calling me like a pair of telemarketers who couldn’t catch a hint, leaving messages about the joys of marriage, my yacht, and other nonsense.
Another set of hands circled my wrists and bound them together with what could only be zip ties.
I let my friends haul me to a Cheeto-scented van, figuring I’d burn less time if I didn’t fight them. “Seriously, guys?”
They tossed me into the back like a sack of potatoes, ignoring my words.
“Tiger King secured.” Zach – and I knew it was him because that fucker only knew how to talk in the same monotonous rumble – threw my overnight bag into my gut and slammed the door behind him.
I tried to find a comfortable position in the trunk but ended up faceplanting into random sharp objects. “Is this a joke?” If so, it sucked, and I needed new friends with better senses of humor.
“Only if you think your life falling apart is funny.” That came from Romeo as the engine roared to life. “Stay still, or I can’t guarantee your face remains intact.”
The van squeaked to a halt, probably at a light. Someone honked twice. Through the rough material over my head, I could make out the faintest shapes. Romeo sat behind the steering wheel while Zach sprawled on the passenger seat, scrolling through his phone.
We screeched to another halt at a light.
I rolled from one side of the cabin to the other, groaning at the impact. “Where the hell did you guys get this van?”
The thing was ancient. It creaked every time one of us moved a centimeter and smelled like it survived two world wars, Woodstock, and eleven seasons of The Walking Dead.
“Bought it off an Uber driver.” Zach yawned, tossing something into the backseat. A ski mask, maybe? “Don’t forget to five star.”
“I thought you were allergic to manual labor.”
“I make exceptions for kidnapping.”
The van careened to another sharp stop. For someone with vast experience in driving tanks, Romeo drove cars like a cat chasing a laser pointer.
“For fuck’s sake.” I hit my head on something hard. “Is this really necessary?”
“Considering you’re two shots away from a public meltdown, yes.” Romeo snorted, flicking on the turn signal. “Face it. You need us.”
“Speak for yourself. You literally lasted three days before you ran to Georgia to find your wife with your tail tucked between your legs.”
“True.” Zach nodded, as if what he’d done to that poor mango during his separation from Farrow never leaked to us. “That was arguably more pathetic than Oliver.”