Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 96978 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96978 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
I shake my head at what a fucking mess last night was. Bad timing all around, I think, as I splash cold water on my face, then brush my teeth.
I’m disappointed in myself, it’s rare that I lose my temper. Screw it, no one’s perfect.
I grab the Visine and dump a couple drops in each eye. The burn takes care of any of my alcohol brain fog. Probably should call Rafe and have him get our lawyer to pay this cry baby off, that’s what he wants anyway.
It’s what they all want.
Money.
Whatever, I can take ten minutes out of my life to talk to the PD. Then I’ll go pick Courtney up myself, take her to The Griddle Cafe and we can get some hangover food. I walk out into my bedroom, tossing off my t-shirt for another black one.
“Mr. Adams?” The voice and knocking on the door is back, this time sounding concerned.
I sniff, check my jeans pockets for my phone, but all I have is my key fob. Where the hell is my phone?
“Donnie.” I nod at him as I open the door, walking past him and down the stairs where two cops in suits stand in the foyer.
“Officers?”
“Detectives.” The tall one corrects me, and I arch a brow.
“I’m Detective Sanders, and this is my partner, Detective Holter.” He motions to the short man next to him.
“Mr. Marshall Adams, we need to ask you some questions?” His voice echoes around my large room as my eyes go from one to the other.
“Sure. Coffee?” I motion for them to follow me into my kitchen, ignoring my house that’s in desperate need of a cleaning crew.
Fucking Nuke.
“I’m assuming I don’t need my lawyer?” Looking over my shoulder at them as they take in my trashed house.
“That’s up to you. We’re here to ask questions about last night. Where were you?” He clears his throat. “Also, we need to see all your security recordings. We’re hoping you just hand them over and we don’t have to get a judge involved.”
I stop and turn. “What did you say?” Crossing my arms to look at him. He’s probably my age, but that’s where the similarities stop.
“Recordings, we need them.”
“From last night?” I cock my head, then turn and move over to my cabinets for a mug.
“Yes. Where were you—”
Pouring a cup of coffee, I admit, “I was here.” I stop him from repeating the question. “Look, I don’t mind you seeing my footage, I have nothing to hide.”
“Good, that’s good. So, what time did this party start yesterday?”
“My drummer and girlfriend apparently had some people over. I don’t know what time it started as I was in a meeting.”
“Where?”
“Excuse me?”
“We need to know your whereabouts.” Detective Sandler straightens, like he’s trying to appear larger than he really is.
“Yeah, no. I came home around six, and promptly had my security kick everyone out.” Grabbing the pot of coffee, I offer, “You want a cup?” I look over at them as they both stare at me, then at each other.
“Was a Rachel Stewart at the party yesterday?” And the hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I finish pouring myself a cup.
“Yes.”
“And did you have an altercation with her?” The shorter one steps forward as I lean my hip on my island counter.
“Yeah. I asked her to leave,” I say, looking him right in the eye because where exactly is this going?
“And then you got into an argument with Ms. Courtney Falcon and assaulted this man? A Joe Tanker?” He brings his phone out and plays a pretty clear video of me punching the guy last night.
“My lawyer will deal with him.” Bringing the coffee to my lips, I look at them like is there anything else.
“Mr. Adams, are you currently under the influence of any drugs, prescription, or illegal?” Slowly I bring the mug down as I clear my throat, because something is wrong. This is way more than me breaking that guy’s nose. “You seem pretty agitated and angry in the videos we have seen so far.” He pockets his phone and looks at me.
“See, these types of questions make me feel as though my lawyer should be here.” My eyes narrow on them.
“So, you refuse to answer?” the short one snips. It’s always the short ones.
“Why do you want my footage? Seems like the Internet is full of all the fun that happened last night.” I cock my head to watch both of them.
“Rachel Stewart went to the hospital this morning. Her bloodwork showed large amounts of Rohypnol. She also had a rape kit done on her, where it showed sexual assault had happened, around six to eight hours ago.”
And suddenly it all falls into place. Strangely, I’m not even surprised at what she’s done.
“That’s unfortunate, she is my girlfriend’s PR woman.” Giving nothing away, I keep my voice steady.