AllFreeNovel
Share Us
She only gives me a playful nudge before Zedd reaches us.
“Hello, Addy,” Zedd’s voice is a rich tenor. His dark brown eyes warm over me. I already suspect he’s interested. I should feel flattered. My heart should be racing, and my palms sweaty. But I feel . . . nothing.
Kira hovers while I smile politely and attempt to make small talk with Zedd. He’s surprisingly easy to talk to, and within minutes I find myself starting to relax—until he asks, “So you’re coming to Chicago too, aren’t you?”
“Chicago?” I repeat, not quite following.
“Yeah, Chicago. The launch party this weekend.”
Chicago. The city where my mother and I lived until she was shot twenty-four times.
Everything I learned today comes rushing back.
The gruesome attack.
The oppressive silence when I asked if my original birth certificate bore another name.
Bile rises up my throat, and I take a gulp of my drink to wash it down.
Bad move.
The cocktail, which should taste like lime and mint, lingers dangerously close to stale urine territory. Fighting nausea, I put my glass on the closest surface.
“Addy’s coming to Chicago,” Zedd tells someone behind him.
I’m already recoiling and shaking my head when Kira interjects.
“Zedd, Resin Club is actually in Evanston.”
“Same thing,” Zedd shrugs. “It’s twenty minutes away from downtown Chicago. So, Addy, We’ll be taking my new tour bus.”
My mind scrambles for an excuse. “I . . . uh, have to work the day after.”
“You work on a Sunday?”
Shit. “Yep,” I say, feeling Kira tense beside me at my blatant lie.
“What do you do, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Um . . . forensics,” I manage, taking deep breaths to calm my roiling stomach. My voice sounds strained even to my own ears. “I do forensics. I’m a forensic analyst,” I repeat, just because I need to sound like a complete idiot.
Mortified at my blunder, I excuse myself and make my way to the terrace.
As I move through the crowd, desperate for air, I plaster on a strained smile, trying to appear enthusiastic. But my dad’s and Ms. Ida’s words twist like knives in my stomach, and the urge to vomit grows stronger.
Shit, I should have gone straight to the bathroom, not the terrace.
Once outside, I take deep gulps of air and lean against the frosted glass railing. Below, Boston stretches out in all its afternoon glory; cars crawl along the streets like metallic beetles, their horns muted from up here. I wrap my arms around myself—a self-soothing act that feels hollow when what I really need are answers.
A soft touch on my elbow makes me jump. It’s Zedd.
“You okay?” he asks, genuine concern on his handsome face. “You seemed a bit off just now.”
“No, I’m good. I just needed a bit of air, I guess.”
He hands me a drink—another concoction that looks like liquid gold. I accept it out of politeness and pretend to sip. My stomach feels like a washing machine on high spin, and the earlier drink nearly had me losing my lunch all over the living room floor. The last thing I need is an encore of today’s office disaster.
Zedd flashes a dazzling smile that I’m sure sends women weak in the knees. “I take it, loud music,” he gestures toward the party raging in the living room, “isn’t really your scene, is it?”
