AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Chapter Twenty-Six
The days were blending together.Nate went back to his keep-Lilly-busy strategy. By the end of Tuesday, I felt like some type of accountant—forensic, maybe? Who knows. Thank goodness I like numbers. He made me go over Brooks and Payton’s financial statements. All of them.
After I had left California, Nate uploaded every shred of paper from the vineyard to his servers, and I probably went through more than half a decade of Altman-Hamlin personal expenses. It gave me insight into my biological father's habits, but that was pretty much the extent of it. Besides the outgoing large—six-figure—amount coming from the family account and the smaller—five-figure—ones going out from Brooks’s, everything was normal. I began to suspect that Nate was simply trying to keep me occupied, which worked during the daytime. At night, not so much.
My sleep was shit, and when I did manage to doze off, I would wake up before the sun was up, my mind instantly spiraling. I’d been replaying the previous months in my head over and over. Not just since I started remembering, but before. Rhys has always put me first. After years of protecting his parents’ secrets, I forced him to keep mine. He had to isolate himself from his best friend because of me. The more my mind ran with it, the deeper the pit in my stomach became.
I couldn't fault Rhys if he wanted to continue the break indefinitely.
Grabbing my phone almost hourly, I started typing several text messages to him but deleted them all. I promised my brother I’d adhere to the radio silence, as he phrased it, and give Rhys the space he asked for. What was Rhys doing right now? Instead, I spent the nights tearing the place apart for more clues while Nate was busy following the money trail. Hank and Margot kept him equally busy, and he could only work on our leads when they slept. Whenever I saw him, the circles under his eyes became more pronounced. I didn’t like it.
Tuesday evening, George informed me over dinner that he’d be gone most of the next morning to prepare for his trip north to meet Lakatos. He’d be leaving around five in the morning to meet someone (who the hell meets that early—I probably don’t want to know) and then run errands. He’d be back after lunch to finish packing.
This would be the first time I was alone in the mansion. At the thought, my pulse immediately sped up. I was safe here, but the emptiness of the ginormous house—even though George was still in front of me—made my stomach churn.
What was my gut trying to tell me?
On Wednesday,I wake up at the crack of dawn. Surprise, surprise. Not.
I glance at the clock; it's not even six yet. George is already gone. My hands clench around the comforter. I'm alone. I slept about three hours after spending the night unsuccessfully digging through more storage bins in the basement. My eyes are burning, and even the eyedrops George handed me are not helping.
I've been here for a week, and with no specific task for today, the walls are closing in. I press my palm to my chest, but my lungs constrict even more. I need to get out of here. NOW!
That’s how I end up parked, before eight—in my new, white G-Wagon—in front of Flakes, a small café the search engine spit out when I looked for a place to get tea. Not that the twenty-three flavors of assorted black teas my brother stocked the kitchen with weren't enough. I simply needed a destination—a lame excuse to leave the property. Driving here, I marveled at how the streets were crowded like downtown Westbridge during Black Friday. Los Angeles is so different from everything I am used to; it’s hard to wrap my head around it.
Sitting in the car, I can't bring myself to get out. "Nothing to Lose But You" by Three Days Grace plays through the speakers, and the outside becomes blurry. I haven't cried since Monday morning, but the lyrics hit deep, and a sob escapes me. I sink low in my seat, wrapping my arms around myself, and let the tears fall.
After the song finishes, it takes me over fifteen minutes before I can force myself to open the driver's side door. My face is dry, and I check in the rearview mirror that I don't look too much of a mess. My brother's order to remain inside the house at all times replays in my head. He's so going to kill me when he finds out. And he will find out; he's Nate Hamlin. Maybe I should go back. I pull on the handle to close the gap again, but before the lock latches, I pause. I need this, or I will go crazy. Crazier. Or I’ll cave and end up calling Rhys. I push the door back open.
The street is not two miles from the ostentatious neighborhood of mansions where I've been hiding. The sidewalk is busy, people on their way to wherever, passing the fancy boutiques, restaurants, and cafés lining both sides. Even if Turner were to suddenly show up, he couldn't do anything without attracting attention. And I would make sure to bring attention to myself. A woman in a business suit passes and holds my gaze. A new thought slams into me: what if someone recognizes me? My one hand that's on the steering wheel tightens, and I scan the faces passing in front of my car. Are they looking at me longer than usual?
Shit. What am I doing?
I release the door handle and steering wheel to cover my face and take one deep breath. No one is looking for me here. I'll be okay. Pulling down the baseball hat I found in one of the many bins, I climb out of the Mercedes. I parked close to the entrance of Flakes and am inside within less than twenty feet. My shoulders relax instantly.
Scanning the inside, I miss Magnolia's. This place is nothing like it. Where Magnolia's is cozy and inviting, Flakes looks like a spaceship stuffed with junkyard scraps. A blindingly polished gray concrete floor, shiny silver high-top metal tables, white metal bar stools, white napkin holders on each table—also metal. The artwork on the walls consists of abstract photographs. The random shapes—whatever the objects in front of the lens were—are either too close, too blurry, or too over-exposed. Between the tables are life-sized—surprise, surprise—metal sculptures made out of random...well, junkyard crap. I almost turn around and walk back out but then stop myself. I'm here for a change of scenery and tea. Who cares what the ambience is like? Stepping up to the counter, I scan the menu hanging on the wall behind it. The pastries in the display look mouthwatering, and I order my usual tea and add a chocolate chip scone to it, because why not?
Keeping my face hidden behind a curtain of my hair and the low-hanging hat, I move to the side. I wait for the barista to pour water over the teabag and place my treat on a plate. She pushes both toward me with a smile, and I reach for them. I stifle the sigh of relief when I have my order in front of me and no one has called out my name or pointed a finger at me. In my current state of paranoia, I expected to either have someone jump up, yelling, "It's Lilly McGuire," or worse, Turner himself serving me my beverage.
Guess I’m losing it no matter what or where I am.
I’ve just lifted the plate and mug when a tall, hard body slams into me from the side. My arms jerk upward, sending my food and drink flying, and I hear the impact of the plate and mug several feet away as I go down myself. I manage to brace the fall somewhat, but the same hard body lands on top of me, and all the air gets expelled from my lungs.
Ouch.
My initial panic when I hit the ground is replaced by confusion and...annoyance. The dude—now sprawled out on me with his head somewhere in my armpit region—begins to laugh like a hyena on crack.
What the hell?
He is heavy, and all I see is his shaggy blond hair. It looks like it was styled at one point, but now the gelled strands stick out at all angles. When he doesn't move and just keeps cackling, I push on his shoulders. "Hey, asshole, get off of me!"
Heat surges through me, and the annoyance quickly morphs into anger. People are staring. So much for keeping a low profile.
Footsteps come from behind us, and a female voice shouts, "Jesus-fucking-Christ! Hudson, what the fuck! I left you for two minutes to pee!"
Hudson’sdead weight gets dragged off of me, and my lungs sigh in relief. From my position—still on the floor—I notice he can barely stand. Swaying, he leans against the bar and closes his eyes, a green tint to his skin. A hand appears in my vision, and I glance up at the girl attached to it. She is gorgeous in an innocent kind of way. Her long, chestnut hair hangs wavy over her shoulders. Her face is bare of makeup, and she is dressed in a black jogger and soft-pink V-neck tee.
"Shit. I'm so sorry. I will replace whatever my dumbass brother just ruined for you." She throws a glare to the side that would make Denielle proud. Hudson, aka her brother, is slouching with his elbow on the counter, staring at nothing, and I get my first full visual of him. He’s gorgeous. He's tall, probably around Rhys's 6' 1, bronze skin, the bluest eyes I've ever seen, and high, sculpted cheekbones. His washed-out designer jeans hang low on his hips, and his black dress shirt could use a wash and an iron. But despite him being a complete mess, almost every female in this place ogles him.
