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“And you’re going to stay—where is it again? Irish Fields? With no security?”
“Iris Meadows, and no security. I want to lie low.”
“You’re Tate Fucking Brooks. People are going to recognize you, even in Bumfuck Nowhere.”
My patience wears paper thin. “The people here are discreet.” It’s the out-of-towners I need to worry about, and with it being peak tourist season, staying under the radar is going to be difficult. “Just see what you can do. Please.”
He sighs. I’d feel sorry for him if he wasn’t such a kiss ass. I get he has a job to do, but lately I think all he sees is a big pile of cash when he looks at me; not a human being. “They’re gonna want you to agree to the international tour when we discuss your new contract. Probably a third album.”
“Funny how you know that without speaking to them.” It’s what he wants them to ask for, because it’ll mean a nice fat payout for him.
“You still owe us the second album.” He releases a sigh. “I can only hold them off until the fall. After that, you’re at risk of breaching your contract.”
“How terrible,” I reply sardonically.
“What was that?”
“Nothing, Howie.”
The album is written, but I have no plans to share it with the world. Or to negotiate a second contract.
The sound of the front door opening echoes through the house. Wifey is home. “I need to go. Call me if you have good news, otherwise I’m unreachable for the next six weeks.”
“It doesn’t work like th—”
I hang up.
There’s another bang above me, and I glance up at the ceiling. What is she doing?
My phone vibrates, and I think it’s Howard, but then I see my mom’s name flash. Nope. Not today. I spoke to her briefly before my flight, letting her know I was alive, though from her pissed-off tone, she was ready to finish the job.
She’s been calling me nonstop, and while I appreciate her calling Talia, I suspect she wants to discuss more than just my health. When I first left town, my mother was angry. She couldn’t understand it. She and Talia were close, and it wouldn’t surprise me if my mother took her side in the matter. Thankfully, we rarely discuss my imploding marriage.
One Brooks woman at a time.
When I hear footsteps descending the stairs, I jump to my feet and bolt toward the front door, catching Talia just as she reaches for the door handle.
“I thought you were working late.”
“Plans change.” She doesn’t face me.
“Where are you going?”
“Out.”
“Out where?”
“Just out.”
“With whom?”
She releases a burst of air like a tiny fire-breathing dragon. I love it. She’s been too nice for my liking. I need her heat. Her anger. Some other emotion than indifference, because then at least it shows she still cares. Finally, she turns. “Can I help you with something?”
I allow my gaze to sweep down her body. Big mistake. She’s in one of those short dresses with the flowy sleeves and a neckline that makes my mouth water with the way it accentuates the pillowy softness of her breasts. Is this some form of warfare tactic? Because it’s working.
“Maybe I can come with you? We haven’t spoken much since I came home.” I offer her a goofy grin, the one that usually makes her giggle. “And I’m feeling much better. Thank you, Doctor Talia.”
Nothing. Crickets. Damn, I miss her laugh.
