Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 114223 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114223 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Memories. Sweet, precious memories.
Memories I was so afraid I was going to forget, I’d had to put them somewhere safe. Somewhere that was only mine.
Memories I was so afraid to remember, I’d hidden them in a shoebox. On a cupboard. Somewhere I couldn’t reach easily, because going there was toxic. I’d never have them back. They were gone.
“Tell me he didn’t do anything stupid…” I said slowly, hysteria gripping my throat. Craig was not allowed to leave the house. I didn’t even want to know what the consequences would be if he had.
“He did.” She burst into tears, just as Alex walked out of the shower, wearing nothing but a towel and a smirk. His dark hair was dripping, just like it did in his gigs, and my lower belly tightened, despite the fact that my heart and mind were an ocean away, in America. He shot me a questioning glare, to which I replied by turning my back to him so he couldn’t see me at my weakest. With my lip trembling and my nose aching like I’d been punched.
“Where?” I cleared my throat, shooting my gaze to the ceiling, steadying my voice. “Where did he go?” I repeated. “Do you know? And when did he leave?”
Nat was about to answer me when Alex snatched the cell phone from my hand and put it to his ear. He walked toward the master bathroom of the suite, and I jumped up immediately, stalking after him. The jerk was fast. It was those damn long legs. He could outrun me while crawling.
“Natasha, I want you to call my PA in Los Angeles. He’ll help track him down.” Alex jumped into the conversation like he’d been a part of it all along, which made my simmering blood chill a little in my veins. “Yeah, I’m sure. I’ve got private investigators to last for a decade in Hollywood and enough connections with the LAPD to take a shit directly on the booker’s desk and still get out of there unharmed.” He stopped by the bathroom door, his eyes unblinking. When I halfheartedly went for the phone, throwing my arms in the air to try to grab it, he plastered his palm over my forehead and pushed me away, making us look like a cartoon where the giant is blocking the little mouse, who is running aimlessly in the same spot. Even though we were physically comical, there was nothing funny about the way he made me feel. He wanted to help, and right now, I knew better than to refuse him. He owed me absolutely nothing. I’d betrayed him by not telling him about Fallon and Will and about the guys’ plan with his leaked photos, and all he’d done so far was bail out, and now search, for my brother.
“Write it down,” Alex ordered, giving her a cell phone number, then a code you needed to dial to put you through the line. Alex never gave his number out, and, normally, he didn’t need to. Blake and the others were always around. It was weird to think it was just Alex and me now, and even weirder to imagine he’d be actively working for something. Something to do with me.
“Text me when he finds him,” Alex added, pressing my phone between his shoulder and ear and lighting up a cigarette. He was commanding and forbidding, his expression so distant, you wouldn’t think he was dealing with feelings. And this, perhaps, was the part of him that would be my ruin. He was kind without being kind to me. I parked my waist against the nearby closet facing the bathroom and watched him as he killed the line and tossed my phone across the room and onto the mattress. He swiveled, pointing his cancer stick at me.
“Get dressed.”
I shook my head, watching him from under my lashes. “You can’t go out. You’re a superstar, remember?”
“I’m also a goddamn person. Two bodyguards are on their way here.”
“Bodyguards?” My spine straightened on cue. “You hate bodyguards.” I didn’t even have to ask him to know that it was true. I saw the way he’d reacted every time one or two had had to tag along throughout the tour. Apparently, Alex Winslow was one of the rare celebrities who didn’t have full-time bodyguards on their payroll. He just hated being babied. And I was his babysitter. The fact he was nice to me at all was a blessing. He sauntered past me, grabbed his skinny jeans, and black muscle T-shirt, throwing his leather jacket on top, already lacing his army boots.
“Hey, ho. Let’s go.”
“I didn’t peg you for a Ramones fan,” I said.
Alex was the greatest music snob of all time. Especially considering he’d sinned by making sweet, Ed-Sheeran, let-me-hold-you-in-my-arms music at some point in his career. The glint in his eyes told me I was right.