Ten Days of Perfect (November Blue #1)

“I’m set, Bill, but thanks.” I chanced rolling my eyes, not knowing if it would set him off.

“Hey Bill, what’s up?” A young man with a much calmer voice and sunnier disposition bounded beside Bill, slapping him on the back.

He was significantly shorter than Bill, and far less threatening looking. He had short bouncy blonde curls that gave me some sort of comfort.

“This gorgeous lady, here, is the grant writer for The Hope Foundation, and came here on Bo’s arm tonight,” Bill sneered. Sneered.

Chills exploded up my spine and bile bubbled in my throat as I forced myself to believe I was hallucinating the reason why Bill gave me such bad feeling.

“If she came with Bo, Bro, you better keep your hands off,” his friend said in an eerily calming tone that inexplicably also gave me a bad feeling.

“Don’t be such a *, dude, like I’d piss Bo off in here.” Bill gestured with his hands.

An auditory memory pulsed through my ears; Max, just get in the truck if you’re going to be a useless *.

No, it couldn’t be.

I turned one more time so my back was to Bo, but I was no longer pinned against the bar.

“Take it easy, Bill, just trying to save your hide,” his friend elbowed him playfully in the ribs.

He’ll be here Bill, just take it easy.

Impossible.

Flashes of the night at the garage almost two weeks ago whipped wildly through my head; changing frames with each thump of the bass from the speakers. Bill sounded identical to the violent Bill from behind the garage-all that was missing was his calmer sidekick, Max.

Clearly I’d had too much to drink and my mind was playing tricks on me. Bill’s imposing stature and snarling voice set off warning bells in my head, but he was a creepy looking guy. I shook my head in an attempt to think rationally.

“Um, sorry, we haven’t been introduced.” I pointed my eyes to Bill’s friend.

“This guy,” Bill interjected, “works with us at DROP, too. He’s the community educator.”

“Oh, so you must be Tristan MacMillian?” I stuck out my hand as the bass from the stereo volleyed for position in my head over my heartbeat.

“Tristan’s my dad’s name,” he smiled as he stuck out his hand, “my friends call me Max.”

Run.





Chapter Twenty-Three

Are you crazy? Run!

My brain shouted to my frozen body as terror took over. It tasted like cayenne infused wine; it was disorienting and pulled beads of sweat to the surface of my forehead. I took one prey-like step back as my senses scrambled. In the last twenty minutes my brain received two very important pieces of information; one, Bill Holder is blackmailing Bo, two, the two men in front of me were most definitely the “Bill and Max” duo from the garage nearly two weeks ago.

“Hey, you ok?” Max reached out for my arm and I reflexively flinched back.

“I, uh, just need to get some air. I’ve had a lot to drink.” My eyes moved from Max’s to Bill’s, and back again.

Turning my head to the dance floor, I finally caught Bo’s sight. He put his hand on Ainsley’s shoulder, mumbled something, and tore through the crowd toward me.

“Ember?” Bo gripped his hand on my sweat-soaked back.

“Get me out of here, now!” I raced toward the exit, not looking back.

Bo was just a second behind me as I sucked the cool, calming air in to my lungs outside McCarthy’s.

“What the hell happened? Ainsley just-”

“This isn’t about Ainsley, Bo. Those - those guys, Bill . . . and Max . . .” My erratic breathing was doing nothing to help my voice.

Bo grasped my shoulders and squared me to him, “They what, Ember? Did they say anything to you?” His fingers pressed in deep urgency against my skin.

“No. Those fucking guys were the ones, the ones behind the garage that I dropped my car off at two weeks ago. Why the fuck were they in Barnstable? Are they blackmailing other people?” I spewed all at once.

I became more aware of the sound of my breathing in the silent night. My eyes darted around, noting the desertion around Bo and me.

“I don’t think so, Ember.” Bo looked toward the door in growing fear.

“Well I’ve got news for you, they beat the hell out of some guy named Spike, and I-”

“What the fuck did you do, Cavanaugh?” the all-too familiar sneer followed us out to the sidewalk.

“Bill, not now.” Bo stood in front of me so I wasn’t in the line of verbal fire.

“She knows something, Golden Boy, or she wouldn’t have called you by your high school football name - no one calls you that anymore.”

Bo’s back stiffened as Bill’s words hammered incoherently in to my head.

“Wait . . .” I stepped back slowly, dragging my toes with each step.

Bo turned to me and his pain-seared face nearly knocked me over.

“S-spike, is your nickname?” My head swirled as blackness overtook my peripheral vision.