Chapter Nine
Liam is not a morning person. I’m not much of one myself, but I function better in the morning than he does.
I feel little regret when I arise early after sleeping like shit, shower, dress, and ease the front door shut behind me before five the next morning, and Liam’s still asleep on the sofa.
If he didn’t set his alarm, that’s his problem, not mine.
Not today.
Not until he’s back in my good graces.
I left the bedroom door standing open so he knows I’m not in there and he can get his clothes and take his shower.
I stop by a coffee shop the next block over for coffee and realize I can’t eat anything yet. My stomach’s a tight knot.
One thing I did this morning was take the hideaway door key off Liam’s keyring and put it on my own. I’ll return it to him later today.
And I still have Liam’s burner. Ward followed instructions last night and texted me good-night.
I catch a cab to a twenty-four-hour superstore and pick up two burners, among other things. You never know when you’ll need a spare. Another cab ride to work, where I’m definitely early, but that’s okay. It gives me some needed time to set one of the phones up, including installing the same secure app Liam and Ward have been using on their burners for calls and texting.
Probably the only damn smart thing the two of them did in this whole mess.
The other burner, I lock it in my desk, for now. Never hurts to have an extra on hand.
When I receive a good-morning text from Ward fifteen minutes later, I reply with the new number and a terse command.
Repeat morning text to this number. From now on, text me on that number. I will return this phone to him later today. He’ll let you know when he has it.
I wait, wondering how long it will take Ward to reply. It surprises me when it’s only seconds later I have a text on the burner.
Good morning, Sir.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
Time for this boy to be trained by me.
Good morning, boy. Good boy. See you later, as we discussed.
I wait again and he doesn’t disappoint. Less than a minute later, he replies.
Yes, Sir. Noon.
Excellent. He didn’t forget or back out.
I mean, this is not me getting my hopes up.
Not at all.
I wait until eight to text Liam’s personal cell. Either he’s at work, or he’s about to be awakened and he’ll panic that he’s now late.
Noon. Hideaway. I have the key. You will get it back then, and other phone.
He responds ten minutes later with a thumbs-up emoji. Which is about to piss me off when he immediately follows it with several hearts of various colors, and the kiss emoji.
That’s his shorthand forI love you.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t love him. That’s part of the problem—I do love the fucking doofus.
