* * *
Text from Zach:Pierce, just checking in to see if you’re okay. A hand injury, that's bad luck, mate. Let me know if there's anything I can do to help you from this end.
Text to Zach:As a matter of fact, there IS something you can do. You pack, I’ll arrange for a jet. I cracked the ending, but my right hand is completely useless, and at the moment I have no one else I can trust. Just sending this text has taken me twenty minutes of typing with my left hand.
Text from Zach:Unfortunately, there's no way I can leave town right now. Kennedy and I are in a couple’s ballroom dance class for the next ten weeks. If I duck out now, I’ll never hear the end of it. Sorry, old chap.
* * *
Ballroom dancing? Does he not realize the entire fate of the people of Qadeathas is riding on this?
I stand and walk to the window to contemplate my fate, which may or may not include cliff-diving to my doom should I not sort out a suitable option. Honestly, it would be better to be dead than be a failure in my family. Well, not if you’re Leo. If you’re mummy’s little cherub, you can fail all you want and still get showered with affection, but me, not so much. I’ve written one of the greatest selling series of all time (just behind Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, and that awful Fifty Shades of Shite series), and yet, my parental figures remain unimpressed. “Have you wrapped up your little book yet?”Grrr.
Setting all that aside, I have to come up with a suitable response to Kent the you-know-what Cromwell, not to mention actually finish the damn book. I’ve got at least three hundred pages to go, no way to type efficiently, no one I can trust to keep the ending a secret, and no idea what to do.
Shit. Shit. Shit. How the fuck do I get out of this?
“Pierce? Are you all right?” Emma asks, standing at the door with the cooler that now has me reacting like a Pavlovian dog. “I knocked but you didn’t answer so I got a bit worried.”
“I was deep in thought. Come in, please.” I smile, feeling somehow more relaxed at the sight of her lovely face.
“I thought maybe you’d taken more of those blue pills. They really knocked you on your arse.” She smiles as she crosses the room. “How’s your hand? And your leg?”
“Fine. No pain at all really.” She must know that’s a man lie, right? Yes, she does. I can tell by the smirk.
“I just can’t believe you broke your own thumb. You must pack one hell of a punch.” She opens the cooler and starts setting out my breakfast. “I thought I’d make you a one-handed meal. Nothing that requires a steak knife or seafood crackers.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you. Thank you, Emma,” I say, trying not to limp as I walk over to the table. “What’s on the menu today?”
“Sweet plantain hash and eggs, fresh banana cake, and Benavente cornmeal porridge.”
“It looks delicious.” I suddenly realize I’m staring at her, not the food, and my cheeks heat up. Clearing my throat, I glance down at the table, trying to regain my composure. When I look at Emma again, she’s busying herself pouring a steaming cup of coffee for me, and if I’m not mistaken, she’s blushing a little too.
“I thought you’d need a hearty breakfast after everything you’ve been through.” Placing the carafe on the table, she looks up at me. “And everything you’ve got to deal with.”
“Speaking of things I need to deal with, I owe you yet another apology. I’m not sure if you happened to read any of that garbage on the Internet last night or this morning, but apparently, some arse filmed us together and the brilliant folks in the media did what they do best—jump to conclusions without any proof.” I jam my good hand into the front pocket of my chinos, feeling like an awkward fool. “Apparently, they think we’re a couple and I haven’t had time to set the record straight.”
“Oh, I saw it, yes,” she answers. “But don’t worry, I don’t mind as much as you might think about being mistaken for a swimsuit model.”
“I’m glad. Some women would find that highly offensive.”
“Would they?” she asks, looking skeptical. “Or would they just pretend?”
“Good question,” I say, grinning at her quick wit. “So, um, those pain meds were a little on the strong side and I have found myself with some holes in my recollection of our trip back from the hospital.”
Her eyes grow wide for just a millisecond, she blinks quickly, then replaces her smile with a poker face. “Pretty dull really. You mainly slept.”
Shit. She’s definitely lying. “Really? You’re sure I didn’t embarrass myself somehow? I seem to recall…singing.”
“Oh, that was the radio,” she says, waving one hand. “Seriously, you were fine. Nothing strange or otherwise embarrassing.”
“Why do I feel like you’re holding out on me?”
Giving me a half grin, she says, “Okay, you may have sung a little Neil Diamond, but you’re very good, really. And don’t worry. Your secret talent is safe with me. I won’t mention last night’s concert to a soul.”
“Concert?” Oh, bugger. “That sounds like more than a little singing.”
Emma finally lets herself laugh at whatever memory I’ve created for her, then says, “It was fine, really. Very fun actually. I may have even sung along. And think of it this way: at least you’re a very nice sort when you’re drugged out of your mind. Some people turn very nasty.”
