Kai’s now asleep. He became more alert and vomited a couple more times, but is otherwise alive. Cal and I discussed how we should approach his relapse and ultimately decided that we’re going to tackle this together. Kai doesn’t need to be holed up in a rehab facility with a bunch of other addicts, isolated from his friends. He’s been there before, and it wasn’t for him. He agreed to see a therapist and promised to talk to us if things get this bad again. We all agreed to keep a closer eye on Kai. I made a promise to myself to always check in with him, even if he puts on his usual happy-go-lucky facade to fool all of us. I stayed a couple of hours longer to make sure that Kai remained alive and then headed back home. Once I was home, I shot a quick text to Raithe.
Riven:Going home tonight? Should I send a search party?
Raithe:Busy. (; Don’t wait up.
That means Raithe met up with the girl he was rambling about after the show. I laugh, wondering how the fuck we’re related. After getting back home, I took a quick shower and jumped in bed, exhausted but restless. I spent that night tossing and turning until sleep claimed me, momentarily dreaming of heroin needles, screaming fans with smiles that were unnaturally wide, and a pretty redhead with my hand around her throat.
? ? ?
Somehow, Monday is already here. I spent all day Sunday checking in on Kai and lining up things for his therapy sessions. He wasn’t super happy about the idea but agreed to it for me, Cal, and Raithe. Kai’s not broken, just buried. He’s another one who won’t allow me to psychoanalyze him. Last night might have been a fucking nightmare, but I believe in Kai. Ihaveto. I know he’ll dig his way out of this, and we’ll be here to help him along the way.
I’m in the gym now, finishing up a boxing match. It’s the easiest way for me to let out my frustration and anger without pulling out a knife and stabbing someone to death. I’m making my way over to the locker room when I hear my phone ring. I don’t recognize the number, but I press accept and put it to my ear.
“Hello?” I say.
“Hi. Is this Mr. Reilly?” shoots out a melodious, but slightly raspy, female voice. I stop walking and pause, barely breathing.
The last time that I heard that voice was when I was pressed up against the woman to whom it belongs.
8
Sloane
“Hello?” I say, again, when the line remains silent.
“Um,” I hear him cough like he’s clearing his throat. “Yes. This is Mr. Rei—Riven. You can call me Riven.”
“Hi, Riven. I’m Sloane Keenan with Obsidian Press. I was calling to see if it would be possible to meet with you for an interview.”
“I … are you one of my students?” he asks, sounding confused … or curious. Maybe a bit of both.
“Um, well. No, not really. I attended several of your lectures on music psychology, and I have a few questions for a piece I’m working on.”
“Oh. Of course.” He pauses again. “I’ll have to check my schedule and get back to you on that. But I’m sure we could set something up. I’d be happy to help. I’ll shoot you a text … or,um, an email if you’d be more comfortable with that.” He almost sounds nervous, and it makes me smile.
“A text is fine. Thank you for your time, Mr. Reilly.” I use his name formally, even though he permitted me to address him by Riven. I don’t want to misconstrue what this is, which is strictly professional. No matter how sexyMr. Reillyis, I have a job to do.
I spent the next hour or so formulating some questions for the meeting. I hope he doesn’t think I’m a complete nut job after hearing my thoughts. I’m twirling my pen between my fingers when my watch alerts me that I have a text message.
Unknown:Sloane, hi. This is Riven Reilly. I’m looking at my calendar now. Would this afternoon work for you?
Sloane:Mr. Reilly, hi. Yes, absolutely. Can you meet me at Books and Brews in Hollowcrest?
Shit. I just realized I have no idea where this guy lives. I save his name in my phone and start typing again to ask if he’d prefer somewhere else when I get an answer back.
Mr. Reilly:Yes, 5 pm?
I check my watch, noting that it’s currently three thirty pm.
Sloane:See you then. Thank you again, Mr. Reilly.
Mr. Reilly:Please, call me Riven.
I don’t respond, but I will not be doing that. First-name basis can only mean trouble, especially when he looks like he does. Nope, I amsonot going there. I refuse to go there, no matter how much my brain keeps trying to play out the professor and his student trope in my head.Ugh, stupid romance books.
“Alex. I’m gonna head out a little early. Got a meeting withsomeone to get a perspective on my music theory,” I say, throwing my purse over my shoulder and walking toward the door.
“Yeah. Go get ’em, Sloanie,” he says back, not even looking up from his wire-rimmed glasses. Oh, Alex. Gotta love the guy. He’s a cutie in his little dorky way, but I cannot help but internally cringe every time he calls meSloanie.
