A low, even breath from Faust tells me he’s still sleeping.
I wonder what time it is but when I turn my head to find my phone on his black Rattan nightstand, I see it’s too far for me to stretch my fingers and grab it without shifting on the bed.
It’s Thursday, and I’ve figured out enough to know that means tomorrow is game day, as well as the day after that, and for some reason, I feel strongly about Faust getting his sleep.
I may as well get mine, too.
If I miss my poetry workshop, it won’t be the end of the world.
I do need to text Cyn soon though, or she’ll be contacting the police when she wakes up and starts getting ready for pottery, and I’m not there.
I allow my eyes to fall closed.
Only for a high-pitched, shrill ringing sound to go off somewhere next to Faust’s head.
I sit straight up immediately, turning to his nightstand and noting the black Himalayan salt lamp a beat before I see his phone, face up, on the charger.
Coachis sprawled across the screen.
It’s a phone call.
Shit, is he late for something?
I can’t read the time from here, and I find it amusing that this hideous noise only inspires the slowest, most disoriented movements in a man of all-time from an elite hockey player.
He turns onto his side after glancing at me with a bleary-eyed, sleepy smile, not moving his hand from my thigh. He reaches out his other arm, swipes up the phone, exhales loudly, then answers the call with his thumb.
He holds the phone to his ear, facing away from me.
“Hello?” His voice is throaty. Groggy with sleep.Sexy.
I can’t hear his coach on the other line, but I feel the tension in Faust’s body when his fingers dig deeper against my thigh.
Turning away from him, I lean over and grab my own phone, thankful it was fully charged last night in Faust’s “entertainment room.”
It’s only 5:30 am which is a relief to me—Cyn won’t be up yet, and she hasn’t texted or called in the night. But that means Faust couldn’t have missed practice or anything, right? They don’t have itthisearly, do they?
“Yes, Coach.” Faust clears his throat, erasing some of the sleep from his voice.
He still hasn’t let go of me, and he doesn’t turn to look at me.
Nolan has sent me a few texts, and with dread, I open up our thread. Mostly him screaming at me in all caps.
The most recent text he sent was in the middle of the night. Around two in the morning. Working late on a case. No wonder he’s edgy; he needs to sleep too.
Brotherrr
I know I’m being overbearing. But I’m worried about you. Please call soon, Sis.
“I’ll be there.” Faust’s voice pulls me from the guilt of ignoring Nolan. Then he ends the call and sets his cell down on his nightstand.
Turning to me, his lips pouty and big brown eyes sleepy, he just says, “They want to talk to us again.”
And I know exactly who he means.
TWENTY-SIX
NEVE
