“I’ll tell you if you takethe bet,” I said.
I didn’t know. Or atleast, I didn’t have any solid proof, apart from knowing about the video. Butit was the simplest explanation for the facts at hand, and the simplestexplanation was usually the right one. Occam’s razor, and all.
The alarm on my phone wentoff before I could cajole Miles into owing me ten dollars. “Ah. That’s mycue to leave, I’m afraid. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do while I’m gone, andif you can’t be good, be careful,” I said, grabbing my jacket from the back ofmy chair.
“Is there anything youwouldn’t do?” Gray asked as I headed for the door.
I laughed on the way out.
THREE
QUINN
“It’s Fox.”
Even through the cracklingintercom, Fox’svoice curled around the pit of my stomach like a mouthful of hot chocolate inthe depths of winter.
“Come on in,” I said, atingle of anticipation crawling up my spine as I hit the access button.
I’d spent the whole morningtrying to get my apartment to look like an adult lived here, which had mostlyinvolved moving clothes from wherever I’d left them to the laundry basket.
The laundry basket which wasnow overflowing, but which Fox wouldn’tsee.Not today,anyway.
I fluffed the throw pillowson the couch, arranged them, and then rearranged them, all the while keeping anear out for footsteps.
When I heard them—heavierthan I expected—my heart almost stopped.
Why was I sonervous?This was just someone I was supposed to be working with.
So what if he had a nicevoice? That didn’t mean anything. I could be professional about this, pornincident aside.
He might not even haverealized it was porn.
A sharp knock on the doorbrought me back to my senses, and I rushed over to open it.
My stomach dropped as soonas I saw the man on the other side.
Not Fox.
Uncle Vincent.
Uncle Vincent, whose calls I’d been screeningfor a week, because I didn’t want to talk to him about—
“You blew the deadline,” hegrowled, barging in past me and throwing his arms in the air.
“I’m sorry,” I said, knowingthatsorrywasn’t…
“Sorry isn’tgoodenough,” Uncle Vincentsnapped, grabbing my notebook from the coffee table and flicking through it.
I thanked every higher powerI could think of that I hadn’t made any notes about Fox in there. It was a worknotebook, but it was also full of observations and doodles.
“What the hell is this?” heasked, flipping through the pages with disgust written all over his face.
I’d had to beg and plead andoffer all kinds of guarantees to getonesong I’d written myselfon this album, and he was holding a notebook full of them. I knew he hated theidea of me writing my own songs. Wanting to makeartwas the fastestway to kill a career, he said.
Other people knew what wouldsell. I was a product.
That was just how it was.
