“Do you have a plan for when you get there?” Pam asked.
Velma let out a worried breath and shook her head. “No.”
No plan. That was the plan.
It had to work.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Three Weeks After Claire & Dean’s Wedding
Bullets of sweat beaded along Brek’s hairline. His big plans for the night included a beer, his guitar, and dinner. He paused on the concrete sidewalk outside the bar up the street from where he was staying and checked his phone again. No voice mail.
His hands shook, which was unacceptable. He had moved on. Velma was free to be happy. Free to live her life.
He shoved the phone into his pocket and reached for the door. Except, she called every night at seven. On the dot.
But not tonight.
His throat constricted like it had when he’d seen the score on Velma’s spreadsheet. He should probably touch base with Jase to make sure Velma was okay.
A coat of regret covered his tongue. He swallowed and looked back to his bike. The thing had taken a beating in the elements over the past week, but it had held up. His mind worked to calculate the distance back to Denver.
Five hours. Way too long.
Maybe he could call Ma and have her go check on Velma? Nothing major, just aHello, I’m making sure you’re not dead in a ditch or somethingwelfare visit.
His cell buzzed against his palm.
He practically jumped out of his fuckin’ motorcycle boots. Velma’s name and picture showed up on the caller ID. The pic he’d snapped when he brought her tacos for lunch the week before everything had gone to shit.
Thank God. Not that he was a praying man or anything, but he sent a silent salute to whoever the hell was in charge. Gratitude and all that. He itched to answer the phone. Hear her voice in real time.
Her smile lit up the screen, and his dick stirred with the hope he might actually call her back this time.
He couldn’t. She deserved her ten, and it wasn’t him. Acceptance would come eventually, and they’d both figure out their lives.
The stucco siding of the bar dug into his leather jacket when he slumped against the building. He would get dinner and head someplace quiet so he could listen to Velma’s voice mail over and over again, like every other night since he’d left.
He had become a pussy-whipped pansy. Soon enough he would be doodling hearts with her name in the middle like a lovesick idiot.
Time for dinner and to figure out his next move.
Tucker was happy to entertain him, but Brek had taken enough of his time already. Tucker didn’t need a moping jerk wrecking the little time he had with his family.
Brek headed inside and waited the few seconds it took for his eyes to adjust to the dark interior. Typical dive. The scent of grease hung heavy in the air. Low lighting slipped through a handful of small windows, slicing through the air where the dust motes swirled. A couple of pool tables sat on one side, and music blared on the jukebox—country, this time. Along the edge of the room was a long bar with the resident jackass trying to pick up a pretty blonde. Perfectly combed hair, a pink sweater and skirt, and matching Mary Janes. She had clearly wandered into the wrong place.
He couldn’t make out her face because she was turned away from him, but he could’ve sworn she looked like Velma. Except Velma was tucked away in Denver. He shook his head in an attempt to dislodge the thick molasses that seemed to always be trapping his thoughts lately.
Everywhere he turned the past week, he could swear he caught Velma’s scent or her image out of the corner of his eye. Once, he’d followed a woman into a gas station when he thought she was Velma, but the chick standing between the display of Bugles chips and the fountain drinks was brunette and definitely not Velma. He’d stomped out in a worse mood than when he had started the day. But that wasn’t today. Wasn’t now.
This woman wasn’t Velma, either. His brain was mind-fucking him again.
Except…
She laughed, and a zing of awareness shot straight through him. He knew that laugh.
“Velma?” he asked, positive his brain was tripping.
