8. Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
Laredo
T he burning sun punishes me the minute I step out of the studio. Just the latest thing to torture me this morning.
Last night plays on repeat in my head. The chilly reception from Olivia. The daggers she shot in my direction after I didn’t take her advice to scatter were enough to let me know I was treading on thin ice. I grew up in Indiana; we ignore thin ice signs every winter.
I marched to the bar and struck up a conversation with Maxey, the bartender. He confirmed that Betty no longer works there. A place she swore was a second home for her. When I tried to get more info, Maxey clammed up. There was fear in his eyes as I spotted Olivia hovering and giving him a don’t even think about it warning glare.
I’m not one to pick up on warnings unless they are in big, bright red letters or delivered on the end of a fist. I burst into the break room to see if Betty was hiding in the back. I even staked out near the women’s room. I have no regrets, as none of it made sense.
Betty loves Driftwood. Has worked there forever. She once admitted if she ever hit the lottery, she’d donate all of it to the local Seaside food pantry and then continue working at the Driftwood for free. Not a choice I would make, but I got it. She’s surrounded by friends who feel like family, a place that feels like home, across from the beach with music in the air. I see the attraction.
What I don’t understand is her leaving it. Or why Olivia blames me.
I should walk away, but all night, the mystery tugged at me.
So, I did something stupid.
This morning, I sent a text to Betty. Okay, three text messages. While I waited for a reply when I should have been at the studio, my mind played tricks on me.
Did she get a new phone? Different number? Maybe she’s in a relationship and the insecure douche doesn’t want her working in a bar.
No matter what scenario I created in my overactive mind, none of them explained the reception I received from Olivia.
So I called.
The sound of her voice in the message triggered a bevy of happy memories. An unfamiliar tug I rarely experience. I should have taken some comfort because she hadn’t changed numbers. But I didn’t.
It only led to more questions. I showed up at the studio two hours late and misread the room when I walked in to find Ariel crying. The baddest woman in the industry in tears. My frustration got the better of me. I thought Adam had triggered her reaction and kicked him out of the studio.
I was wrong. So very wrong.
The two of them were sharing an intimate moment. Adam told her how we lost our parents when we were teenagers. Ariel shared how she and her mom had a falling-out back in high school, a cold war that continues to this day. Ariel sent me packing, which is why I’m standing in the blazing sun.
My phone buzzes on my hip, and I reach for it, expecting a text from Adam. It’s not. It’s from an unknown number. I swipe at the notification, and the text opens with an attached graphic. A flyer of some sort.
I pinch the image on my phone and zoom in. The image of Ricco Hanlon grabs my attention. He’s an old-school rock legend. Toured for three decades with only middling success. He was fifty-five years old before he had a hit. He’s known as the longest overnight success in the music industry, a crown he happily wears, garnering invites to music festivals, motivational speaking engagements, and, according to this flyer, an autobiography. He’s speaking and signing at a local bookstore this afternoon.
Spam.
I start to delete it when my phone buzzes again. A text from the same unknown number.
Unknown – Hey jerk.
I glance over my shoulder, expecting to see someone on a phone looking in my direction. All I see are cars whizzing by with their windows rolled up in the comfort of air-conditioning. The phone buzzes again.
Unknown – She’ll kill me for this, but you have one shot. If you hurt her, I’m coming for you—O.
O.
Olivia.
What the holy hell?
I connect the dots, leading only to more questions.
Is Betty going to be at the bookstore event? Why the one-eighty from Olivia? And why does she think for a minute that I would hurt Betty?
I wipe at the sweat on the back of my neck and contemplate three additional questions. I debate responding to her text but doubt she’ll have the answers. Only one person does. And that person apparently will be at the local bookstore at an event that starts in twenty minutes.