Page 7 of Almost Perfect
I slammed the lid shut as my chest collapsed in on itself, my mind racing.She wasn’t a meth addict. And I sure as hell didn’t kill her. But I know who did.
* * *
After a lovely half-hour spiral into the guilt-ridden grief that even thinking about Candy’s death caused, I pulled myself together. I never cried—not since that first day they notified me she’d overdosed. The news dragged me down, buried me in the frozen ground, and kept me there. Usually. Today, miraculously, the prospect of meeting the owner had forced me out of that spiraling slosh of emotion.
The knock came right on time at nine. I’d worried I would want to sleep in, and since my body was still on Pacific Time and here in Utah they were an hour later, I’d played it safe. I should’ve known: I hadn’t slept past six in months, even when I had a day off, but I’d put a lot of hope into this escape. It wasn’t a surprise, nor did I expect this little mountain retreat to cure me of my sleep issues too.
But maybe it could curesomethingin me. The restlessness, perhaps? The well that’d held only the dry bones and parched dirt of my creativity?
Anyway, I’d pulled on jeans, a sweater, and slippers. I’d showered and braided my hair again last night. I didn’t make any effort to hide my face because the guy last night, I’d ended up realizing, had no clue who I was. I’d caught his eye, but not because I was Miss Mayhem.
Satisfaction simmered in me over that one for a good ten minutes after he’d left. Maybe my mind had latched onto that rather than relive the horrifying moment when I asked him if he was wearing chaps, thereby clearly revealing my noticing the chaps and everything they did and did not cover.
Vivid details from that moment flashed back to me, like the stitch coming loose on one of the back pockets of his jeans where it hugged a tight behind. The way the leather looked weathered and almost smooth. The rasp of his fingers against his beard when he scratched at his cheek while checking the list of things to tell me.
Those mountain sky eyes.
I shook that awkward memory away and swung open the door.
An absolute hulk of a man darkened the doorway, a pleasant smile on a strikingly handsome face. His brown eyes double-blinked, andah. Yep.
“Holy shi—I mean, um, sorry. I—you’re Miss Mayhem.”
I nodded, stomach dropping. So much for anonymity.
“You’re not a dude.”
A laugh bubbled up. “Also true.”
“I was definitely expecting Callaway Rice to be a dude. Is that a code name or something?”
“No.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Is that youractualname?”
I hesitated before realizing he’d have to sign an NDA anyway, so I might as well tell him. It’s not like some rando from Utah would sell my real name to the press—not when he had a business and enough collateral that if I wanted to destroy him, I probably could.
“It is. My mom loved the name Callaway and thought it was fun because it had so many nicknames. And Rice was her last name. But obviously, people call me May, short for Mayhem, or May O’Brien from the modeling years.”The Modeling Years, like it was a spin-off TV series I’d starred in as a kid.If only.
I’d used O’Brien as a pseudonym of sorts, keeping Callaway Rice as something only for myself, or something I’d left behind. Even Candy had adopted O’Brien—I’d always felt that was unnecessary, but it certainly kept my real name private and kept her overtly connected to me. Maybe more accurately, something I’d buried. May had been my nickname and Miss Mayhem was the full package—popstar, envelope-pusher, and now, evidently, total basket case.
“Hmm. Interesting.” He nodded repeatedly, like he was working it all out in his mind. “Well, good for you, I guess. Can I come in?”
I clutched the door handle tighter for a moment, shocked at his lack of interest. Normally, if someone realized I was me and got me answering questions, they’d follow up until I cut them off. This guy seemed… unimpressed.Strange.
He was also massive. Bigger than his brother by a few inches high and definitely as many wide. This one officiallytowered.He wasn’t heavy, though, or at least not overweight. His jacket hung open, and I could see a knit shirt fitting close to a flat stomach.
Well, Hulk, good for you.
“Come in?”
He smiled, bright and friendly. “Yeah. So, I can show you around the place? Wy mentioned the heat wasn’t on when he came, and I’m sure I turned it on, so I wanted to check that out for you, too.”
“Oh. Yes, of course. Come on in.”Duh, you idiot. What did you think he wanted?
Hey, ease up on the idiot talk, all right? We both know people get weird, and it wouldn’t be unimaginable for this guy to want to finagle his way into our house.
I blinked at myself.Who iswe?
