Page 11 of Riot Reunion
“Asshole! You're gonna pay for that,” he hisses. “Those things aren't cheap.”
“I'm not paying for anything, you sick fuck. It's against the law to take photos of people without their permission.”
“No, it isn't. We’re in public. It's one hundred percent legal. I have every right to take a photo of her if I want—” He sees the look on my face and has the common sense to stop fucking speaking. If he'd been dumb enough to finish that sentence, I wouldn't have been held accountable for my actions. Still sitting on his ass on the sidewalk, the guy holds up his hands, blowing heavily down his nose. “Look. Just stop, okay? Obviously, we've gotten off on the wrong foot. My name is Archer McIntyre. I work for the ‘New York Gazette.’With the news that Wesley Fitzpatrick’s verdict might be overturned in Texas, the press will be running all kinds of stories soon. I wanted to give the girl a chance to comment about Fitzpatrick’s upcoming release and what it might mean for her—”
A high-pitched ringing sound sets up in my ears, drowning out the bastard’s words. What the hell is he talking about? Fitz’s verdict is being overturned. No way. That isnotpossible. I don't watch the news, though. I could easily have missed this if it's just breaking now. Elodie had no idea, either. Turning to her, I see that her pallor has turned to ash; she's even paler now than she was at Jason's funeral, which is saying something.
I take her by the hand, drawing her close, shielding her with my body. To Archer McIntyre, I say, “Stay the fuck away from her. If you know what's good for you, you’ll drop this right here and now and forget her name entirely.”
Behind me, Elodie is stiff, hands cold as ice as she clings to me. “I wanna go,” she whispers. “Please, Wren. Let's just go.”
It's all she needs to say. We move the moment the words are out of her mouth.
“I might have been the first,” Archer yells behind us. “But don’t be dumb enough to think I'll be the last. Let's handle this in a professional manner! You’re gonna get sick and tired of people hounding you in the street. Telling your side of the story’s the only way to make it stop. When you're ready for some peace and quiet, call me at 'The Gazette.'We’ll talk then!”
4
CARRIE
Seattle is much like London,or at least the weather certainly bears a striking resemblance. As the plane touches down at SEATAC, the wheels rumbling against the tarmac, a sheet of rain buffets the tiny window to my right, pelting the reinforced plastic, the city lights in the distance transforming into a kaleidoscope of yellows, whites, and reds.
It’s late. I’m tired to the point of exhaustion, but I’ve never been able to fall asleep on a flight. I used to think that it was because the seats were too uncomfortable, the leg room too cramped, but I’ve recently learned that even in first class, with a fully extendable bed to actually lie down on, I still can’t get any rest. Dash, on the other hand, does not have that problem. On the contrary. My boyfriend got onto the plane, ate dinner, had a glass of champagne, changed into some sweats, and then promptly knocked the fuck out. I’ve tried to wake him up multiple times over the past six hours, but Lord Dashiell Lovett did not appreciate being disturbed. Now, we’ve finally arrived at our destination, close to midnight, and the guy’s had a full night’s sleep. He’ll only have himself to blame once the jet lag kicks in.
A flight attendant woke him an hour ago to tell him that he needed to be seated and upright for landing, and ever since then he’s been making a mental list of all the things he’s going to do once we get to the hotel.
“The Conservatory audition is first thing Sunday morning. They have a piano in one of their event spaces that they’ve said I can use. If I bust my ass on it tomorrow, I should be able to knock it out in a couple of hours.”
“You’ve been practicing for weeks on end. I’d say you’ve got it by now.”
“Okay. I’ll kick back for the next thirty-six hours and call it in then,” Dash says flatly. “That seems like a solid plan.”
“Jerk.”
“Sorry, love. It’s a miracle I even got an invite to audition for the placement, though,” Dash says, his voice laced with contrition. “There’s one position.One. If I don’t get it…”
“You’ll be fine,” I say. “It’s temporary. A summer conservatory. Fornextyear. You’ll still have a place on an extremely competitive music program at one of the most highly recognized universities in the world.”
Dash nods thoughtfully, agreeing, but I can read what’s going on inside his head because it’s written all over his face. He’s nervous. He wants to win this placement so bad he can taste it. “If it were anyone else, I wouldn’t give a shit. But this guy is asavant, Carrie. The music he’s written...” Dash blows out his cheeks, shaking his head in amazement. For him to react this way over someone else’s music? Let’s just say the guy they’ve selected to teach the Seattle Summer Composition Conservatory must be a genius. Dash has been playing the guy’s music on repeat since we moved to England, one hauntingly beautiful piece in particular, and even I must admit it’s good. And I’m far from an expert on such things.
“He’s just soyoung,” Dash mutters. Is that a hint ofjealousyI detect in his voice? Hah! “Twenty-five,” he marvels, ignoring my smirk. “You don’t understand. Before this guy was awarded the seat, the youngest composer to head the summer conservatory was sixty-three.Sixty-three.”
“If he’s so special, then why is he only taking the seat for a year?” This fact is the sole reason why we’re on our way back to Seattle right now. If the guy was going to be teaching for longer, then Dash would have waited until he was done with his degree before trying for the conservatory. But no, this particular composer has agreed to head the twelve-week program just once.
“He’s studying himself. He’s finishing up a biology degree this year and then heading off to med school after that. He won’t have the energy or the availability to teach for years—”
“But why the hell is he going intomedicineif he’s such a mind-blowingmusician?” None of this makes sense to me.
“He was in some kind of accident. He used to play an instrument, but I don’t know, I suppose he has a passion for both now. Something like that. Anyway, missing this kind of opportunity would be…” Puffing out his cheeks, Dash adopts a grim expression, his sandy brows banking together. “I don’t think I’ll ever recover.”
“That is the most melodramatic thing I haveeverheard you say.”
He grins. There’s something special about Dash. No matter how hard he works out, how long he sleeps, or how exhausted he is, one sweep of his hand through his thick, wavy, bright blond hair and he looksimmaculate.Ilook like I just got confused for a pinata at a five-year-old’s birthday party. I try not to get distracted by how ridiculously hot he is—a task that requires monumental effort—casting a stern look in his direction.
“You’re gonna ace this audition. You know you will. And wedohave another reason for coming out here.”
His eyebrows hike up. Turning to look at me, he feigns surprise. “Oh? Really? Must have slipped my mind.”
Iknowhe’s fucking with me. “Tomorrow, we have lunch with Michael at his new restaurant. Theinaugurallunch at his new restaurant, just for friends and family. Then we have the opening celebration in the evening.”
