Love Song(134)

I grin back at him. “Well, hi there.”

“Hey.” He tugs me toward him. “Come sit with me.”

I slide in next to AJ, because my other seat has been hijacked and AJ is alone. On the other side of the booth, one of his teammates is making out with a redhead, who’s a little too into it considering we’re in public. I’m pretty sure her hand is down his pants.

Since I haven’t gotten AJ alone since his falling-out with Beau, I decide to take this opportunity to see if I can finally talk some sense into him.

He drapes his arm along the back of the seat, angling his body toward mine. The music is so loud, he has to bring his head close to mine so we can talk.

“That was a hell of a game,” I tell him, keeping it light. “Great assist.”

He shrugs off the compliment. His hand trails toward my shoulder, then lower, his fingers tweaking the end of my braid. “You look good tonight, B. Well, actually, you always look good, but you already know that.”

“Thanks.”

He winks. “Not gonna return the compliment?”

“Nope. Your ego’s big enough.”

“You know what we should do?” he drawls.

“What?” It’s becoming obvious he’s drunker than I thought.

“Go back to my place.”

“You mean the studio apartment you’re renting ’cause you’re too stubborn to make up with Beau?” I say sweetly. After the Tahoe fight, AJ moved out of the house he shared with the other two Golden Boys. Which is a boneheaded move, because it’s a great house.

“I’m not stubborn. I just have no interest in talking to that asshole.”

“That asshole is your best friend.”

AJ rolls his eyes. “He was balls deep in my girlfriend. There’s no coming back from that, Blake.”

I sigh. “You could try.”

“Or I could move on.” He smirks, his thumb brushing my bare shoulder. I shrugged out of my hoodie the moment we got here because the bar is way too hot, but it left me in a very skimpy camisole, which AJ’s hungry gaze is currently raking over. “Want to help me move on?”

“You’ve had too much to drink.”

“Nah, I’ve had just enough.” His voice drops, growing husky. “Enough to tell you I can have you bent over this table if you just say the word.”

“Jesus, AJ.”

“What?” He blinks innocently.

Irritation flickers through me. “This isn’t you.”

“You’re wrong.” He leans back, spreading his arms and grinning like he owns the whole damn bar. “This is exactly me. And I forgot how much fun it was to be me.”

“What’s fun? Banging your way through life the way you did in high school?”

“Yes.”

I study him, searching for bravado in his smile or maybe a hollow shadow behind his eyes, but I don’t see it. He seems genuinely smug. Pleased with the fact that he’s reverting to fuckboy status.

His hand brushes my thigh under the table, and I smack it away.

“I’m not going home with you, Adam,” I say, full naming him so he knows I mean it.

“Too bad. Would’ve been hot.”

Shrugging, he takes a long swig of beer, then grabs his phone and proceeds to pull up a hookup app while I’m sitting right the fuck there beside him.





Chapter 55


BLAKE





THE TRAIN FROM BOSTON TO Trenton takes nearly five hours. A flight would’ve been way quicker, but I wanted to use the time to work on my midterm papers without distractions. The one I’m currently writing explores the invention and history of radio and its impact on modern media, which reminds me I need to text the Spencers to finalize my New York visit next month.

I finally feel back to normal. Hormones settled, depression gone. Sure, the aching pit in my stomach refuses to go away, but at least I’m not bursting into tears every five seconds anymore. If this Trenton trip goes well, maybe Little Spencer and I can record a follow-up episode to the Darlie one. Who knows. Maybe I’m two hours and thirty-eight minutes away from solving the mystery.

And yes, I recognize that I might’ve just thrown ten hours of my life out the window. I’m riding a train all the way to New Jersey, and all I have is an address. Still no phone number. Still no email or any other way to contact the homeowners. I even called Mercer County this week and begged the lady on the phone to pass along a message to the residents of 1229 Sycamore Lane. “Just tell them to call me,” I begged, to which she said, “Uh, yeah, we don’t do that.”

That left me with two options: mail a letter, which could lead to days of waiting or no response at all. Or hop a train, knock on the door, and see what happens.

Worst case, I get my schoolwork done on the train.

Best case, Dolly and Raymond actually live in that house, and I get some answers.

As we pull into the station, I tuck my laptop back in its case and slide it into my bag. Outside at the taxi stand, I slide into the back seat of a cab and then watch the exciting city of Trenton flash past the window. 1229 Sycamore Lane is located in Trenton’s Hillside neighborhood, which my research says is quite affluent. That bodes well, since Raymond Loughlin comes from money.