One Last Verse (The Encore Book 2) by N. N. Britt

One Last Verse (The Encore Book 2) by N. N. Britt

Author:N. N. Britt [Britt, N. N.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781732973152
Published: 2020-05-13T16:00:00+00:00


Ashton was already waiting for me when I pulled up to the office of the impound lot that was somewhere on the outskirts of Santa Monica. It was in a crappier part of the city, across from the cemetery. Beat up asphalt and plastic dumpsters greeted me as I maneuvered my Honda between the rows of vehicles. My head hurt from lack of coffee and sleep.

Inside, there was a mile-long line and it took me a minute to find Ashton.

“I thought you were going to ditch me,” he said under his breath as I wormed my way into the spot between his shoulder and some woman’s oversized Coach bag.

“I’m having an extremely bad day. Let’s just get this over with.”

“That’s why I need my own credit card.”

“Oh, really?” I stared up at him with every intention of mentally burning him to the ground. “So you can forget it somewhere too?”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Then how was it, huh?” I hissed. “You dragged me all the way across town because you can’t read road signs.”

My observation was met with a dramatic pout.

We waited for nearly an hour. By the time Ashton finally received his precious car keys back, I had two missed calls from Roman, three texts from Brooklyn, and all signs of a heart attack.

Frank never made it to the studio.

Panic crawled up my throat as we hurried to leave the building and get to our vehicles. I dialed Frank’s cell twice but was greeted by the same generic service provider programmed voice message.

“You owe me the Uber fee and the three hundred bucks I just paid for your car,” I snapped at Ashton as we walked through the lot.

“You’re joking, right?” He gave me the side-eye.

“It’s called adulting, buddy.”

I knew he’d never have that kind of money unless he started smuggling drugs or got a job as a male stripper, but I couldn't resist the urge to yell at someone, and between Roman, who, according to our phone conversation, had missed Frank earlier this morning, and my brother, it was obviously going to be my brother.

On the way to Sherman Oaks, I called Frank’s house phone and asked Hannah to check the garage. Of course, the Ferrari was missing. My anxiety shot through the roof. It clawed at my thundering heart like a predator, tearing it into small pieces. This wasn’t happening. Not today, I thought as I dialed again and again, only to hear the same recording.

The burst of cool air blasting from the vents pricked my cheeks and I could barely feel my face, but the tremor that took over the rest of my body compensated for that numbness tenfold. The seconds seemed to drag by as if this were a three-day cross-country drive.

When I arrived at the studio, Ashton and Levi were already there, unloading their equipment. Without saying a word to them, I brushed past the cluster of cases and hurried to find Brooklyn.

Inside, a dozen stupefied gazes were shot at me. Isabella was in the booth, doing a take.



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