Deadhead: Bedhead Book 3

by Kayt Miller

Breathing hard, I give him one nod. “Okay.”

  “Okay,” Gage mimics me. “We good?”

  “Yeah. We’re good.”

  There are a few moments of the two of us just looking at each other. He’s the one to break the silence. “Did you eat?”

  God, this guy… he’s so nice.

  Shaking my head, I run my hand over my stomach. “Is there any meatloaf left?”

  Gage looks sheepish. “No. I ate it for dinner.” He pulls me closer, wrapping me up in his arms. “I’m sorry. I should have left you some.”

  “No. It’s fine.” I pat his chest. “I’ll make a turkey sandwich or something.”

  “Let me make you something.” His voice is extra soft, like he’s making sure not to set me off again. Probably a good plan.

  “You cook?”

  “Some. I make a mean grilled cheese.”

  “You do?” I do my best to look impressed. “Well, then I’d love a grilled cheese sandwich.”

  “Come on.” Gage takes my hand in his and pulls me into the kitchen. “Watch and learn, princess.”

  Princess? While I like the moniker, I’m definitely not a princess.

  I watch Gage work in the kitchen, and it’s pretty damn cute. Sure, I’m still a little miffed with him about the whole car thing, but I believe he’s sorry. Like really sorry.

  The sandwich is golden brown and oozing with cheese. He was right, he makes a mean one.

  “Mm, good,” I say after my first bite.

  “Told ya.”

  I don’t bother responding because I’m starving. Once I’m finished, I stand, taking the plate to the dishwasher. “Thanks, Gage.”

  “Welcome.” He’s standing too far away for me to touch, so I step closer, holding my hand out. I hope he takes it. When he does, I tug on his a little bit. “Come on. I’ll give you a ride in my new kickass car.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. But swear to God, Gage, if you say one negative thing, I’m leaving you to walk home.”

  He chuckles. “I won’t say a word.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Gage

  Her car’s a piece of shit. There’s no other way to describe it. Sure, it started up okay today, but I give it less than six months. Hell, I’d be surprised if it lasted three. I’d love to know how much she spent on it, but I’m afraid to ask. Lucky for her, my dad taught me and my brother about cars when we were younger. There’s a good chance, though, that I won’t be able to fix what ails that car. I can change her oil, rotate her tires, stuff like that, but that grinding noise you hear on every turn? That’s going to need a professional.

  And the dark smoke that puffs out of the exhaust pipe? Another job for a pro. But I do what she asked, keeping my mouth shut about what’s wrong and only focusing on the good. “It’s got power windows.”

  “Right?” She beams and nods at my door. “That one is a little wonky, but it still works.”

  I press the button for the window and watch as it is, in fact, wonky. It doesn’t go all the way down, and when it stops, it’s at an angle. But she’s right. It works. “Nice,” I say with a smile. One I’m forcing into place.

  “The trunk’s roomy too.”

  “Ah.” I nod. “Good.” I blink, trying to think of something to say. Finally I ask, “What do you plan to carry around in your trunk?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s just nice to have the room for whatever.”

  “It is.”

  And the fact that I’ve got a full-sized SUV in the driveway isn’t a factor, I guess.

  But maybe she’s already planning on leaving. She could fit a lot of her belongings in the trunk, if that’s the case.

  “Daisy?” I ask as she pulls up to the curb in front of my house.

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you planning on staying with me?”

  “Huh?” She jerks her head to her right to look at me. “What? For now? Or—” She swallows. “—forever?”

  “I… I don’t know.” I’m not ready for her to leave.

  “I looked at an apartment today.”

  “You did?” Where was that, I wonder.

  “Yeah. I figured that’d be for the best.”

  “I see.” I don’t see, but I’m not sure what else to say.

  “You didn’t want me to live with you, did you?”

  I don’t reply. What can I say to that?

  “Gage?”

  “Honestly?” I look over at her. “I don’t know what we’re doing.”

  She reaches for the door handle and pulls. Nothing happens, so she uses her shoulder to force the door open. Before stepping out, she mumbles, “Oh. Right.”

  Those are the last two words either of us says until we’re back inside my place. Our silence continues until it’s time for bed. Are we going to sleep together? Should I ask her where she’s sleeping? I listen as she does her nightly routine in the bathroom while I sit on my bed with my door half open. I didn’t want to shut it and make her think I didn’t want her to enter, but I didn’t want to leave it wide open in case... in case she walks past it. Talk about awkward.

  When the bathroom door clicks open, I hold my breath. And wait. Her feet pad across the hallway into the spare bedroom, and my heart sinks.

  Wow, it hurts.

  Choosing to hide my reaction, I slide down beneath my covers and switch off my bedside light. Closing my eyes tight, I try to think about something else rather than the sick feeling in my stomach.

  “Gage?” Daisy’s voice is soft. And close.

  Clearing my throat, I say, “Yeah?” I turn my body to see her standing next to the bed.

  “Do—” She stops. “Do you—”

  “Yes.” I reach out and take her hand. “Yes. I want you in my bed.”

  Her relief is obvious in the breath she just released. “Okay.”

  Scooting over, I pull the blanket and sheet back to make room for her. As soon as she’s next to me, I drop the blankets over us, wrap my arm around her, and pull her close. Kissing her softly, I whisper, “I think I’ll always want you in my bed, Daisy.”

  “Yeah?” I hear her sniffle.

  “You crying, honey?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Why?”

  “Because… I didn’t mean to hurt you earlier. I just don’t know what I’m doing with my life. It doesn’t mean I don’t want you in it. It just means I’m not sure I’m ready to live with you.”

  “You’re living with me now.”

  “No, I’m staying with you. That’s different.”

  Semantics. “I guess.”

  Daisy snuggles up next to me, close enough for me to smell her hair. She used my shampoo. I like it.

  “Thank you for not criticizing my car.”

  “No problem.”

  “And for not asking me how much I paid for it.”

  “Uh-huh.” I still want to know.

  “It was three hundred bucks.”

  “Oh.” I release a gust of air out of relief. “Thank fuck.”

  She slaps my chest and giggles. “Jerk.”

  Before I say a word, I rehearse it in my head. “Next time, if you’d like me to, I’ll car shop with you.”

  “If I’d like?”

  “Only if you’d like. I know a little about cars.”

  “So do I.” She giggles. “No I don’t. But if it lasts me six months, I’ll be ahead.”

  “I know a good mechanic….”

  “No, Gage.”

  “Fine.” And it is fine. But I hope she knows she can count on me if she stalls on the side of the road.

  Her lips touch mine, and I sink into it. Her lips are so soft. They fit mine perfectly.

  Everything about Daisy fits perfectly against me.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Daisy

  Today’s the day. I’m going to drive over to my dad’s house while he’s in class to see if I can get my stuff back. Before I go, I drive to campus to make sure he’s there today. I spot his fancy Mercedes
coupe in his usual spot and know he won’t be home. Before I can change my mind, I speed over to his house on Timberland Road. It sits back from the road, secluded on a wooded lot. This wasn’t the house I grew up in. No, that one was much more modest and closer to campus.

  He bought this house after he got tenure and a lot of attention for his—my—writing. Hell, Mom didn’t even get to live here.

  I have a room here, though. He set it up with all of my old furniture from the little house. He painted the walls pink and bought a fluffy white comforter for the top of the bed. It’s weird that he went to all that trouble and I’ve never slept a night in the place.

  No matter.

  I pull in front of one of the four garages. Attempting to put it into Park proves difficult since my gearshift isn’t cooperating, so I put the thing into Neutral and press on the emergency brake.

  At the front door, I ring the bell. I might as well cover my bases. When no one answers, I try the handle, but it doesn’t budge. Taking out the key he gave me years ago, I press it into the lock and hold my breath, hoping it still works.

  It does.

  Pushing the door open, I sigh in relief that I made it inside. But that’s short lived because the loudest fucking siren slash alarm sounds. It’s so loud I have to cover my ears. I search left, then right for a control panel for the security system, but there isn’t one. My ears still covered, I run into the adjacent dining room, looking for anything that will help me shut the damn thing off.

  My God. It’s so loud!

  Turning left, I race down a short hallway into my father’s office. A room he calls his “study.” Eye roll. How pretentious, right?

  Pushing open the french doors with one hand, I quickly cover my ears again. I scan the room and spot a keypad on his desk. Racing over, I stare down at a control box with the name Dynamic Security printed prominently at the top. Blinking at the alphanumeric keypad, I mutter, “What’s the combination, Dad?”

  Here’s hoping it’s a four-digit code. I choose to press in his birthday: 0871.

  Nothing. The alarm is still screaming. Next I try: 081971 but it won’t let me add two additional numbers. A four-digit code it is.

  Next, I try Mom’s middle name: Ruth

  Damn. It didn’t work.

  I try my birthday: 0796

  “Fuck!” I scream. But nobody can hear me. It’s too loud.

  Shit. What code would he use? He’s an egomaniac, so it has to be something related to himself. It has to be.

  I stare at the controller. “Think, Daisy. Think.”

  My God, the noise is so loud and piercing it’s painful. Maybe I should just leave. Or I could put on some headphones or something. Anything to block out the sound.

  I rotate on the spot looking at his office shelves, filing cabinets, the top of his desk, and the other furniture. Nothing here to cover my ears, unless…. Pulling open the top drawer in his desk, I push the contents around but don’t spy earplugs or headphones. Next, I move to the drawers that run down the right side of his mahogany behemoth of a desk. Searching the top two results in nothing usable. However, just as I’m about to search the third drawer down, two things happen. One, I hear sirens sounding from somewhere outside his office window, and two, I spy something unexpected in the drawer.

  Reaching in, I push aside a few papers and then hear “Freeze.” I look up and see a cop standing in the open doorway, gun drawn and pointed at me, and looking quite angry. My first thought is how loud he must’ve just yelled, “Freeze,” for me to hear him over this godforsaken alarm.

  Why does my dad need an alarm system, anyway?

  In the end, I do what I’m told. I freeze.

  “Put your hands up,” he shouts.

  Once again I do as he says.

  Before I can utter a word, my arms are wrenched behind my back and something is wrapped around my wrists. I hear a zipping sound and know I’m being cuffed with zip ties. They’re so tight, I feel them digging into the skin around my wrists.

  Once I’m cuffed, the officer takes my wrists in hand and pulls me out of the office and down the hallway until we’re outside. I’m so relieved to be away from the loud alarm that I sigh with relief.

  He stops at a squad car, and I see several other police vehicles make their way up Dad’s long driveway. I keep expecting this guy to ask me who I am and what I’m doing at the house, but other than “Freeze” and “Put your hands up,” there’s been nothing.

  Several car doors open, then slam shut. Footsteps approach from behind me. “Name?” someone to my left asks.

  I answer before I even see a face. “Daisy Buchanan.”

  Then I hear “Daisy, what the fuck?”

  Turning, I see Gage stomping up the driveway like he’s marching into war.

  By the time he’s in front of me, I have a smile on my face. “Hi, Gage.”

  “Don’t,” he snaps. “What the fuck are you doing here?” He points at the house.

  “That’s my dad’s house. I came to get my stuff.”

  “You broke in?”

  I shake my head at that. “No. I’ve got a key. I just didn’t know the code for the alarm.”

  “The security company’s on their way. They’ll turn it off.” He turns to face the guy with the gun. “Take off the cuffs.”

  “No way,” the guy mutters. “She broke in.”

  “You heard her. She has a key.” I’m staring up at him, and I’ve got to say, he looks angrier than… well, than anyone I’ve ever seen. His face is bright red, his brow is furrowed, and his lips are so thin the word hairlike jumps into my head. And his eyes. Geez. His eyes are squinty and twitchy. Not a good look for the usually handsome Gage.

  “Sir,” the young officer grumbles. I guess seeing that expression on Gage’s face is enough for the guy. “Fine,” he says with a huff.

  As soon as he’s removed the zip tie, I rub my wrists. That’s also the moment I see another car pull up the driveway. Great. It’s my dad. So much for getting my stuff and getting out of here.

  “Uh, Gage?” I lean in and speak in a low voice.

  “What?” he says, still sounding pissed.

  “You need to go into my dad’s office.”

  He still looks angry but not as much. “Why?”

  “Big pink envelope.”

  “Huh?”

  “There’s a big pink envelope in his desk drawer.”

  “You touch it?”

  Oh crap. “Yes.”

  “Goddamn it, Daisy.” Gage runs his fingers through his hair. “Don’t say a word about it right now. I’ve gotta make a call.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Gage

  Now what? Daisy said she spotted a pink envelope in her father’s desk, but I can’t just enter his house without a warrant. And I can’t see myself getting a warrant since I’ve got no reason to believe Dr. Buchanan was even in the building at the time of the murder.

  Except….

  I watch the good doctor step out of his top-of-the-line Mercedes. My eyes go directly to his coat. A trench coat. A black trench coat. My eyes skim down to his feet and spot a pair of shiny dress shoes.

  To myself I whisper, “Now, if you only had a hat.” There may be something inside his car if I could just get a peek inside. Without thinking, I march over to Dorian Buchanan’s car. “Mr. Buchanan.” I smile. “False alarm.”

  “If that’s the case, why is my daughter standing next to a police car?”

  “She said she used her key to get in, which set off the alarm.”

  “Uh-huh.” His eyes are on Daisy. “May I speak to my daughter?”

  “Sure.” I smile again. “Head on over.” And while you do that, I’ll look inside your vehicle.

  With his back to me, I turn and peer down into his car. I look at the front seat first, then step back to check out the back seat. There it is. The hat in Dorian Buchanan’s back seat looks identical to the one in the video. A fedora like a man from the 1950s would wear. I guess it goes with the t
rench.

  Reaching into my pocket, I grab my cell and step away from the other officers to call the captain. When he answers, I get right to the point. “We need a warrant. Fast.”

  I listen as the captain asks me to keep the professor from entering his own home. Then he says, “Give me fifteen minutes. I’ll call you back.”

  Stepping over to Daisy and her father, I hear him say, “The only way you’re getting your things back is if you’re living here.” He points at the door. “And by finishing what you’ve started.” He pauses. “Maybe I should press charges.”

  “You wouldn’t.” Daisy sounds shocked.

  “Try me.”

  She must see me approach, because her eyes meet mine and she frowns. “Officer Golden, you remember my father.”

  “Of course.” I smile, but it’s only for show. “Do we have an issue here?”

  “My dad won’t give me back my things unless I move home. Or else he’s going to press charges.”

  “Well, now, that’s not exactly…”, Dorian Buchanan attempts to backtrack.

  “So, you’d like her to move home or else you’re pressing charges for entering her own home? The one you want her to move back into? That doesn’t make sense. It sounds like you’re blackmailing her.” I emphasize the word because I want to see his reaction. It’s better than I expected.

  Dorian rears his head back. “Blackmail?” He scoffs. “I’m not blackmailing my own daughter. How gauche.”

  Gauche? That’s a word I haven’t heard in… well, ever. “I don’t know about that, but it sounds like you’re giving her no options.” I look at Daisy, then back at her father. The resemblance is uncanny. The two of them have the same dark hair and fair skin, but it’s their eyes that are really similar. They’re both a steel gray color. “Are you going to press charges, Dr. Buchanan? Because if you are, you’ll need to accompany me to the station to fill out the paperwork.”

  It’s probably wrong, but I hope he presses charges. That’d give us ample time to obtain a search warrant.

  With a sigh, Dorian Buchanan rubs a hand over his chin where a thin beard has begun to grow. Looking at his daughter, he says in a soft voice, “You need to move home, Daisy. For your own good.”