Wrecked (Blind Man's Alibi #1)

by Sarah Grimm

  “I’m okay, Gary,” Emma answered, bringing his attention back to her.

  She sighed with relief when he produced a shirt for her to put on. She didn’t even care that it was a man’s shirt and three sizes too large. Trading her straw fedora for the shirt, she pulled it on.

  “Why are you fidgety?” There wasn’t a single ounce of happy in his eyes as he dropped her hat back on her head. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  Emma didn’t answer. Didn’t want to answer.

  Gary narrowed his eyes. “Emma?”

  She slid the officer a look, confirming he was still staring at her, even with a shirt covering the view. When Emma crossed her arms over her chest, Gary straightened. Damn if he didn’t puff up even more before facing off with the officers.

  “Stop it.” She hadn’t even had to point out which man was making her uncomfortable for the guy wasn’t quick to evert his gaze. When Gary shifted forward, she curled both hands around his bicep. “No.”

  Of course, he ignored her. “You get off disrespecting helpless women?”

  Shit. She might have argued being called helpless if she wasn’t feeling so exposed. “Gare, please, my head is pounding and I have so much to do yet before we leave tonight.” Tugging on his arm was pointless, so she settled her hand in the center of his chest. “Dial it down a notch, big guy. Let’s just get out of here.”

  Without taking his eyes off the officer, he curled his fingers around her elbow. “Are you done with her? Your report is complete?”

  “Yes, sir.” The older officer replied.

  “Good.” Gary walked her to the SUV, opening the door for her. She didn’t miss the fact that, as he did so, he made sure his big body obstructed the young officer’s view. Hero material, her big scary ogre was.

  Emma leaned her head against the headrest and closed her eyes, expecting him to take the front passenger seat where he’d been seated when he arrived. Instead, he circled the vehicle and slid into the seat next to her.

  “Please don’t lecture me,” she said softly. “I dozed off in the sun. I know better, but…”

  “But you haven’t been getting enough sleep.” He nudged her hand and she opened her eyes to find him offering her a bottle of water and package of over the counter pain reliever.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, swallowing the pills.

  “What did you lose?”

  “My favorite satchel, my laptop, bankcard…” The rest was inconsequential, with the exception of, “my passport. I need to refill my medication, but I don’t know how I’m going to pull it off without any photo I.D.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Shit, my back stage pass was in there, too. I’ll need a new one.”

  “No worries.”

  She bowed her head a moment and picked at the label on her water bottle. “I’m sorry.”

  “Why are you apologizing to me?”

  “You had to come get me.”

  He pulled her sunglasses off, studying her face. “I didn’t have to. I could have just sent the car. I chose to come get you.”

  “Why?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Why?” she repeated.

  He looked her over slowly, then stared out the windshield. “I didn’t like how you sounded in your voicemail. And, before you ask, you admitted you were feeling vulnerable. That is completely out of character for you, Emma.”

  It was.

  “You draw out my protective side.”

  “Really?” She teased. “I thought that whole non-verbal intimidation thing you did back there was just a natural part of your charm.”

  His dimple flashed, and she smiled. He still wouldn’t look at her.

  “In case you haven’t noticed…” He was quiet a moment, then blew a breath. “I’m fond of you.”

  “Thank you. I’m fond of you, too.” Emma reached for him, hovering her hand above his arm as she wondered if she would be crossing a line, stepping over some invisible boundary. Deciding she didn’t give a shit if she was, she placed her hand atop his.

  He startled, glancing from her hand to her face.

  “Thank you,” she repeated. “Seeing you was…” She chewed her cheek, searching for the right word, finally going with the easiest one. “Comforting.”

  “Because you were feeling vulnerable.”

  “Yes.”

  “How bad is it? The headache?”

  She removed her hand from his. “Pretty bad.”

  Concern colored his brown eyes. “You should lie down when we get back.”

  “I can’t. I have to get to the pharmacy and then the laundromat. I have no clean clothes.”

  “Beth can—”

  “No,” she said with a shake of her head, regretting the move immediately as the ache increased.

  “You won’t use the car service. You won’t use Beth’s services, even though both are at your disposal. Why?”

  How to explain it? “Beth doesn’t need to wash my clothes. She’s got enough to do.”

  “And the car service?”

  “You have enough to do, also. You don’t need to be calling for a car for me whenever I want to go somewhere. I can take care of myself, you know.” Most of the time, at least. “I’m not a charity case.”

  His eyebrow slid up his forehead. “No one said you were. Joe would—”

  “No,” she said more adamantly. “Just drop it, okay?”

  He tipped his head.

  “Good. You didn’t tell him you had to rescue me today, did you?”

  “And trigger his protective side? You know what happened last time.”

  She did. Bobby was still sporting the faded green reminder of two black eyes. He also made sure never to get too close whenever they were in the same room with each other. Emma almost felt bad for him. Almost.

  As soon as the SUV pulled into the arena lot and stopped next to the bus, Emma jumped out. She headed straight for the rear lounge, where she had left all of her things. Somewhere back there was her credit card, which she needed in order to get cash to do her laundry and pick up her prescription. Her journal sat atop the low table. She flipped through the pages—thank God she hadn’t taken that with her today or she would have grieved its loss more than anything else—but came up empty. She dug through her carry-on luggage. Nope. That left only one place to look.

  Dropping to her knees she began digging through her bag of dirty clothes, checking the pockets of each item as she removed them. Discovering a pair of jean shorts that didn’t appear too dirty, she added the towel to the stack of clothes needing washing and pulled the shorts on.

  Gary hovered in the doorway. There was no other word for it.

  “Damnit, I had it the other day, where did it go?” She whipped out a pair of jeans and a pale yellow thong came with them, landing on the toe of Gary’s boot.

  Muscle ticking in his jaw, he closed his eyes, as if the sight of that yellow scrap of lace pained him.

  “Oops.” She stuffed them back in her laundry bag. “You act as if you’ve never seen women’s panties before. But they’re tossed at the band damn near every night.”

  He let out a long, slow breath as if struggling for control. “Yes, but those don’t belong to the woman sleeping with my best friend.”

  Emma grinned.

  “I already hear more than I want to, I don’t need visuals—”

  “Stop.” Horrified at the thought, she covered her face. “Oh my God.”

  “Emma.”

  “No, seriously. There’s no privacy around here, is there?”

  “Um…is this what you’re looking for?” In his hand he held a black American Express card.

  “You found it!”

  “I thought you were a graphic designer.”

  “I am.” She snatched it away from him, tucked it into the back pocket of her jean shorts and scooped up her bag of laundry. “I don’t think I’ll make it back in time for start of the show, but I’ll be back before it’s time to leave, okay?”

  He nodd
ed, the oddest look on his face. “The car is waiting for you. Use it.”

  “Gary.”

  “Just…humor me, okay? You’re not feeling well. The driver will take you anywhere you need to go and he’ll wait for you.”

  She nodded. “Okay, but only if you stop looking at me like I have two heads.”

  “Just trying to figure you out,” he admitted.

  “Well, stop it. You know me. Nothing’s changed.” Patting him on the arm, she darted out the door, pulling her phone from her pocket as she went. “Al, it’s me. I need you to do me a favor. I lost my passport today, but my driver’s license is in my safe at the condo. Can you overnight it to me? I’ll text you the address. Oh, and I’ll also need a snapshot of it sent to me as I have to hit the pharmacy. Call me when you get this message, okay?”

  Joe stood at the end of the couch. From his position near Emma’s head, he watched her chest rise and fall on slow, even breaths. She was turned away from the door, facing the back of the couch, her left hand covering her eyes. The presence of her injector pen on the coffee table confirmed what her body language had already told him. She’d been suffering from a headache tonight, one bad enough she’d needed her medication. She was down for the count, and wouldn’t rouse for hours.

  No wonder she hadn’t made it to the show. He’d wondered where she was when he’d come offstage and discovered she still hadn’t returned from her errands. Panicked by the thought that something had happened to her, he’d had Gary call the car service and learned she’d been dropped off hours earlier. Joe had taken the time to shower and collect his things then headed straight to the bus, where he found her just a few moments ago, asleep in the rear lounge.

  Gary walked in and glanced at Emma, then the room around her. “She asleep?”

  “Headache.” Joe let out a slow, careful breath, then sank to the couch. “The second in days that she’s needed her medication to treat.”

  Gary nodded, looking over Emma again, concern evident in the tight set of his brow. “She’s not getting enough sleep.”

  Joe sighed. “I know.” He stroked Emma’s arm with the back of his hand, his gut tight. “We have a three-day stretch with no shows coming up. We’re all more than ready for the break.”

  “Yeah. She had the headache earlier today, when I picked her up at the beach.”

  “Where she was robbed. Which you failed to tell me about until after she’d come back then left again.”

  Gary took in Joe’s expression and shook his head. “I didn’t need your help or the logistical nightmare your arrival at that beach might have caused.” His gaze settled on the coffee table, and he stepped farther into the room. Pushing her auto-injector off her open journal, he picked it up, looking back at Joe with a raised brow.

  “What is it?” Joe asked.

  “She ever talk to you about what she does for a living?”

  “Design work, why?”

  Gary shrugged and handed Joe the journal. “She’s very talented.”

  She’d drawn him. Joe stared at the page in the dim light, speechless, completely blown away by what he was looking at. Not that it was his own mug, but the realism of the sketch. Using nothing but strokes of her pencil, light and shadow, she’d captured him so accurately it reminded him of a photograph—his eyes, the shape of his nose, shit, he could even differentiate the individual hairs in his beard. “Bloody hell.”

  “When did she catch you playing?” Gary asked.

  “This morning.” Gary’s odd expression made sense now. It had been a long time since he had played for the sheer enjoyment of it. A long time. Sitting with Emma that morning, her smiling in that heart-stopping way she had while the pleasure of their love making still infused his body, he’d been filled with the need. Taking up his acoustic had felt natural, familiar, and for once in longer than he cared to admit, the joy of creating returned.

  Joe placed the journal on the table and looked down at a deeply sleeping Emma. She did that for him, drew out the music buried inside of him, brought back the joy that had been missing for so long. He looked down at her and his heart took a good hard leap, crawled right up into his throat so that it was difficult to draw a deep breath.

  “Fuck.” He scrubbed his hand over the back of his neck and closed his eyes to the emotion rolling through him. “What am I supposed to do with this now?”

  Gary grinned, as if the bastard knew exactly what Joe was struggling with. Probably did. Hell, he’d always been good at reading people.

  Joe sighed. “What’s so damn funny?”

  “You,” Gary replied simply. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

  April 22

  Alison is angry with me. She wasn’t exactly thrilled when I gifted her and Kevin a building, but she accepted it. After all, the deed was already done – literally inked in her name. She has never really had a problem with the fact that I have money. She does have a problem when I try to spend it on her. Al is proud like that, wanting to forge her own way in life, including the up and down struggles that can arise when money is tight. She says it builds character and makes her a better person.

  I already know she is one of the best damn people on this earth.

  Which is why, although I respect her feelings, there are times I do things my way. Buying her that building was one of those times. Arranging to pay for all of the repairs and renovation expenses, another.

  I just hung up the phone after speaking with her. She’s so upset with me, she swore and Al doesn’t swear. I’m truly sorry I made her that angry. I feel even worse that I brought her to tears with the reminder that she is the only family I have. Best friends. Forever.

  With my forever and hers being so utterly different, I have no regrets over what I did. Building a business, making it a success as she starts a new life with Kevin, together as man and wife, is stressful enough. She doesn’t need the added pressure of worrying over the cost of remodeling, or bakery equipment, or making certain her building meets code. I can give her those things. It’s no worry for me.

  I need her to be happy. After everything – my diagnosis and treatment, the resulting depression – she was there for me, always there for me. At times, to the detriment of her own health. Hers is a debt I can never repay. I don’t have enough time. All I have is money. So I used some of it to comfort her, the way she has so often comforted me. Instead, I made her angry. I made her cry.

  It tears me up, shreds me.

  She is my closest friend.

  My family.

  The best damn person on this planet.

  Maybe someday she will understand.

  Number of days since I decided to live: 62

  Number of days since I met Joe: 19

  Current level of panic: 8/10

  THIRTEEN

  May 8

  Emma entered the arena, a broad smile in place. They were in Chicago, a huge change from the warmth of the Gulf of Mexico only a week ago, but she wasn’t complaining. How could she, when they’d checked into a hotel in the wee hours of the morning and had a three day break from everything, even bus travel, at the close of tonight’s show? She was more than ready for some time away from the chaos. Three days with nothing to do sounded like heaven to her. As heavenly as the box of cupcakes she carried smelled.

  With the schedule Emma had sent her in hand, Alison had taken it upon herself to whip up and overnight a baker’s dozen. Good God, they smelled good. No one baked like Alison. No one. Emma couldn’t wait to get her hands on Al’s newest creation—The White Russian. A vanilla bean cake with a hint of Kahlua and vodka, topped with vodka buttercream frosting and a dark chocolate curl. Alison had promised to send a couple of them, along with a variety of other flavors.

  Emma turned left, heading for the dressing rooms. She’d begun memorizing the layout of the venues prior to their arrival, recognizing how much easier it made getting around the places since she wasn’t always surrounded by security personnel and others who could help guide her the way the ba
nd was.

  After sharing her sweets with the boys, she intended to catch a taxi to Michigan Avenue. She’d replaced her laptop—actually, Joe had—something she still wasn’t comfortable with. Since she had yet to replace her satchel, she was hoping to hit Coach, as well as a few other shops, before the show. Her Am Ex was in her back pocket, calling her name, just begging to be used and abused along the Magnificent Mile.

  One more left brought her to her destination—Joe’s dressing room. The door was wide open, voices drifting into the hall.

  “Bloody hell.”

  Joe, his back to the door.

  Wearing jeans that hugged him like a second skin, a brown leather belt and black sleeveless T-shirt that showed off his tats, he looked like the rock god he was. He was talking to Marvin or, more accurately, Marvin was talking at Joe as Gary and the rest of the band lounged around the room.

  “I don’t understand why she needs to be here, is all,” Marvin said, his voice far from warm.

  “Because I want her here.”

  Marvin shook his head. “Your dick wants her here. Your brain is just along for the ride.”

  You little weasel. Emma snapped her spine straight.

  “Marv, Jesus, quit being such an asshole,” Gary snarled. “What does any of it have to do with you?”

  “I prefer Joe be focused on the music instead of his pseudo-relationship. He has writing to do, another album to—”

  “Fuck me.” Joe’s hands gripped the table in front of him, the muscles in his arms flexing. “Can we at least get through this shit storm of a tour before you start riding my ass about the next album?”

  Gary cursed quietly. “He is focused on the music. Now more than ever.”

  “He’s focused on his piece of ass and blind to everything else, including the fact that she’s using him.”

  Sniveling piece of shit. “How exactly am I using him?”

  Joe whirled around, surprise on his face.

  Marvin smiled maliciously. “Eavesdropping?”

  “You can’t really call it eavesdropping when you’re talking loud enough to be heard half way down the hall.” She stepped out of the doorway, crossed to the table and placed the box on the center. “Premium cupcakes from my friend in Cleveland. Thought you guys might like one since she is a fantastic pastry chef. You won’t be sorry.”