Catching Preeya (Paradise South Book 3) Read Free Page B

grumble or speak.
    “Fuck it, Josh. I’m coming in.”
    The door flew open. The hallway light streamed in.
    “What the hell, man? It’s the middle of the fucking night —my time,” Josh barked.
    Preeya squinted, adjusting her eyes to the scene. In the doorway stood a petite woman—like, child-size —in a thick leather jacket, buzz cut, gas station pants, clunky black army boots, and huge blue-gray eyes. Angry eyes.
    Before Preeya could take a next breath of the room’s putrid air, though she noted a slight difference since the door had opened, the little manager stormed into the room, kicking through the awful pigsty on the floor. She headed straight for the window while Preeya clung to the bedsheet, brought her knees to her chest and stared. At Josh—hiding. At the intruder—searching…for his stash? Then at the floor strewn with wads of paper, smashed beer cans, crumpled chip bags, and pizza leftovers she didn’t recall set at her feet—the grossness she’d stepped in. Preeya surveyed the rest of the floor, with its piles of notebooks, Josh’s opened guitar case, and strewn clothes—somewhere, her only wearable uniform—and then at the dead watch on her right wrist. Covering her tattoo. The tat that fit his, currently covered by the blankets he’d stolen. God, what a fucking joke. She raked her fingers through her long—oh God, so matted—hair as her thoughts rushed and the room spun, adding to her queasiness that wouldn’t quit. If she could locate her carry-on or purse, she’d grab some legal form of pain pill, if she’d remembered to replenish her stock. She wasn’t known for keeping track of, well, much of anything.
    But the crunch of a beer can ripped Preeya from her daze. Hands on hips, the short, gruff intruder stood by the window. “ My time, eh? Always Josh Bolte time, you selfish prick. Always making my time—my job —hell. You don’t know your ass from your cock, right from left, day from night!” The little woman, Dawn with the unmistakable Canadian accent, whipped around to the window and flung open the curtains.
    Merciless white glare tore through the uncovered window, Seattle’s summer sun somewhere back behind the always-hovering cloud blanket.
    Preeya squinted, swallowed hard, and gasped for breath as if the hatch to this underground prison had been pried open. Though blinding and even more clarifying as to the horrid state of her surroundings, there was hope outside the metaphorical dank dungeon. Her mistake of a night could be wiped away, burned away with the blinding and diffused light of a new day.
    Day.
    “Shit! No… No !” It couldn’t be day. What time of day?
    Preeya shot up, feet to floor just narrowly missing the cold pizza again, and hunted on and around the nightstand, kicking at piles, upending boots, flipping boxes. No fucking phone anywhere. Timedaydateflight-fuck ! Out of the corner of her eye, something out of place.
    Josh’s leather jacket— neatly draped over a chair back? Asshole. She took one giant step over a puddle of something— dear God —and lifted the cherished article. And there on the seat cushion lay her phone, safe, sound…and silenced? Fuck, Josh! She snatched it up, hit power. A screen full of missed calls and alerts flashed to view…then the empty battery icon. Dead . Shit, she’d forgotten to charge it before the short-lived seduction-to -vodka bottle-to -bed. Damn it.
    Timetimetime. She grabbed the device then scanned the room for her purse—for her charger—but it and her carry-on were still MIA, even in the full-on light of goddamn day.
    Josh’s charger, at his powder-white nightstand. She crawled onto the bed, reached over him, ignored his rapid-fire cursing, and yanked the cord from the wall. Returning to her side, she plugged it in behind her nightstand and connected her phone. Panting, waiting, praying—while not realizing that her makeshift toga had fallen to her middle in her mad rush, letting her right breast free. Her