Rob Cornell - Ridley Brone 01 - Last Call Read Free

two inches.
    I was still naked from the shower the night before. “Hold it a sec.”
    The door stopped opening, but she didn’t pull it closed either.
    “Do you have someone in there with you?”
    “No one’s in here, I—”
    She swung the door open and barged in. “Fine.”
    I tucked the sheet up under my arms like you see women conveniently do on TV, trying to cover as much of my exposed skin as possible.
    Sheila halted before my bed, an eyebrow cocked Mr. Spock style. She held a serving spoon in one hand and a pot gripped by the handle in the other—her makeshift alarm bell. Her silver hair was pulled back in a tight bun, showing off the racecar-shaped earrings dangling from each lobe. She wore a pink suit with matching skirt, her lapel sporting a diamond brooch the size of a baby’s fist. In her late sixties, the woman looked fifteen years younger. I think whatever Dick Clark had, she stole.
    Sheila, believe it or not, was also the executor of my parents’ will.
    “I haven’t heard from you in a while.”
    “I’ve been busy.” I glanced down at my body, the sheet feeling so flimsy against my naked skin. My neck and cheeks grew hot.
    Sheila followed my gaze, snorted. “Ridley, I practically helped raise you. I even bathed you as a child.”
    “Um, that’s great and all, but I’m not a kid anymore.”
    “Your modesty is wasted on me.”
    “This isn’t a philosophical debate, Sheila. I’m naked under this sheet.”
    “I suppose I’ll wait downstairs.”
    She left the door open on the way out.
    I quickly hobbled into a pair of jeans I found bunched up in a corner, snagged a Led Zeppelin t-shirt off a hanger from the closet, then joined Sheila in the living room.
    She stood in the center of the room, surveying the various shapes draped with white sheets. When I came in, she turned to me and crossed her arms. The pot and spoon were gone.
    “You must have an obsessive aversion to dust.”
    I scratched the back of my neck, looking at the hardwood floor. “Haven’t we had this conversation before?”
    “I’m not sure.” She waved a hand at the covered furniture. “It doesn’t appear so.”
    “Please don’t get on my case about this.”
    “It’s silly. You have this whole house—”
    “To myself. It’s more than I’m used to. Way more than I need.”
    “If it’s too much work, we could hire a staff. A maid. A chef. There is more to that kitchen than a toaster oven.”
    “There’s a toaster oven?”
    Sheila rolled her eyes, stalked over to one of the sheet-covered forms, and gripped the sheet as if she meant to yank it off.
    “Wait.” I rushed over, pinned the sheet down with a hand. “Leave it.”
    “It’s merely a wing chair, Ridley. It won’t run loose and mess the floor.”
    She did a pirouette, glided over to a covered couch, and whipped the sheet off like a magician revealing a shocking illusion.
    I felt my cheeks turn hot.
    “There,” she said and looked at me, chin slightly raised.
    I took a couple of deep breathes, reminding myself that she meant well. “What are you doing here so early in the morning?”
    “Early?” She offered me a view of her watch. “It’s almost one.”
    I squinted at the watch in disbelief. “Shit. I have to go.”
    “But—”
    I gripped Sheila by the shoulders and pecked her on the cheek. “I’m sorry. I told a friend I’d meet her almost three hours ago.”
    “Who?”
    I spun around a few times, looking for something without knowing what, or where to even start. The hectic night at the High Note , not to mention the lack of sleep, still had my mind fogged.
    “Old friend from high school,” I said.
    “A girlfriend?”
    I stalked into the foyer, scanned the floor, the walls. What the hell was I looking for?
    “Why? Jealous?”
    “Simply curious,” Sheila said and strolled in to join me. “I’m surprised she hasn’t phoned you.”
    I spun to face her and snapped my fingers. “Phone. That’s it. Where did I …” My gaze drifted