Page 9 of Every Shattered Note
It’s good.
It’s fucking good.
It shouldn’t matter.He’ll be gone by morning.And I’ll pretend that this never happened.That it doesn’t matter at all.
ChapterThree
Dexter
Bizarre.
Just fucking ...this is not the way I expected my day to go.
Not in the slightest.
My penthouse flooded this afternoon because some delinquent with a God-complex and a box of cherry bombs decided his parents’ bathroom was the best place to express his rebellion.They’d grounded him—some party he wasn’t allowed to attend—and in his grand teenage wisdom, he blew up a toilet.And, in the process, the entire plumbing system in the building.
He should be grateful my instruments didn’t get wet.If they had ...I’d be in handcuffs by now.
The fifteen-year-old in me kind of gets it.The adult version wants to strangle him.
Because the kid didn’t just wreck plumbing.He wrecked my entire fucking day—and possibly the next six to ten weeks of my life.
It took four hours, six phone calls, and what could’ve paid off someone’s student loan to convince the hotel manager to give me the presidential suite.“Too many events,” he said.“Booked through the weekend,” he said.They couldn’t cater to me—me—until Monday morning.Like I needed anyone to hand-feed me grapes.I just needed a dry place to crash, preferably in my favorite hotel.
It felt cosmic.Or maybe just ironic.Like the universe wanted me to eat it for once.
And the final insult?
I couldn’t even valet my car.
No one mentioned that the entrance would be overrun—floral towers taller than most people, tripods tangled in wires, and a swarm of bubble-blowing cheerleaders hyped on sugar after some regional championship.No space to pull up.No one willing to move.
So I parked down the block and carried my gear through sideways rain.
I don’t mind carrying my stuff—it’s grounding—but I got drenched.Twice.
My shirt clung to me like a second skin.My boots squelched.My jeans stuck to me in places jeans shouldn’t.
Thank fuck a couple of the crew guys recognized me—one even asked if I’d pose for a picture with his disposable camera while I stood dripping onto the marble floor—and they helped me get my gear upstairs.
All except Rosie.
No one touches Rosie.
Which is how I ended up playing at a fucking wedding.
That, and the thousand-dollar bribe I handed to the guy who was supposed to perform tonight.Rafe something.Or maybe that’s just what Alyssa called him.Didn’t matter.
What mattered was showing her who she was talking to.I know music.I know how to play.I know Hall & Oates.The nerve of her, asking if I even knew anything about music.
She was pissed, too.Which, after meeting Rafe, made sense.The guy looked like he’d wandered out of a coffee shop open mic night.He brought an acoustic guitar to a ballroom gig.If I hadn’t stepped in, the night would’ve tanked.
And her?
Fiery.All attitude and control.The way she pointed when she talked, how her words came clipped, like each one was a command the room couldn’t afford to disobey.I hadn’t met anyone like her in years.
Most people either fawn or flinch around me.Alyssa Stone?She bit back.
