Page 96 of Layla

John

“Gotta tell you man, was not expecting to find you here.”

I look up from the punching bag, wiping the sweat from my eyes, and see Tim grinning at me. He’s leaning against the doorway to the barn in one of his expensive looking suits, the smirk on his face familiar. I wish I could say that I’m surprised to see him, but I’m really not. Of course my father would have let him know I was here.

“Two of you gossip worse than a bunch of pre-teens,” I mutter, reaching for my water bottle.

Tim laughs, pushing off from the doorframe to approach me. “Somebody’s working up a sweat. Could it be that you have some things on your mind?”

I don’t bother to respond, choosing instead to down half my water in one gulp. Shit, Iamworking up a sweat. I actually have no idea how long I’ve been at it, only that my father’s pre-lunch drunken stupor was so irritating to me, on top of all the other shit in my head, that I’d escaped to my old workout space in the barn hours ago.

“What are you doing here, Tim?” I finally say when it’s apparent he’s content to wait for my answer all day.

He makes a face. “What do you mean, what am I doing here? Frank said you were freaking the fuck out. Where else would I be?”

I blink at him in confusion. “My dad said that?”

I don’t like how closely my old friend is watching me. “Yeah. Said you showed up here out the blue, barely said a word, and spent the majority of the last week getting drunk and beating the shit out of this old bag.” He gives the worn punching bag in question a little push, frowning. “Jesus, man. You look like hell.”

I’m still stuck on the part where my dad noticed that I was freaking out. To say that Frank Whitmore is not an observant man would be like pointing out that the Pacific is large—total understatement. The sad thing, of course, is that it wasn’t always that way. Once upon a time my father was the finest detective the state had ever seen.

How the mighty have fallen.

Tim is still watching me. “Go get cleaned up and we’ll go for a drive,” he says. “I want to show you something.”

“Look, dude, I appreciate you coming all this way but I’m really not in the mood for whatever this is.”

Tim’s eyebrows go up. “Really? Have big plans, do you? Lots of work to do?”

The pointed tone makes me groan. I know there’s no way in hell I’m going to get rid of him. If I don’t go with him, he’ll probably end up joining my dad for a drink inside where the two of them will spend the afternoon getting progressively more intoxicated while they discuss all the ways I’m screwing up my life.

Without a word, I stomp past him and out of the barn. It’s freezing cold in Indianapolis, almost as cold as it had been at Dee’s house, and my sweaty t-shirt immediately chills against my skin. Tim follows me back to the house and I hear him making small talk with my dad as I rummage through my duffle for a clean shirt.

It hits me right then that most of my worldly possessions are in this bag. The entire reason I came here after leaving Dee’s house—besides for the fact that it sounded like a damn good place to hide and be miserable—is because my California apartment is being sublet for two more weeks. After all, I’m supposed to be guarding a rock star right now. Since I spend so much of my life traveling to clients, putting my shit into storage and leasing out my apartment is commonplace. Every time I move my stuff into storage, I end up shedding more and more personal effects. At this point I’m down to the absolute bare minimum. A few books, some pictures, an old workout bench I never use. Most of the clothes I own can fit into this single bag.

I catch sight of my disgusted expression in the mirror over the cheap clapboard dresser. I’ve been seeing the same look on my face a lot lately—pretty much constantly since I left Layla at the staircase that night.

Fuck. I can’t think about that right now. I give my reflection a closer look, realizing that my hair is as wet as if I’d been swimming. How long was I out there for? Knowing that I’m too much of a mess to get away with skipping the shower, I gather up some clean clothes and head down to the only bathroom in the house.

I don’t bother to hurry much as I shower and dress. Let Tim deal with my dad for a while, since he seems so eager to be buddy-buddy with the guy. When I’ve finally finished, I go down and find Tim sitting in the living room, Sports Center on the TV. My dad is in his usual spot—it’s actually kind of surprising he hasn’t sprouted roots into that ratty old recliner—but he’s not gossiping with Tim. He’s fast asleep.

The sight has my heart speeding up at the same time my stomach drops. There isn’t just an empty tumbler next to him, there’s a whole damn bottle of scotch. And it’s almost gone. How much had been there when I left this room earlier? Jesus, it isn’t even three in the afternoon yet.

“He’s getting worse,” Tim points out.

I snort. “Only place to go is down, at this point.”

He frowns at me but doesn’t comment, merely stands, rubbing his palms down his thighs. “You ready?”

“Where are we going?” I ask, but Tim just gives me one of his smirks.

“You’ll see.”

The first few minutes of our drive are silent. My dad’s place is mostly surrounded by farms and the bleak winter landscape stretches in every direction. It’s not until we’ve reached the outskirts of town that Tim speaks up. “Why aren’t you at work?”

“Didn’t need me anymore.” It’s only partially a lie. Layla certainly still needs security but God knows she doesn’t need me and all the shit that comes along with me.

He frowns, eyes on the road. “They catch the guy?”