Page 88 of Sing Your Secrets
twenty-six
Reese
After nearly losing my shit in downtown Denver traffic hour, I finally arrive at Westlake Suites. Flying through the lobby and straight to the elevators, I press P for the penthouse. I hold my breath as I pound on the penthouse door aggressively, with the heel of my palm. Predictable. I knew exactly where Petey was staying without having to ask. He’s a creature of habit—same hotel, same lies, same bullshit. So fucking predictable.
Petey opens the door with a surprised look on his face. I don’t blame him. I was knocking like I was the SWAT team. I glance over his shoulder and see his main living room is empty. Okay, that’s actually surprising. Petey usually doesn’t travel anywhere without a circle of protection around his body…and his ego.
“Reese? It’s nice to see you.”
I point right between his eyes. “No. It’s not nice to see me. What the fuck are you playing at?”
“What?”
“You’re telling people I’m your girl? You bought The Garage for me? Tell me honestly…are you even engaged or were you just trying to hurt me? And what’s more—what for? Haven’t you done enough damage? Haven’t you taken enough from me?”
If his eyes get any wider, they are going to pop right out of his head. He’s wearing the look of a criminal who is surprised he got caught. “I can explain…”
I take a moment to eye him up and down. He’s in a black sweat suit—matching hoodie and sweatpants, and his normally richly tan skin looks a little pale. “Are you okay?”
“Yes.” He takes a giant step backward as he coughs into his fist. “Just a little cold. I’d invite you in, but I don’t want to get you sick.”
“Where are your people?”
“What people?”
“Your manager, agent, entourage…”
“I haven’t had a dedicated manager since Parker died. My agent was with Elite Records, but I’m done there now. D was here, but she had to head back to the East Coast. I’m not her only client.”
“What about your friends?”
“If you can call them that”—he coughs again—“they’re back in Atlanta enjoying the good life.” He rolls his eyes. “Off my dime.”
I feel bad for him. My friends are so close, we get sick together. Not even the flu could scatter us. The last time I was sick, even germophobic Mani, dressed in basically a hazmat suit, came to check on me and drop me off my favorite soup. She sat on the opposite side of the couch as we watched the entire trilogy of Pitch Perfect. She flinched every time I sneezed, but point being—she was there for me.
If I had any control over my instincts, I’d walk away. The smart thing to do is tell this reckless, conniving man he deserves to drown in a bucket of putrid green snot, but the problem is I’m seeing ghosts. It’s not Petey Pete the Sneak, the cocky-ass hip-hop superstar, in front of me at the moment. He looks a whole lot like the Petey I used to know. Kind eyes, soft spoken, down on his luck…the man that needed me.
“What’s your temperature?”
He shrugs. “Hot?” He sneezes into the crook of his elbow and then immediately grabs his temples like he’s trying to hold in the pressure. His eyes clamp shut in anguish. I wish I could say he was putting on a show, but he genuinely looks miserable.
I let out a dramatic huff of annoyance as I cross the threshold and close the door with my foot. “Peter Mills, a grown-ass man worth millions, and still doesn’t know how to take care of himself,” I mutter as I head to the fancy kitchenette. Actually, who are we kidding—it’s the penthouse at Westlake. This supposed mini kitchen is twice the size of my own. I fill a sleek blue tea kettle with water and pop it on the stove.
I feel Petey’s eyes on me. He lets out a long low whistle. “She called me Peter, folks,” he mumbles to himself. “You know I’m in trouble now.”
* * *
Me: I’m at Petey’s. He’s pretty sick.
Addie:This is the part of the movie where Leatherface is about to emerge from the shadows.
Mani:Huh?
Noa:As in she should run for her life.
Addie:Thank you, Nono. At least one of you gets me.
Noa:Got you, Addie *blow kiss emoji*.