Ten Days of Perfect (November Blue #1)

“It’s not just that, Ember . . .”

“Well either it’s such a big deal that you should drop me off on the side of the road right now so I can run scared back to Barnstable, or it’s handled enough that you can tell me. I don’t get naked and tell just anyone that I love them, Bowan, you have to trust me. Trust is really important, you know.” I realized with building irritation, that I hated not being trusted.

“November, you can trust me, too. I just don’t want anyone to get hurt.” His tone told me I’d pushed far enough.

“Sorry,” I said as I turned my shoulders back to the windshield and let out a long breath. I reached for the “play” button again, but he stopped me.

“No, it’s ok. Look, you’re right; I owe you something after all we’ve gone through this last week.”

“I’m sorry for pushing you, it’s your business . . .” I conceded, though I really wanted to know.

“It’s about Rachel.”

“Your sister?” My pulse quickened as my voice rose.

“Yea.”

“Does she know?”

“No.” His face paled.

“What the hell?”

“They knew if they went to her for the money she’d probably tell me and I’d kick their asses. They were smart; they went directly to me, threatening to expose some nude and other graphic pictures of her from her drug using days. If she even remembers taking them, she certainly doesn’t know they’re still around. She’s my Achilles’s - I’d do absolutely anything to protect her, Ember. Those pictures, and that part of her life, need to burn with the assholes that have held onto them.” He clenched his fist against the steering wheel before continuing, “No one else at DROP knows about it, not even David Bryson - just our legal team.” He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye.

“Wow. You said you knew who was blackmailing you, though, so why wouldn’t you just go to the police?”

“We have to build the case, and it’s a small town. When you’re as wealthy as my family is. . . I couldn’t risk anything getting out before we were ready. I involved the legal team because they are from all over and didn’t grow up with me, my friends, or my parents. When dealing with blackmail, you’ve got to push it to the breaking point to mount as many charges as possible,” He replied unapologetically.

When we pulled in to Concord, I was momentarily disoriented by the lack of ocean. It reminded me that I needed to get off the Cape a little more. Bo drove me through town, giving me a drive-through tour of his birthplace. He pointed out his favorite restaurants, his high school, and we passed DROP’s main office.

“Nice spot,” I commented, “You can really do a lot with that location. What are some of your long-term hopes for the community centers?” We were in Concord for business, after all.

“Ideally I’d like to equip any and all centers we operate with a studio and, of course, instruments to use in those studios.” A hopeful smile spread across his lips.

“That’s an amazing idea! Music therapy is huge. I’ve never even been to a recording studio before, but imagine being a kid from desperate circumstances and being able to hear your instrument and your voice played back in your ear? Great idea, Bo! Technically, it would be Monica’s department to help you on the ground level with that project - but, quite frankly, I call shotgun.” I nearly leapt out of my seat.

“You’d be awesome at it. But, wait a minute - you’ve never been inside a recording studio before?” His jaw unlocked for the first time since I brought up the blackmail.

“No. Why is that weird? Have you? Well, duh, obviously you have.” I blushed at my idiocy.

“Ha. Yes, you’re right and, I liked the experience so much that I built one inside my house.” He straightened his posture, illustrating his pride.

“You have a recording studio in your house? Figures. Now your new name will have to be Lord Hotness of the Guitar and All Things Awesome.” I laughed then stared out the window.

Several minutes after driving through the center of Concord, we turned onto what appeared to be a private road. We drove along this road for several more minutes, and I only saw two houses before we came upon an overbearing wrought iron gate at the end of the road. Without missing a beat, Bo threw his Audi in park, slid out of the car, and walked over to the gate. He pressed a few numbers on a keypad, and the gate slowly opened as he got back in.

“A gate? Really?” I wasn’t dancing with the hippies anymore.

“What?” He shrugged passively, “It’s not my gate - well I guess it is now but - it was my parents’ house, Ember. I can’t let it go.” He drove through the gate and proceeded slowly down the driveway.

“I’ve never known a reallive person who had a gated driveway, you’ll have to excuse me,” I laughed, “I spent most of my time on farms, communes, a yurt . . .” The look on his face caused me to break in to laughter, “What?!”