Expensive - Amy Bellows Page 0,36

I finally get a call from Marjorie. I answer it on the second ring.

“Hello?”

“This is Marjorie Thompson. I’m calling you on behalf of Andrew Sullivan. There’s some paperwork you need to sign concerning the termination of last weekend’s contract. Are you available to meet me today?”

Thank God. I don’t want to wait any longer to get my hands on that burner phone.

“Yes. What time is good for you?”

“I have availability at four.”

That’s still five hours away. “Alright. That’s fine.”

She probably needs time to arrange everything, so I need to be patient. If we rush, we could make a mistake.

“Meet me at the office of Poulsen Associates,” she says and rattles off the address.

“Okay. I’ll be there.”

18

Andrew

I check the flip phone Marjorie bought me for messages again. That’s the fifth time in the last ten minutes. She already left to meet with Timber. In the manilla envelope with the contract, she slipped a phone that matches this one. It already has a message from me: Hey, Daddy. But he hasn’t messaged me back. Not yet.

It’s been twenty-four hours since I’ve seen him, and I’m already consumed with loneliness. Even if I wasn’t worried about Timber’s safety, our plans to continue our relationship in secret aren’t sustainable.

Which means I need to contact a warlock.

I wander down the halls of the mansion, past the east wing where my bedroom and the library are situated. Here, the only light comes from the open windows, and all the furniture is covered with white cloths.

Back when Edward was alive, this is where his quarters were.

In the early days, directly after his death, I spent most of my time here. It seemed like it might ease the yearning in my chest. Back then, the bond ache felt more specific to him. I hated missing him, but I didn’t have a choice. The spell had been cast. My fate had been decided.

The ache didn’t change until I started watching porn—until I found Timber. Then I stopped fixating on a man who was dead and started obsessing about a man I thought I could never have.

I stop in front of Edward’s office and flip on the light.

Edward’s hoard was maps. All sorts of maps. Ancient maps, newer maps, globes, even detailed coordinates that a rocket could follow to get to the moon. He had them all organized in this room. It’s just as big as the library with hundreds of globes propped up on pedestals throughout the room next to dozens of shelves with slender compartments, each labeled with the time period and geographic area of the map they held. Some of the shelves are empty because Edward was buried with the oldest and rarest of his maps.

Several historians begged me not to do it, but his will insisted.

The desk at the center of the room still has the letter he was composing when he had his last stroke. It’s addressed to his sister. He was asking her about the next Blue Blood social. Edward loved parties. Even if he couldn’t properly bond to me, he never passed up the chance to show me off. I was his young, beautiful omega—his grand indulgence after the death of his fated mate.

I hated the way the others had looked at me with pity.

But I’m not here for the letter. I open the first drawer of his desk. Inside, there are hundreds and hundreds of business cards. He liked to collect them from people at parties. In the first few weeks after his death, I sorted through them. I’m not exactly sure why. It seemed productive at the time—something I could do when I felt like my situation was hopeless.

They’re all organized according to profession and bound together with rubber bands. In the back corner I find what I’m looking for: the stack of warlock business cards.

It isn’t a large stack. Just five cards. I pull off the rubber band and lay them out on the desk. The first two have names but no phone numbers or email addresses. I’m not sure what the point of a business card like that is. How would I contact them? The other three belong to people I’ve met before: Abigail Messick, Howard Barnes, and Red Paintbrush. Red was a bit of a trip. I don’t think that’s her real name, and I wouldn’t trust her with my bond ache. She seemed too wild—too unpredictable.

Abigail was condescending. If I have to work with her, I will, but I’d rather it not come to that. Howard Barnes