“Cannon?” I call his name this time, but there’s no answer. I swing my legs to the side of the bed and snag a dress shirt from the floor as my feet hit the weathered wood.
Slipping the shirt on, I luxuriate in being surrounded by his scent as I pad from the bedroom out into the living room and kitchen area, looking for signs of life.
“Cannon?”
The third time I say his name without a response makes it official. He’s gone. I scan the kitchen and my gaze lands on a piece of paper on the counter with my name written at the top in bold strokes.
Drew –
Had to take care of something at the club. Stay. I’ll be back as soon as I can.
40
Drew
Iread it a second time to make sure I’m not imagining words, but I’m not. He really left me sleeping in his bed to go back to work. The level of trust he’s placed in me is completely and utterly unwarranted, and yet a warm feeling blooms in my chest.
My reporter instincts are telling me to use this time to search his office and dig into his files, but something holds me back. No, not something.Everything.
“Mine.”I can still hear the possessive word echoing off the walls and ceilings. Never before in my life have I ever wanted anything to be more true.
I’ve never belonged to someone. The other half of a pair. A couple.
And you shouldn’t be thinking about this now, because he’s a target in your investigation.
I tell my inner voice to shut the hell up because I’ve already decided that Cannonisn’ta target. I don’t believe he could have been involved with my father’s death. Not one single bit.
But when I slip back into the bathroom to take care of my basic needs, I still open the almost invisible medicine cabinet and poke around inside. Not because I’m looking for leads or evidence, but because I’m looking for moreCannon. I spot a stick of deodorant and a bottle of cologne, and carefully pull them out one by one and sniff.
God, this is why he always smells so decadent.I commit the scents to memory and know I won’t be able to smell them without thinking of him for the rest of my life.
When I flip on the water in the cavernous shower, I tell myself I’m only going to rinse off, but I take the opportunity to smell his soap as it lathers between my hands.
Yep, this is what I’m doing right now, and I don’t care how pathetic it is.
Once I’m dry, I help myself to the robe hanging on the wall of the walk-in closet, and roll up the cuffs so they don’t hang over my hands. As I wander out into the living room, I make my way to the stereo sitting on an industrial set of bookshelves. I’m surprised to see a turntable and an entire cage-fronted cabinet beneath it that is filled with records.
Records.As in vinyl. One of my weaknesses.
I spent my teen years collecting all of my father’s favorites and gifted them to him with a refurbished turntable. He’d been thrilled, and every night, we’d spend an hour listening to them after he got home from broadcasting the evening news to the rest of America.
To them, he was Leander Lockwood, the confident voice that delivered bad news with compassion and good news with excitement. To me, he’d just beenDad.
The albums I’d given him over the years are all still resting in a place of honor in his home in Connecticut, which I’d been cleaning out when I found the stashed evidence that led me on this journey, where I met Cannon.
Right now I should be snooping through his office, trying to build a case I could take to the Feds to bring down the entire Casso organization, but I can’t bring myself to do it.
Not now.
I don’t know if that makes me a piss-poor investigative journalist or simply human.
When I put on a Led Zeppelin album and listen to the strains of “The Rain Song,” I push the self-recriminations out of my mind.
I can worry about everything else tomorrow. But right now I’m going to eat pizza and wait for my man to come back.
I just didn’t realize it would be a long wait.
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