Page 161 of Perfect Pitch

Were you coming to see Beckett because you’re ill?

Mitch:

Christ, Beats. Why aren’t you replying to me?

I make it inside my condo and grab a cold ginger ale before I allow myself the luxury of replying.

Austyn:

The answer to all your questions is the same. You didn’t give me a chance.

Deciding to deal with all this later, I pick up the can of ginger ale and head for my room.

* * *

Much later that night, the covers are lifted and my body shifted. I grumble, “Go away,” to Mitch.

He wraps his arms around my middle before he breathes, “I’m sorry” against my ear before he kisses the spot behind it.

“I don’t want to talk to you. You’re a mean jerk,” I moan as his lips trail down my neck.

“I know.” His hands slide up to cup the underside of my breasts. “But I’m the mean jerk who loves you.”

My head flies back as he finds that sensitive spot I can’t resist. “He’s my father, Mitch.”

He pauses what he’s doing. “Right now, he’s in no condition to be anyone’s father, Beats.”

I roll around until my breasts nestle against his sprinkling of chest hair. I wrap my arms around his neck and just hold on, knowing he’s torn between doing his job and trying to protect me from being hurt.

I finally ask, “Will you let me in to see him tomorrow?”

For long moments, he doesn’t say anything but then he shakes his head. Before I can blast him, he informs me, “That’s because we’re going to see your lawyer. And, as much as I want to, I can’t stop you from showing up there.”

I smile against his shoulder. “No, you can’t.”

He pulls back enough so he can see my face. “You’re certain what you have to say will make a difference?”

I cup his cheek before tugging his face toward mine. “It’s going to make all the difference. You’ll see.”

“Good.” His satisfaction is evident.

I snuggle close and murmur, “I love how much you care for him.”

“Let’s not forget my sanity. I’m not certain I can listen to Roxette’s ‘It Must Have Been Love’ on repeat anymore. I might shoot myself with my own gun.”

“It won’t come to that.”

“Swear?”

“I promise.”

His satisfaction rings out. “Good.”

* * *

After lambasting my father, I inform him my mother deserves two things, “A damn apology and for you to shower. Christ, Dad. You reek to high heaven. I might have to bathe after that hug.”

I wave my hand in front of my nose in disgust after gagging. He thinks I was making a point, but the truth is he truly stinks to high heaven. I’m not certain how long my olfactory senses can tolerate such abuse.

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