Read Online Games of the Heart by Kristen Ashley - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kristen Ashley
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Then he looked through the room seeing nothing. It was early, the room was dark.
Then he looked to the alarm clock.
It was ten after six.
He reached out an arm and turned on the light, his eyes going to the mirrored doors on the closet opposite the bathroom. The door to the bathroom was open, the room dark, no one inside.
He looked to the floor and saw his clothes tangled with Dusty’s jeans, tee and panties and the closed pizza box.
Fuck, it was ten after six. Where was she?
He pushed up in bed, his eyes going to his nightstand and he saw it. A piece of hotel note paper.
He reached out an arm and tagged it.
Bringing it to him, he read:
Gorgeous,
Off to procure the food of your people.
Back soon,
xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo
-D
He felt his lips curve as he stared at the note.
The food of his people. He hoped she meant Hilligoss donuts.
His eyes moved over the note and he felt his face go soft. This was because he knew she probably dashed it off but still, the fucking thing could be framed. Her penmanship was artistic and interesting. But it was the hugs and kisses with her initial that were stunning. The x’s and o’s were done on a slant with a bunch of flourishes that attached them to the elaborately drawn “-D”.
Staring at the note, he remembered another thing that was Dusty. As a kid, she was always busy. She might hang out in front of the TV but only when people she cared about were hanging out in front of the TV. All other times, she had an abundance of energy and creativity. When she did her chores, she sang and even danced, filling the house with her sweet, pure voice and her exuberant kid happy vibe. She was also often at the kitchen table or on her belly in her bed drawing. Her Mom put these pictures up on the fridge and rightfully bragged about them frequently. Others, Dusty hung on the wall on her side of the bedroom in a way that looked good but appeared haphazard.
Debbie hated it, thought it looked a mess and bitchily said it was a fire hazard when it wasn’t. But Mike, even as a teenage boy, could look at Dusty’s pictures for hours. They were of everything. Flowers, fantastical shit she imagined in her head, landscapes of their farm, sketches of her family and Mike. The detail, the skill, the imagination, it was captivating.
He wasn’t surprised she’d chosen to do something artistic for a living.
He was equally unsurprised she was good at it.
And he was further unsurprised that people spent a fortune on it.
The phone ringing again took him out of his thoughts and his eyes went from the note to Dusty’s cell next to his on the nightstand. He threw the note on the nightstand and picked up her phone, thinking, at this hour, it might be a member of her family.
But on the display there was a picture of a man and it said, “Beau Calling”.
Mike’s neck got tight as he stared at the display. The man was dark-haired and good-looking. He was wearing a beat up denim shirt and beat up jeans. His hands were shoved in his front pockets, his eyes off to the side and he’d been caught laughing.
Jesus. What was this guy doing phoning at that hour? In Texas, where the guy undoubtedly lived considering his clothes in the shot, it was even earlier.
But she’d said she was free and not one thing about Dusty had given Mike the impression she’d lie. In fact, the opposite. He’d never met anyone that was more of a straight shooter.
And Mike liked that a fuckuva lot.
The phone stopped ringing and Mike threw it on the nightstand. It wasn’t his place to answer so he didn’t.
Instead, he threw back the covers, found his boxers and tugged them on. Dusty’s phone beeped with a voicemail while he was pulling on his jeans. He ignored it, went to the bathroom, took care of business, washed his hands, splashed water on his face, wiped it dry and sauntered out.
When he did and he was nearly back to the bed, the phone was ringing again.
He stared at the man’s picture on the display, thought of the
Then he looked to the alarm clock.
It was ten after six.
He reached out an arm and turned on the light, his eyes going to the mirrored doors on the closet opposite the bathroom. The door to the bathroom was open, the room dark, no one inside.
He looked to the floor and saw his clothes tangled with Dusty’s jeans, tee and panties and the closed pizza box.
Fuck, it was ten after six. Where was she?
He pushed up in bed, his eyes going to his nightstand and he saw it. A piece of hotel note paper.
He reached out an arm and tagged it.
Bringing it to him, he read:
Gorgeous,
Off to procure the food of your people.
Back soon,
xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo
-D
He felt his lips curve as he stared at the note.
The food of his people. He hoped she meant Hilligoss donuts.
His eyes moved over the note and he felt his face go soft. This was because he knew she probably dashed it off but still, the fucking thing could be framed. Her penmanship was artistic and interesting. But it was the hugs and kisses with her initial that were stunning. The x’s and o’s were done on a slant with a bunch of flourishes that attached them to the elaborately drawn “-D”.
Staring at the note, he remembered another thing that was Dusty. As a kid, she was always busy. She might hang out in front of the TV but only when people she cared about were hanging out in front of the TV. All other times, she had an abundance of energy and creativity. When she did her chores, she sang and even danced, filling the house with her sweet, pure voice and her exuberant kid happy vibe. She was also often at the kitchen table or on her belly in her bed drawing. Her Mom put these pictures up on the fridge and rightfully bragged about them frequently. Others, Dusty hung on the wall on her side of the bedroom in a way that looked good but appeared haphazard.
Debbie hated it, thought it looked a mess and bitchily said it was a fire hazard when it wasn’t. But Mike, even as a teenage boy, could look at Dusty’s pictures for hours. They were of everything. Flowers, fantastical shit she imagined in her head, landscapes of their farm, sketches of her family and Mike. The detail, the skill, the imagination, it was captivating.
He wasn’t surprised she’d chosen to do something artistic for a living.
He was equally unsurprised she was good at it.
And he was further unsurprised that people spent a fortune on it.
The phone ringing again took him out of his thoughts and his eyes went from the note to Dusty’s cell next to his on the nightstand. He threw the note on the nightstand and picked up her phone, thinking, at this hour, it might be a member of her family.
But on the display there was a picture of a man and it said, “Beau Calling”.
Mike’s neck got tight as he stared at the display. The man was dark-haired and good-looking. He was wearing a beat up denim shirt and beat up jeans. His hands were shoved in his front pockets, his eyes off to the side and he’d been caught laughing.
Jesus. What was this guy doing phoning at that hour? In Texas, where the guy undoubtedly lived considering his clothes in the shot, it was even earlier.
But she’d said she was free and not one thing about Dusty had given Mike the impression she’d lie. In fact, the opposite. He’d never met anyone that was more of a straight shooter.
And Mike liked that a fuckuva lot.
The phone stopped ringing and Mike threw it on the nightstand. It wasn’t his place to answer so he didn’t.
Instead, he threw back the covers, found his boxers and tugged them on. Dusty’s phone beeped with a voicemail while he was pulling on his jeans. He ignored it, went to the bathroom, took care of business, washed his hands, splashed water on his face, wiped it dry and sauntered out.
When he did and he was nearly back to the bed, the phone was ringing again.
He stared at the man’s picture on the display, thought of the
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