Page 125 of Never Forget

“Jesus Christ,” I grumble.

Naz’s arm tightens over my hips. “They’ll give up eventually.”

“They’re not giving up, it’s getting worse.”

The ringing continues.

With a sigh that feels like it’s being ripped from my soul, I gently extricate myself from Naz’s koala grip and peel myself out of the cloud I died and went to heaven in.

Every muscle in my body protests after the events of yesterday, followed by a marathon of interviews and statements sitting in those ungodly plastic chairs.

The only light in the room comes from the tiny sliver of daylight peeking around one corner of the blackout curtains, and our phones glowing from the floor across the room where we’d dropped our clothes last night. Or this morning? Whenever that was.

I stumble across the room and crouch down just as one of the phones starts ringing again. Stabbing at the answer button without even noticing the name on the screen, I answer with a very polite, “What?”

My voice sounds, and kind of feels, like I swallowed glass.

“Good afternoon to you too, Mr. Riley.”

Blake.

I rub a hand over my face. “Morning.”

“Do you know what time it is?”

That gets my attention. Grunting, I pull the phone away from my ear long enough to look at the screen. I have to blink several times to focus.

It’s almost three-thirty in the afternoon. What the actual fuck?

“Well, afternoon, then,” I say, trudging back over to the bed and plopping down beside Naz, who sits up and turns on a blessedly dim bedside lamp. The warm glow fills the room just enough for me to see his hair sticking up in every direction.

“You look cute.”

“Fuck off. What the fuck time is it?”

“Almost three-thirty,” I answer, leaning in to kiss him. I don’t give a fuck about morning breath, waking up next to a grouchy, sleepy Naz is my favorite thing.

“Goddamn.”

Blake clears his throat. Shit. I forgot I was on the phone.

“Sorry, hold on, I’m going to put you on speaker,” I say.

“You’re on speaker too,” Blake says. “Cory’s here.”

“Overachiever,” I grumble.

“So, what’s happening? Why are you calling?” Naz asks, returning us to the issue at hand.

“Turn on the television.”

I look around the suite. “There isn’t one.”

Naz snorts and reaches into the bedside table, fishing out a sleek black remote. He presses a button aimed at the wall opposite the bed, and for a moment I’m very confused. What I’d assumed was an oversized ocean scape painting morphs into a welcome screen with various choices for streaming apps.

“Whaa?”

Naz chuckles and leans into me. “What channel?” he asks the phone.