AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Hedonism, thy name is Havoc.
Ready and willing, thy name isme.
23
Melody
“I’m goingto go out on a limb and assume that even with your…prickly personality, there are people who might be wondering if you’re okay?”
Curled on the couch, I lift my head from the guitar I’ve been lightly playing around with.
It’s not lost on me that he didn’t say anything when I picked it up. As he said nothing when I started to quietly play a few chord progressions. He just…let me, without comment, or so much as a lifted brow.
Flat out, I don’t sing in front of people. Nobody. But I’ll still play a guitar if I’m feeling comfortable. Like with June, even if she’s miles better than me.
Apparently, giving in to my most base, depraved, dark fantasies and desires with the god of hedonism himself has a comforting effect on me.
That said, when I lift my head at his snarky comment to see him smirking at me, I lift a middle finger.
Jackson chuckles.
“Or maybe not?”
My brow furrows as the reality within his joke sinks in.
“There are some people who’ll be worried about where I am, actually.”
Like June, definitely. Or maybe, you know, my new boss, who I last talked to…what, one day ago? A week? I’ve somehow lost all sense of time here on Havoc Island.
I frown.
“There’s definitely no cell service out here?”
He shakes his head.
“But…I might have a solution. Come with me.”
I stand, setting the guitar down to follow him. “Comfortable” Melody is fashionably dressed in a button-down flannel shirt of Jackson’s which goes to mid-thigh, and panties.
Apparently, “comfortable Melody” has a laissez-faire attitude surrounding pants. Or modesty.
But when I catch up to Jackson at the front door, I pause.
“Wait, are we…”
“The solution is outside in my wood shop in the garage.”
I make a face. He rolls his eyes.
“Thoughchivalryis notably lacking a picture of my face next to it in the dictionary, I’d go, but…” he clears his throat. “You sort of need to come too.”
“Why?”
“Because Robbie can’t talk.”
The solutionto the snowstorm outside ends up being Jackson wrapping me in a blanket and charging through the snowdrifts until we crash through the door of his garage. He sets me down and slams it shut behind us. I shiver as I wrap the blanket tighter around myself, my eyes roaming the garage.
It’s a wood shop on one side, full of tools, a workbench, and sawdust everywhere. The other side seems to be motorcycle garage, with two vintage looking bikes in varied states of disassembly.
