Wild Forces: A Friends to Lovers Romance (O-Town Book 2) by Karen Renee (summer reads .TXT) 📕

“Told you to go with a waffle, Daughtry. It is what they’re known for there,” I muttered.

“Says the guy who got an omelet,” she said, but then exhaled sharply.

“Hey, you gonna make it?” I asked, putting a hand on her forearm.

“Yeah, we’ll be there soon.”

At our complex, she discouraged me from walking her up to her unit, but I wouldn’t hear of it. The entire way up the stairs, she held her abdomen even as she kept telling me she was fine.

While she unlocked her door, I glanced at Asher’s apartment and noticed there was a Ring camera. The problem was I couldn’t tell if it was positioned to catch Cassie’s doorway or not.

I knew a thing or two about Ring cameras since I had one mounted on the doorbell and one above the door jamb. Another consequence of scorning women.

Turning back to Cassie, I noticed she had gone inside, leaving the door wide open.

“Cassie,” I called, while I closed and locked the door.

Her muffled voice came from what I suspected was a bathroom. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

I wandered over to the couch and I noticed her apartment had the same lay-out as mine. From the other night, I knew Kaylee had the master, and I glanced toward that doorway. It was open, but the room was dark.

I looked to the entertainment center, and noticed the cable modem sitting next to their flat screen. All the lights were lit so I figured the cable guy had come and gone.

A sound came from the bathroom telling me Cassie was very ill.

I moved to the bathroom door. “Cassandra. You okay? Can I get you some ginger ale or something for your stomach?”

“Oh God,” she groaned. “No, Gabe. You can just go. I’ll be fine.”

“I will not ‘just go’, Cassandra. Someone has to make sure you don’t pass out from dehydration.”

“Somebody kill me now,” she muttered, and I fought laughing.

In her kitchen, I found a twenty-ounce bottle of Sprite in the fridge. I pulled it out and checked the pantry. There were some saltines, so I nabbed those, too. I couldn’t find any peanut butter, but that might have been too heavy for her at this point anyway.

Using a paper towel as a plate, I set out six saltines, and opened the cap on the soda.

It didn’t feel right to invade Cassie’s bedroom, but I wasn’t about to ask her to lay on her couch. Her bedroom was closer to the bathroom, anyway. Only by three feet probably, but every foot counted if she had food poisoning.

Her bed was unmade, which surprised me. I had her pegged as a stringent ‘bed-maker first thing in the morning’ type. Her nightstand only had a lamp on top of it, so I put the crackers and soda on it.

Since I was already in her space, I toed off my shoes and kicked back on her bed. I had my hands behind my head, my eyes closed, and my ankles crossed when I heard her come out of the bathroom.

“What? Gabe... what are you doing? And why are you on my bed?”

I opened one eye. “Told you I wasn’t leaving. Food poisoning is the worst. Lay down. I got you a Sprite and some crackers. Eat ’em, or not, but you need to drink a little something.”

She pursed her lips. “Fine. But as you can see, I’m okay. You can get on with your day.”

“Lay down, Daughtry, and let me worry about what I have on for my day.”

She sipped the Sprite and sat with her back against her diamond-tufted button-backed headboard.

I shifted to my side, propping my head in my hand. “Okay, you’re ‘in’ bed, but seriously, Cassie. You need to lay down. I won’t bite you.”

Her eyes slid to me for a moment before she finally slouched down to a horizontal position. She laid there for some time, and I decided to play a game with her.

“‘Rapper’s Delight.’”

Her head turned. “What?”

“You know ‘What?’ I’d have started a food fight, but deep-dish pizza—”

“Stop talking about food,” she groaned.

“Exactly. So, ‘Rapper’s Delight.’”

“Same genre?”

My head wobbled for a beat. “I’ll go easy on you and say no.”

“Grandmaster Flash, ‘The Message.’”

I wanted to nudge her shoulder, but I didn’t. “You’re such a nerd. And you read too much Rolling Stone magazine. Just because they say that’s number one should not be the reason—”

“Are you admitting defeat?”

“‘Blue Rondo ala Turk.’”

She stared at me a long time. Something close to pain appeared in her eyes. Finally, she said, “Thelonious’s ‘Blue Monk.’”

That gave me pause. “Gonna have to run that by Dad,” I muttered.

“So, you’re saying I’m right?” she asked, her eyes alight.

I grinned. “Nope. ‘Night Train.’”

She shook her head. “You are veritably evil, G-Rock. Throwing Oscar Peterson up against Monk.”

She exhaled and I couldn’t tell if it was a sigh or an exhale to control her pain.

Before I could ask, she asked, “Why’d you quit playing?”

“Playing what?”

She gave me a look. “You know. Why’d you quit playing trumpet? Or guitar? Or any instrument?”

“Could ask the same of you, Daughtry.”

“Who says I quit?”

When we first became friends, I had admitted to playing the guitar. But I never told her about the trumpet. “Who told you about me playing the trumpet?”

She turned away.

“Was it Brock?”

She turned back to me. “I looked into you.”

My chin dipped. “What does that mean? Have you been internet-stalking me?”

Her eyebrow lifted for a moment. “Not recently. But when we first met, I sensed guitar was not your only instrument. I mean, most people get forced into piano or something other than guitar. So, yeah. I searched you on social media and found some stuff you were tagged in by former classmates. You got chops, man.”

“For a middle-sized town in central Florida, sure. Not enough for Juilliard or any place like that.”

“You tried to get into Juilliard?”

“Tried. Failed.”

Her vibrant green eyes lit up. “Gabe! Plenty of great artists get snubbed by the big J. Hell, there are artists that get in,