“Aren’t you giving yourself too much credit, Tyler? I have her journal and while, yes, she loved you, loves you,” I amend, “she was, is, a strong independent woman. Maybe she just had enough of not being enough for you.”
His expression tightens. “That was her journal on your desk. You have her journal.”
It’s not a question, but I answer anyway. “Yes. I have it.”
“And?”
“She got involved with someone after you. She thought it was a mistake. She feared it was a problem. And the entries end abruptly. Do you know who it was?”
“Brad Waters. She was involved with him.”
“Let’s hope it’s not him because he’s looking for her, too. You know that. He came here to find her. Who else could it have been?”
“I have no idea,” he says tightly, “but it seems clear to me that if I don’t know where she is and he doesn’t know where she is, she chose to leave.”
“Why do you keep going back to that?” I demand, starting to get angry with him. “Why can’t you worry about her with me? Why can’t you see another possibility other than her leaving so that you can help us find her?”
“Ms. Wright,” he snaps.
“Allie.”
“You’re asking me to consider the idea that something happened to her, that she’s no longer on this earth. In other words, I drove her in the wrong direction, I let her go, I pushed her to what became her fucking demise. And so, you have your answer. That’s why I’m not willing to consider anything but she left because she wanted to leave. Do you understand me?”
At this point, he’s close, really close and I don’t even know when the door opened, but it’s open.
“Allie,” Dash says softly, apparently having witnessed at least part of this from outside the car.
Tyler grits his teeth and turns, his eyes meeting Dash’s for an intense moment before he exits the car, cutting left toward the garage elevators. I exit and step in front of Dash, his hands sliding to my waist, warm and protective, which feels really nice right about now.
“What was that?” he asks.
“He’s afraid Allison is gone, Dash. Really gone.”
A chill races down my spine and back up again because I am, too.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
On the Tuesday of the next week, I work late, while Dash has drinks with a group of studio execs intent on winning his TV show rights. It’s really looking as if by Thanksgiving, which is fast approaching, Dash should have a home for his TV show. I’m actually eager to get home to be there when he returns to hear all the news. Bella plans to come over for the same reason.
I’m just thinking about packing up, when to my shock, Jack—Hawk Senior—appears in my doorway. “Oh good, I caught you. I have some people I want you to meet. Meet me on the rooftop in fifteen, will you?” He doesn’t wait for an answer.
Nerves assail me. What the heck is this? I text Bella: Jack just told me to meet him on the rooftop. There are people he wants me to meet.
I know he had a couple of record producers in today, she replies. Maybe he’s involving them in the auction.
Maybe. I don’t know. It’s a little unexpected. I’ll meet you at the house. Just let yourself in.
I always do, she jokes, because yes, she does. She caught me in my bra and panties this past weekend when she showed up at the apartment unexpectedly.
Nervous about the unknown portion of this meeting, I fix my face and then head upstairs. As soon as I enter the rooftop room, I find a group of men at a table, the Nashville city lights twinkling through the nearby windows. Oh yes, this will be a brilliant place for the auction. I make a mental note to hire a photographer. How have I not handled that part of the party? And can I even get one this late?
Jack must spot me because he stands and motions me to the table. Before long, I’m sitting with a group of five men, all players in the music industry, talking about the auction. Thank you, Queen Compton, for preparing me for this with the hundreds of similar presentations she entrusted me with. When I’ve finished my pitch, I’ve received a twenty-thousand-dollar donation for the charity, and hold the cards of two men with pricey items they’d like to run through Riptide. I’m elated. Mark will be elated as well, but act as if he is not. That’s Mark. It’s kind of Tyler as well.
It’s not, however, Jack. When the men leave, he raves. “You were brilliant. You got one of the stingiest guys in the business to write a check. You should be an agent.”
“I’ve dealt with enough agents to know I don’t want to be an agent. And you do know I’m going to stay on with Riptide, right?”