But then Quentin spread the news he wasn’t expecting anybody to show up to work the next day until after lunch. That gave me some extra wiggle room. I could grab a few extra hours of rest and be freshened up and ready to go. Which meant I could hang out for a little longer. That turned into getting into a deep conversation with Gus Freeman about the company’s social media and my approach. To say I was surprised at how interested he seemed to be would be an understatement. For all the resistance his oldest son showed, this man was fascinated and ready to be a part of the process. He listened to me explain the ins and outs of everything I was doing with the company, showed me his own personal platforms, and offered me suggestions from a fan’s perspective.
Those were possibly the most surprising. I would have thought what he had to offer would be pretty much the same as what Quentin and I had already talked about. But I quickly learned that while Quentin’s insights were valuable, many of them were definitely coming from the place of the owner of the company. There was a business slant to them, somewhat of a distance. Gus, though deeply involved in the company, was technically retired. He didn’t spend nearly as much time around the complex as his wife and sons and didn’t have the kind of stakes Quentin did. He was still very much a fan of racing and was able to let me see the postings through those eyes. It helped me to clarify my focus and figure out what pictures, videos, and captions to use to appeal to the full demographic.
Which, of course, meant I went from one beer to two, bottomed out the basket of fries and went for another, and was lingering at the bar far later than I expected to be. The numbers glowing on my phone read two-thirty when I finally stumbled into my apartment. A key that already tended to be a bit sticky and temperamental was obnoxious as hell through my fog and exhaustion, but I finally managed to wrestle the door open and make my way inside. I dropped my purse and bag to the floor and peeled off my shoes, kicking them to the side. Just lifting my foot that way made me wobble, and I was glad for the rideshare Minnie had arranged to bring me home. It was going to be inconvenient and annoying to have to shell out the cash and listening to a driver make awkward small talk on the way to the office the next day, but it got me back to the apartment after the bar. That was the top priority for the night.
Right up there with figuring out who the hell was sleeping on my couch.
I crossed the dark living room toward the lump covered with my favorite chenille throw. I was just contemplating whether I should be afraid or not when I got close enough to realize it was my brother. He hadn’t told me he was planning on visiting, but he didn’t need to. We had always been close, and anytime I got a chance to spend time with him, I was happy. It was strange to see him sleeping there with no sign of his wife anywhere, but there would be plenty of time the next day to get to the bottom of that. I just needed to get to sleep.
Turning around, I started away from the couch, trying to be as quiet as I could. Unfortunately, Brandon hadn’t picked up many housekeeping skills after the age of sixteen and his shoes were tossed in the middle of the path to the hallway. The sound I made tripping over them woke him up, and his head popped up from the pillow, his expression nothing short of dazed and confused.
“Merry? Is that you?” he asked.
“Yep,” I said.
“What’s going on?” he asked, shifting to get up. “Are you okay?”
“Shh. Go back to sleep. I’m fine. I’m going to crash for a bit. See you in a few hours,” I replied.
My brother nodded and curled further down into the couch, pulling the blanket up over his head. I was still curious about the whole situation as I made it into my bedroom, but I was also crashing from the adrenaline high of the win, and the alcohol was making my joints feel rubbery. Not even bothering to change out of my clothes, I toppled into bed.
I woke up the next morning to the uncomfortable reminders of why going to bed without bothering to go through any of the nighttime routines was not a good idea. Groaning, I rolled over and tried to pry open eyes glued together by old mascara while begrudging my unbrushed teeth. A quick glance at the clock beside my bed told me it was nine. That was plenty of sleep for me, and I knew once I managed to peel myself out of bed and get the remnants of the day before off, I’d feel much better.