Blood Bond (Anna Strong Chronicles #9) Read Online Free PDF Page B

own bathroom, doesn’t it?” he asks. When I nod, he starts loading our shopping cart with sheets and towels and a brightly color-splashed shower curtain.
    In less than an hour, we have everything. I’ve never seen David move so fast. I follow along, caught in the undertow of his enthusiasm. It’s a side of David new to me. A side I would not have expected.
    When we’ve had everything loaded into the back of the Hummer, and are on our way to my place, I risk igniting the firestorm again.
    “What do you and Gloria talk about?” I ask softly.
    I wait, shoulders bunched, for the explosion. Instead, David says, “Mostly how her career’s going. Where she’s going on location next. Who she’s dating . . .”
    Sounds like Gloria. There’s Gloria and then there’s the world. “Does she ever ask about what
you’re
doing? Who
you’re
dating?”
    “Of course she does,” he replies with more than a hint of impatience. “Why do you always assume the worst about her?”
    I grunt. Let me count the ways. But instead, I say, “I worry about you where Gloria is concerned. She seems to have some mystical hold on you I’ve never been able to figure out.”
    He glances sideways at me. “You mean besides the fact that she’s beautiful, famous, rich, an international star and sex with her was—”
    “Okay,” I interrupt. “TMI.” At least he didn’t say sex with her
is
. I regroup. “Which brings me back to the question I asked you before. Where does all this leave Tracey?”
    He raises his shoulders in a half shrug. “I told you. I won’t hurt Tracey. Gloria is fantasy. Tracey is real. Someone I can rely on to be honest. Someone I can count on.”
    I shake my head. Does he even know how demeaning that sounds? “Do you think you’re being fair to Tracey?”
    His jaw sets. “I’ve always been honest with Tracey. I’ve never promised her more than I can deliver.”
    “Maybe not in words, but I see the way she looks at you.”
    He shrugs again. But we’re pulling into the back of the cottage and I have to jump out to open the gate before he can answer. Then we’re busy with boxes and packages and I get caught up in the excitement of tackling John-John’s room.
    David is unloading one of the cartons containing the bed from the Hummer when he asks, “Want some help putting this stuff together?”
    His tone is full of eager anticipation. He sounds as enthusiastic as I feel. Who am I to deny him such pleasure? Besides, I looked at one of the instruction sheets. It’s written in three dozen languages not one of which was fumble-fingered female. “I’d love it!”
    It takes us twenty minutes to unload everything and haul it up the stairs to the second story. I dump the white goods on my bedroom floor and David and I tear yards of bubble wrap and cardboard from the furniture pieces. Then we hunker down and piece the bed together. I read (or interpret) the instructions. Most are stick-figure drawings with one or two words to clarify what you’re looking at. Not that David needs much direction. He’s got that bed put together and we’re standing back admiring it in less time than it took us to buy it.
    “How about a beer?” I ask.
    “Sounds good.” David has wandered over to the open closet. Inside, I’d stashed the cans of paint bought to transform the stuffy adult room to something more to a kid’s liking. He’s looking at the color swatches. “This is great. Why don’t we get started?”
    “What? You want to help me paint?”
    “Right after that beer.”
    * * *
    I REALIZE, STANDING SIDE BY SIDE WITH DAVID, SWIPING paint rollers of pale yellow over the walls of what’s to become John-John’s bedroom, how much I’ve missed doing simple, human things with him. How much I’ve missed our friendship.
    I actually have to swallow down a lump in my throat before I can say, “You know what this reminds me of?”
    “Painting our office two years ago,” he replies without missing a beat.
    I hear the