Fallen for Rock

Fallen for Rock Read Online Free PDF

Book: Fallen for Rock Read Online Free PDF
Author: Nicky Wells
switched on, especially in that cavernous open plan lounge-bedroom of his.
    Obviously, I tried ringing him again, but there was no response. On my fifth drive-by, I actually pulled up outside his house and lowered the car window while I rang through. I could hear the ringtone from within—just—but nothing else.
    ‘He’s not there. Where is he?’
    I nibbled my thumb anxiously, at a loss as to what to do next. An impatient tooting sound suggested that the driver in the car behind me desired to move on. I lifted my hand toward the rear-view mirror in a gesture of apology, put the car in gear, and embarked on my sixth drive-by round the block and past his house again. Should I park up and ring the doorbell? Should I stuff the envelope with the tickets in his letter box? Should I simply wait? Why, oh why, hadn’t I insisted on having a key to his place when I had the chance? Because you didn’t want to be pushy, I reminded myself and sighed.
    ‘It could be hours until he comes home,’ I continued talking to myself. ‘You don’t know where he is. If only there were a convenient coffee shop to stage a stake-out…’
    But there wasn’t, and I wasn’t comfortable sitting in the car watching his flat, always assuming I could actually park anywhere. Somebody would ring the police and report a suspicious female lurking about. Well, maybe not, but you never knew. This was central London, after all.
    ‘You could put the tickets in his letter box though,’ I suggested, waggling my head from side to side while I thought this option through.
    ‘But if he’s gone away for whatever reason and doesn’t pick them up or if, God forbid, he takes somebody else, you have gained nothing, no more excuses to get in touch.’
    Very true, very true. I nodded as I rounded the corner and began driving down the road again. I wouldn’t leave the envelope. I would leave another message and try texting again, but I wouldn’t hand over my only bargaining chip yet.
    As before, I slowed to a halt and cast a look at his windows. No lights, no movement.
    ‘Oi, you!’
    A loud shout and a sharp knock on the driver’s window shook me out of my reverie. I snapped to and was faced with an angry-looking elderly man wearing, bizarrely for the season, a felt hat and a scarf. He rapped on the window again.
    ‘Wha’d’yer think yer doing? Tha’s six times ye’ve gone past ‘ere now. I’ll be callin’ the filth if yer keep ‘angin’ abou’.’
    Neighbourhood watch in action. I was mortified. I pressed a button and lowered my window by an inch, enough to be able to converse without shouting, but not enough for him to get a hand in. I also surreptitiously engaged the central locking, just in case.
    ‘No need to call the police,’ I issued sweetly. ‘I’m concerned for my boyfriend because he isn’t answering his phone, but I’m sure he’s fine. I’ll be off now. Ta-ra!’
    Ta-ra? I never said ta-ra for farewell. Maybe I was losing my marbles.
    At any rate, I buzzed the window closed again before my unfriendly neighbourhood snoop could ask more questions, and I drove off.
     
    Needless to say, neither Castle nor Vivaldi could cheer me up that evening. Thoughts went round my head like mismatched socks in the washing machine. Where was Nate? Would I ever get another chance? What was I supposed to do with those tickets?
    I kept getting stuck on the issue of the tickets. I couldn’t let them go to waste. If Nate found out, he would definitely never, ever speak to me again. But what should I do with them? Apart from Nate, I didn’t know anyone who would like them.
    I snorted. That was ridiculous. MonX were the phenomenon of the decade, surely somebody would take the tickets off me?
    ‘I could sell them, I suppose.’ I tried to visualise myself in the role of ticket tout and laughed. Moreover, there was the small problem of my name on the package. Not on the concert tickets, as such, but on the VIP backstage passes.
    Emily Trenden.
    Guest
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