Free The Right Words by Lane Hayes Page B

loved more than any other. Books.
    “Well? Aren’t you going to answer? I’ll go first.” He laughed at my expression. “Oh. You think I’m just a dumb jock, don’t you?”
    “No! Of cou—”
    “I’m teasing you. I don’t know a lot about poetry, but I love some of Pablo Neruda’s work. Do you know it?”
    “Yes. Absolutely. What’s your favorite?”
    “‘Es tan corto el amor, y tan largo el olvido.’ It means ‘Love is so—’”
    “Short, forgetting is so long,” I interrupted. “I know that one. It’s very sad.”
    “It is. Your turn.” He gave me a lopsided grin as he reached over to grab a cracker nonchalantly.
    “Um, okay. ‘Beauty, real beauty, ends where an intellectual expression begins.’ Oscar Wilde.”
    “That’s a good one.”
    “It is, and there’s truth in it. I love that a few simple words can evoke such an incredible depth of meaning. It’s… sublime. It’s true beauty.”
    I set my wineglass down and sprang from my chair feeling suddenly restless. Talk about oversharing. I floundered for a change of topic like an acrobat on a tightrope.
    “It turns out I have an eye for color and perspective too, so you’re in luck!” I winced at my flirty tone. I felt Michael’s gaze as I wandered to the stone ledge and then pivoted around. “Shoot! I forgot to tell you I brought your mail in. Let me grab it for you!”
    “Don’t bother—”
    “It’s no bother at all!” I practically sprinted to the sliding-glass door and was immediately irritated with myself. Why was I freaking out? Was it the wine or was it the company? I’d had three sips, so I couldn’t blame it on the pinot. Awkward. I counted to ten, grabbed the stack of letters, and headed back outside.
    He glanced over his shoulder at me and set his glass aside when I handed him the mail.
    “Thanks.” He shuffled through the letters distractedly. “You know there’s a set of—whoa.”
    “What? What is it?” I stood nearby, too restless to sit, but something in his tone made me turn around.
    “What the fuck? This. That goddamn fucking….” He switched to Spanish and waved the offending piece of paper in the air.
    “English, por favor .”
    I reclaimed my chair and watched Michael for clues. I wasn’t sure he was going to share the contents of the letter, which was fine. It was his business. He handed over a single sheet of paper with a one-line request demanding he arrange for the immediate deposit of $25,000 to the account of James L. Wilson.
    I gasped in shock and flung the offending paper at Michael as though it were laced with anthrax as well as extortion. “Oh my God! You have to call the police. That’s extortion! He can’t get away with that. He should go to jail, directly to jail, do not pass go. Not okay. Not okay!”
    “Hey, calm down, hotshot.”
    “Calm? How can you say that? Call your lawyer. You need to—”
    “Shh. It’s fine, Luke.”
    “Fine! It’s not fine. You aren’t going to give him the money, are you? Do you have it? I’d be floating facedown in a river if someone wanted that kind cash from me. That’s a lot of—”
    “Stop.” Michael took his sunglasses off and massaged the bridge of his nose. The guy looked decidedly pissed. Not scared.
    I made a zip-my-lips motion and was pleased to see a ghost of a smile cross his face.
    “No, I won’t pay that little fucker a dime. But this was exactly what I thought would happen.” He remained as still as a statue, but tension came off him in waves.
    “It doesn’t say ‘or else.’ Maybe he needs a loan?”
    Michael snorted. “I doubt it. People like him are motivated by greed and spite. The ‘or else’ is understood, Lukey.”
    “Fuck. That’s… I don’t have words.” I didn’t bother reprimanding him for calling me Lukey, a nickname only Brandon or my mother ever used. I was too wound up.
    “Hmm. I do, but none of them will solve this problem.”
    “You’re right. Action! You need professional help here. Call