Page 22 of Buckin' Around

Whatever this is, it’s got her reeling.

After a quick ride in the elevator, we take three short steps to a wide wooden door. Stacey stares at the door.

My gut flips.

What are we about to find on the other side of?—

The door swings open.

Spencer fills the doorway, his face tense, blue eyes dark with worry. His button-down shirt hangs out of his jeans, one sleeve rolled up, the other hanging loose around his wrists. His hair is sticking up like he just rolled out of bed as he rubs a hand behind his neck.

“Stace. Fuck. I’m so fucked.”

His gaze flickers to me and he swallows. “What’s she doing here?”

Something like fear tightens his features. “Stace,nobodycan know about this.”

“Riley isn’t going to say anything. Besides, we need her.”

“We?” His face relaxes a little.

Stacey folds her arms over her chest and cocks her head, brows lowering. “You nee?—”

The wail of something that sounds like a newborn baby cuts her off.

What the fecking hell?

Surely not . . .

Spencer’s shoulders slump as he pushes the door open wider and gestures for us to come inside before he shuts it behind us quickly.

“Fuck. I hope old Mrs. Henderson didn’t hear it.”

“It?” I ask now, one brow lifted, my own arms crossed. I’m liking the sound of this situation less and less as the seconds tick by.

“Never mind,” Spencer mutters, turning back for the living room space and taking up pacing, hands sunk into his messy dark blond hair.

“Do you know whose it is?” Stacey says, tugging her jacket off before dropping it on the back of the longest sofa I’ve ever seen. The apartment is exactly what the plaque on the front door said—the penthouse.

Holy shite.

It’s . . . so damn luxurious.

Glass makes up every external wall. The oversized kitchen is decorated in dark grey granite and black cabinetry. An open-plan living space takes up the rest of the area visible from where I stand. A few doors dot the far wall, and a hallway sits in the center of the living space, disappearing to where I imagine the bedrooms are.

Stacey is tapping something out on her phone. “Was there a note with it?”

“What?” Spencer stops in his tracks, anxiety twisting his features.

“A note. Did it come with a note?” Stacey bites out.

It.My nails dig into my biceps.

Keep your shite together, Riley. You don’t know what’s going on yet.

Spencer sighs. “No nothing. Just a whole lot of?—”

A wail echoes through the hallway now, long and painful.