More Than a Feeling (Curves for the Rock Star 3 - A BBW Rockstar Erotic Romance) by Clare Cole Read Free Book Online Page A

working with.
Something tells me this is going to begin and end right here in
LA."
    We were suddenly startled by the
sound of Rick's phone jumping to life. Multiple police officers
gathered around and both Julia and Michael came running. I felt
sick, literally and figuratively, as Rick slowly picked up the
phone.
    "Like I said, we have a trace on
the line. Put it on speaker so we can all hear. I have to ask
everyone to be as quiet as possible, okay?" We all nodded and
Martin gestured to Rick to answer the call.
    "Hello?"
    "I assume this call is being
traced, so I will be suitably brief. Your son is alive and well. We
have no intention of harming him as long as you comply with our
demands."
    "I want to speak to him," Rick
barked. "Why should I believe anything you say?"
    "It appears you really don't
have much of a choice, Mr Borrell. As much as I'm sure you're being
reassured by the officers there, I am the only key to getting your
son back safely. Since I'm a fan of your music, I may cut you some
slack."
    Rick shook his head in
disbelief. "Are you trying to be sarcastic?"
    "No, not at all. I really am
quite the fan. I find your music strangely relaxing when going to
the toilet, for example. I find it helps in those moments."
    Martin gestured in a circular
motion to Rick, encouraging him to keep the kidnapper talking.
"You're fucking hilarious, aren't you?"
    "I have to say, Mr Borrell, I do
feel you lost it a little bit with that solo album. Too many soppy
love songs for my liking. Still, we all need a vanity project now
and again, correct?"
    "I'll bear your review in mind
when I do the next one."
    "That's a shame, Mr Borrell. I
was hoping you weren't going to make another piece of shit like
that. Anyway, we're getting away from the point here. Since you've
kept me on the line for far too long – all to no avail, I might add
since this call has been rerouted through multiple networks – I
should get to the reason why we are talking in the first place,
right?"
    Rick looked up at us.
"Right."
    "I'm a man of simple needs, Mr
Borrell. The life of your child in exchange for $5 million in cash.
How does that sound?"
    "Jesus Christ," Rick retorted.
"How the hell do you think I'm going to get my hands on that kind
of money?"
    "I really don't care how you do
it, Mr Borrell. The fact of the matter is that you will. You have
six hours."
    Martin placed his hands on his
head in disbelief.
    "What if I can't get it that
quick?" Rick asked.
    "You're missing the point. Like
I said, you don't have a choice. Now since I'm a generally
misunderstood kidnapper and have a kind heart beating beneath my
exterior of capitalist greed, I will send you a photo of your son
after this call is over to prove to you he's still okay. I'll send
you further instructions within the next few hours. Do not even
contemplate deviating from what I asked for or the next photograph
I send will be of Luke's first severed limb. What you would prefer
to start with? An arm, perhaps?"
    Julia started sobbing
uncontrollably. "You fucking bastard," Rick growled. "He's just a
kid. I'll give you the fucking money, but he's just a kid."
    "Very good, you do understand,
after all. And do pass on my condolences to Miss Forster. She must
be devastated right now. Await further instructions, Mr Borrell.
And just to be clear – do not pull anything stupid. If the money is
fake, Luke dies. If the money explodes or gets covered in coloured
paint, Luke dies. I am not acting alone, Mr Borrell. Live or die,
the choice is yours."
    The call ended and the entire
room fell silent as if none of us knew exactly what to say.

Chapter Two
     
    The normally beautiful LA
weather had conspicuously turned to something I was more used to
seeing back in England. Dark clouds gathered over the house, heavy
rain suddenly lashing at the windows and strong gusts slamming
against the sides of the walls. The rain came down at a forty-five
degree angle, like shards of glass intended to pierce our efforts
and make