Melinda swung her legs over the arm of the black leather chair she was firmly seated in. Deep off in the bowels of her home, the bells on her grandfather clock chimed loudly, announcing it was twelve o'clock midnight.
Michael still wasn't home.
Ryan wandered in, tossed a glance her way, and popped the lid off a bottle of Budweiser, taking a long gulp before joining her in the sitting room.
"Not here yet?"
"He's four hours late," she replied tersely, digging her nails into her palm. "On the wrong night."
"Maybe he got involved in some kind of fight," Ryan offered. He passed her the Budweiser, w