I go on afternoon rounds, careful to avoid the east wing of ICU where Carrie is being kept; the last thing I need is to run into Zeth when he comes to secret her out of the hospital. It’s the end of my shift, seven p.m., by the time I head back to her room to collect my phone. Just as I’d suspected, Carrie’s bed is empty and her ruined clothes from yesterday are gone. But when I look in the drawer of the nightstand, I’m less than happy when I realize that she’s also taken my cell phone with her.
Fuck.
Pippa. 11.33
I hope you really heard what I was saying, Slo. Stay away from that guy. I mean it!
I get tingles when I read through Sloane’s messages. Kinda fucked up, I know, but I’m that self-obsessed. I get the warm and fuzzies when I realize she’s been talking about me to her friend. I haven’t mentioned her to a single soul on the face of this planet, but then that’s what guys do; we hoard our shit. Refuse to let anything slip. Chicks aren’t like that—they gossip like mother hens. I’m absently wondering whether she’s told this Pippa how big my dick is, if she remembers how big my dick is—of course she does—when the phone fucking chimes in my hand.
(816) 5466 7980 21.32
Asshole.
I know it’s from her. And I know it’s meant for me. I grimace as I reply:
Me: Bitch.
(816) 5466 7980 21.38
That phone is on a plan. Be good to get it back.
Me: Have to come get it then, won’t you?
I’m playing with fire right now. I shouldn’t be trying to get her to meet me. I should be cutting all ties with her entirely. Since I brought Lace home and forced her into her bed to rest, I’ve questioned her eighteen different ways from Sunday. Did you give her an address? No. Did you tell her where I worked? No. Did you give her your real name? No. Did you give her my real name? Lace? Did you give her my real name? Yes.
Well, shit.
It’s not her fault. The girl was drugged up to the eyeballs and I hadn’t had chance to give her our story, but still…I’m fucking furious that Sloane has my name. Somehow feels like a gross imbalance in power now. I know everything about her and she knows next to nothing about me, but I liked remaining an anonymous party in this shit fight of a situation.
(816) 5466 7980 21.32
Give me an address. I’ll send the cops around for it asap.
She’s grown feisty since we met again in the corridor of St. Peters. It’s easy to be shitty with someone in a text message, though. Different story face-to-face. Body-to-body. I’m yet to get a proper read on the girl, but I’m concerned she’s not as smart as I think she is. She’s a doctor now, so you’d think she had some brains—will let this drop and will forget all about me like I told her to. But I know first hand how desperately she wants to find her sister, and I doubt time has done much to change that.
Me: Apt. 12c, 515 West Ave. 8pm, tomorrow. Wear something nice and short. And I’d seriously recommend leaving the five-oh at home. We don’t play well together.
I’m smirking when I hit send. That’s not the address to the warehouse; that’s the address of the apartment downtown where I host my little get-togethers. Get-togethers isn’t exactly the right term for the gathering, but Lacey thinks it’s better than what I’d called it before—the fuck-fest. The first Saturday of each month is always the same at 515 West Avenue, and tomorrow night will be no different. My cock stirs in my pants just thinking about Sloane knocking on the door, absolutely no idea what lies beyond on the other side.
I’m taking precautionary measures. If she doesn’t follow Pippa’s advice and shows up tomorrow night, I’m going to make sure that, no matter how badly she wants to track down Alexis, she will run at the sound of the name she now knows belongs to me.
******
I’m pumped all of the next day, waiting for it to be time. I’m always pretty antsy by the end of the month, anyway, purely because the parties take the edge off my more outlandish tastes. I go to nights held by other people—Frankie used to host a downright dirty one—but it’s not the same. I am in control when that stuff goes down under my roof; I get what I want with whomever I want. The release just isn’t the same when I’m not the only master to be obeyed. It’s not that I don’t let other dudes in; that just wouldn’t work. But every guy who enters knows who the boss is, and that’s the way I need it to be.
It’s almost dark when I’m finally driving over to the place in the Camaro. Lace is laid out on the back seat, sleeping. I’m not leaving her alone for a second, even if that means she has to sit in a room with Michael keeping an eye on her all night. A cell phone alerts, making her grumble drowsily; I remove the one in my left hand pocket, trying to remember whether this one is Sloane’s or mine. It’s mine, and funnily enough the alert, an email, is from Michael.
From: [email protected]
Received: 02/21/14 19:21
Hey, boss, just a quick head’s up. Still haven’t found anything on the girl. If Charlie has buried her, he’s buried her deep. Got some of Rufus’s boys looking, too. They don’t know any names. I’ll be over in an hour.
I may call Charlie my boss, but there are plenty of boys out there who reserve that title for me and me alone. Michael’s been on my payroll for the last five years; he’s handy with his fists and has nerves of fucking steel. With Charlie’s non-too-subtle threat at the end of our last meeting, I know he’s probably got people on the alert for me snooping around in his shit. I’ve always kept Michael separate from Charlie, though. He won’t be on the look out for a six-foot-five motherfucker from Boise, Idaho. I slip the phone back into my pocket and process the information Michael sent me—he still can’t find the location of the girl, or even any record to confirm she still exists, but he’s still on the job. I know he’ll eventually turn something up. It’s just a matter of waiting.