Despite the bad vibe in my gut when I give her my phone, I also feel like I’ve won three small victories. The first: she’s going to get help, even though I’m going to have to literally beg Pip to take her. The second: she’s going to be out of here today, a full twenty-four hours before Zeth promised to come looking for me. The third: she’s probably going to be too overwhelmed to realize that she’s typing the bastard’s telephone number into my cell phone. Having his number will feel like a small piece of power I’ve taken back, something I have over him. Something I can provide to the cops if I need to.
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.
******