Contingency Plan (Blackbridge Security #3) - Marie James Page 0,75
first couple of days, assuring me that she’d come back. Remington Blair looked at me, stars in her eyes, completely in awe when my hands were on her, when I’d smile at her.
My ego lied. I haven’t seen a whisper of her, and as time drags by, the seconds literally tripling in length, things get harder.
It’s no longer about my heart or what my body feels for her—those things may never dissipate. It’s fear for her safety that sours my gut and keeps me from closing my eyes at night. She’s impulsive. She does things to get attention, things that put her in danger like going to a bar and letting her drink get drugged without her even noticing.
Those fears are making me insane, crazier than she made me when she was within arm’s reach.
The ulcer I’m sure I have now is in thanks to that worry, to thinking the worst and scouring nationwide databases for Jane Does washing up on shore or being discovered on running trails. I have multiple subscriptions, both online and in print, for those shitty magazines that were hellbent on ruining her life, never giving her a moment to breathe or make a mistake without it being front-page gossip. I spend hours toiling away on the internet for her name to pop, even have alerts sent to my phone so I won’t miss it the second a new article comes out that mentions her.
There’s been nothing for weeks, literal silence on all fronts, and considering some of the morbid places I check, that’s not exactly a bad thing.
My friend at the FBI shut me down when I asked for help, and I have a sneaking suspicion that Wren somehow managed to get to him before I could.
“Business stuff I can justify because a lot of times our help also benefits the Bureau,” he argued when I asked and made sure he knew it was for personal reasons, thinking it would light a fire under his ass. “Digging into the life of celebrities isn’t something I can explain to my superiors. Hope you understand. Hit me up the next time you’re in Virginia, and we’ll do lunch.”
Do lunch? The next time I see him, I’m going to punch him in the throat.
“Flynn,” Deacon snaps, and when I look up, I find him standing several feet away. “Let’s go. I’m tired of wasting our time.”
“I can stick around,” I tell him, more willing to face a new client who doesn’t value my time than be stuck in traffic with Deacon and his stay-positive attitude.
“We’re in your truck,” he reminds me before pulling his phone out of his pocket. “You need to call Wren back so he’ll stop blowing up my phone.”
“Got nothing to say to him,” I mutter, climbing to my feet and relegating myself to the idea that if I take the back way to the office, I can shave four minutes off of Deacon’s good-intention conversation.
“All my phone says is, tell Flynn I ran into his pretty friend today.” He continues to look down at his phone casually, as if he didn’t just deliver a blow that has the ability to shine light back into my world or send me into eternal darkness.
I pull my phone from my pocket, dropping the damn thing on the marble lobby floor. The screen cracks, but it still works enough to make calls.
“Wren,” I hiss when the call connects. “You found her?”
I’m met with silence, another form of punishment. The man does not like to be ignored, and I haven’t spoken to him in weeks other than about work-related things. I’ve perfected petty, and he probably hates me for it. The mature part of me won’t acknowledge the fact that he started it by refusing to tell me where Remington went when she left the office. His I lost her in a blind spot didn’t work for me then and thinking about it now only pisses me off all over again.
“I swear to God, if you don’t—”
His chuckle makes me see red. He has to understand that the taunting right now is enough to send me into a blind rage. Laugh about it but tell me my girl is safe first.
My feet carry me out of the building, muscle memory and nothing else forcing me closer to my truck. He’ll either give me a damn address or end up with a broken nose. Getting to my truck quickly will ensure I can do either/or faster.