kicked to voice mail. I’ve tried to tell myself it’s just paranoia and lack of sleep, but I can’t ignore the feeling something is wrong.
I had the same feeling when someone I considered family had attacked her.
Now, because of him, that same black feeling tears me apart.
“Damn it!” I hit speed dial again, only to be met with the same mocking voice mail. “Hey, princess, it’s me, again,” I say, attempting to keep my voice even. “I know I’m being paranoid, but I’ve tried to reach you all night.” Pausing, I run the back of my hand across my damp forehead. “Call me as soon as you get this. I’m worried about the baby, and… Phoebe, just call me, okay?”
I place the phone on the table and will it to ring.
It doesn’t.
Muttering under my breath, I scoop it up again, hitting another speed dial number I’ve worn out in the last few hours. Unlike Phoebe’s phone, this one rings three times before sending me to voice mail.
“I don’t know where the hell you are, or why you’re not answering, but someone had better pick up some-fucking-where before I have an aneurysm.” I sink on the bed and drop my forehead into my hand. “You know what’s at stake. Call me back. I don’t care what time.” Disconnecting the call, I close my eyes.
God, I’m tired.
My body aches, and my brain hurts. I need sleep, but there’ll be none tonight. The minute I close my eyes the nightmares will start. They’ve started to alter my personality.
I’ve become someone I don’t even know.
A brooding introvert.
I have it all. The woman I love lives in my house, wears my ring, and is having my baby. It’s all too perfect.
Too perfect.
Of course, this is when my life always goes to shit.
Standing up, I pick up my phone and roll it over in the palm of my hand.
“She’s fine, Jagger.”
I cringe at the nickname. The band had given it to me in our early years, and now it’s like an infection that won’t go away.
Dropping the phone back on the table, I return to the window and stare at the cars below.
“You don’t know that.”
Zane laughs, his voice gruff from two hours of singing and shooting a bottle of Jack. “Yes, I do.”
“How?”
“Because that chick of yours scares me, brother. But the offer still stands if you want—”
I face my best friend, my eyes heavy with fatigue. “No, I don’t want those people near her.”
“I think you do, but whatever.” He flops backward onto the hotel bed.
My patience snaps. “I need some sense of control here, Z. Otherwise, I’ll lose my mind.” Nodding, he pulls a bottle from inside his jacket and takes a drink, then pushes it toward my chest. I roll my eyes. “I’m not thirsty.”
He strokes his long beard. “Take the bottle, Jag. You’re a ticking time bomb, and I’m too fucking tired to clean up your explosion.”
Accepting the half-empty bottle, I close my eyes as the warm liquid coats my throat. After handing it back to him, I sink into the desk chair. “Not that I’m going to change my mind—because I’m not—but would she see them?”
Zane takes another swig. “Not unless there’s a reason. I told you, these aren’t the police. They don’t do things by the book. If Phoebe’s threatened, they’ll take care of it.”
Those words don’t make me feel any better. “At what cost?”
“I’m going to tell you this one time, brother. They don’t care if you’re Julian Bale or Bob Smith. It’s a job—it’s what they do. If their job is threatened, they make it not threatened. Got it?”
My gaze slides toward the table. “I wish somebody would answer the damn phone. I’m riding on about four hours of sleep in the last three days.”
“I figured. That’s why I came here before hitting the bar.” Pushing off the bed, Zane pulls a balled fist out of his jacket pocket and extends it toward me. Hesitantly, I hold out my hand as he drops two small blue pills into my palm.
“Sleeping pills?”
“Something like that.”
“I’m not taking random sleeping pills,” I mutter, shoving my hand back into his chest.
“Do you want to sleep, or would you like to end up in the mental insti-fucking-tution?” he snarls. “Now take the goddamn pills before I punch you in the face.”
He lifts the bottle, and I close my fingers around it, swallowing the pills. “What kind of father am I going to be if I can’t take care of my kid before