Chapter Eighteen

Drake

“Drakey, don’t you want another shot?”

Rose’s voice grated against my ears like nails on a fucking chalkboard. I was doing the PR for her show, Sabrina, which was some witch crap or teen drama. I didn’t really know all the details; one of my assistants handled the account personally. Still, when I got home from the cluster fuck that was the Bahamas, I’d gotten back into whatever routines I could without Belle. What a joke that was. It was as if I’d never had a life before her. Every night, the flashbacks dragged me down, thrusting me into nightmare after nightmare until I woke up to my own voice screaming until it was raw. Every day, I went through the motions. I caught myself replaying the three voicemails that Belle had left me dozens of times a day.

I wanted to call her.

But she’d been so hurt. What could I say? Maybe I was a distraction. I felt the guilt as well, that sensation that we could have done negotiations in a couple days, and she could have been home for Angelique, there when her mother got sick. It helped that I’d been able to get her Mom good care and that from all the doctors’ reports, Angelique was doing better. It also helped to be able to give her money, give her back the wealth and station her family had once had.

It didn’t help worth a goddamn that I had to spend long days with Maurice, wishing that I could ask after Belle with more than a casual curiosity. I wanted to see her, but I just couldn’t because, deep down, she didn’t want to see me.

I was a distraction after all.

But the old tricks weren’t working to keep the PTSD at bay, to keep my beast satiated. The clubs didn’t have any subs I wanted to work with, no one who’d ever compare to Belle, to my princess and her willingness to explore everything. It was worse trying to make the right image for my company and for Rose’s show. It was only a few dates on the deal, nothing more than some drinks at clubs.

But Rose was getting on my last fucking nerve.

Standing up, I tossed a hundred-dollar bill on the table. “Sorry, Rose, but I’m going to call it a night.”

“It’s not even midnight yet, baby,” she pouted. Did this routine really work on any guy?

“Oh, trust me, it feels a hell of a lot later,” I said, hurrying out to my waiting limo.

***

Most of what was happening these days I expected. I expected to be miserable. I expected the constant barrage of nightmares and to be back there, holding dead friends and their limbs in my arms. What I didn’t expect was to have a literal bucket of cold water dumped over my head the next night at close to ten p.m. Ugh, I’d been on a bender of my own after I got back from the club. I hadn’t actually passed out on my own until eleven a.m.

Jesus, what a mess, I thought as I blinked at my digital clock.

Then I groaned when Leonard and Mrs. Johnson were standing on either end of my bed. Mrs. Johnson was smiling widely, even if she had that red bucket still clutched in her fingers.

“Rise and shine, cupcake,” she said, rattling that bucket as if it were a threat. “We need to talk.”

“I think you’re not exactly into talking,” I said, standing up and hurrying into my adjoining bathroom to grab a towel. “Seriously, you two do understand that I’m your fucking boss, right? I could fire you anytime I wanted.”

Leonard chuckled as if that were the funniest joke he’d ever heard. “Operative word, sir, is ‘could.’ We both know you won’t. We’re two of the only people in the world who will put up with your crap and call you on it to your face, and you know it.”

I groused as I ran a towel over my hair. “That doesn’t mean I’m not pretty damn tempted. What the fuck was that all about?”

Mrs. Johnson finally set the bucket down and put her hands on her plump hips. “You. It’s been close to two weeks, and you’re an utter mess, dear. You’re burying yourself in your work where you can, putting out the PR image for the company, and then not sleeping. You’re worse off than you ever were before Belle came.”

“I don’t want to hear that name.”

“It’s true,” Leonard said. “You’re avoiding everything, and you know it. That girl said things—whatever she said—when she thought her mother was dying. You know she didn’t mean it because of those voicemails.”

I blinked. “How do you know about those?”

“Please, dear,” Mrs. Johnson said, her voice as syrupy sweet and maternal as ever. “We know everything. Someone has to keep an eye out for you since you can’t do it for yourself. The girl misses you, and all you have to do is contact her.”

“I guess I could call her.”

Leonard snorted. “That’ll really sweep her off her feet, sir, good thinking. You’re serious?”

“Well, it’s polite to return a voicemail,” I said, tossing my towel back to the bed.

“You haven’t spoken to her in two weeks and after a hell of a fight,” Leonard reminded, as if I could ever forget.

“And?”

“That means you’re going to need to do far more than that,” Mrs. Johnson said. “You’ll need to apologize in person with dozens upon dozens of roses if possible.”

I nodded, feeling dumb and chicken shit for avoiding Belle in the first place. I probably wouldn’t have, but I didn’t want to be in her way while her mom was going through therapy. Belle wasn’t sure what she wanted, and I felt she at least needed to stay focused while Angelique was in danger, but with her mother newly released home, that wasn’t a valid reason anymore.

Besides, if I didn’t get Belle back in my life soon, I was going to go crazy.

Frowning, I came up with an idea, but I wanted my servants out of the room first. My thoughts weren’t completely legal. They weren’t wrong, per se, but I had a feeling that Mrs. Johnson would object. Leonard? He was harder to call. Guy had a Machiavellian streak of his own.

“You’re right.”

“And another thing,” Mrs. Johnson said, her eyes going comically wide when I agreed with her. “What?”

“I said ‘you’re right.’ I have an idea but can you let a guy get dressed first? Shit, guys, I don’t need prodding like a little kid here!”

“If the shoe fits,” Mrs. Johnson said before Leonard led her out of the room.

He winked at me before shutting the door. “I’ll just go and get the Rolls warmed up then, sir.”

“Sure,” I said, waiting till he shut the door to first get on some clothes that weren’t coated with freezing water.

Then I sat down at my computer and activated a program I’d had one of my techs install years ago. I might have gone through a little bit of a phase where I liked to keep closer tabs on my subs. I regretted that now, but the software still helped me track things like cell phones down if I had the number. Right now, I was planning to see if I could plan a way to “bump into” Belle while she was out tonight or tomorrow. I figured trying to talk to her at her house with all her family would end up being a FUBAR experience. I wasn’t sure her mom, her dad, and Carol wouldn’t have pitchforks and barrels of bubbling oil waiting for me.

Better to surprise her with the roses and the diamonds somewhere with less backup.

As I fed her cell into the program, I frowned. That couldn’t have been right. According to the map and the GPS, she or at least her phone was in a warehouse in one of the shadiest, most dangerous areas of Los Angeles.

What the hell?

Maybe the damn thing had been stolen. I called it first, trying to see if I could get an answer, but the phone just rang through, and things were starting to look even bleaker.

Bracing myself, I called Maurice. I wasn’t sure what lie I could tell that would be good enough to explain why I was calling at close to eleven p.m. to speak to Belle but calling his phone, but the right line of bullshit would come to me. It usually did.

Maurice’s voice was frantic on the other end. “Hello? Drake?”

“Maurice, I was trying to get Belle but her phone went to voicemail. Is she all right?”

“She’s been taken.”

“What?”

“The kidnappers just called. She was working late at the office and the cameras cut out and everything. Cops have already tried to comb through it and couldn’t find anything. The kidnappers called and told me to wait for future instructions and they’d tell me what to do. I… I don’t know what to do.”

“What about the cops?”

“They’re mad that I even called them to start. How they know about that I don’t know.”

“Maybe watching the building,” I supplied, thinking like the commander I used to be. “So, you have to wait for their orders, play on their schedule.”

“Yes.”

“Okay, let me at least call my security team on this. They’re more discrete and can do more than the boys in blue. I’ll meet you over at your place in a couple hours. I have to round the team up first.”

“Drake, thank you,” he said. “I… I don’t know what happened between you and Belle on that retreat, but she misses you. I see it every day. I just want her back, and I know you do, too.”

“You have no idea how much, Maurice,” I said. “I promise you, I’ll get her back safely. You have my word.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll see you as soon as I can.”

I hung up the phone and hurried to my walk in. I kept a few of my old service arms there in immaculate condition, just in case. I wrote it off as keeping home protection for if I was ever robbed, but the truth was there was something oddly soothing about cleaning and caring for the weapons, something rote about it my muscles were used to after years in the service. I was glad I had them.

The cops might not be able to go in and get Belle; not without making the kidnappers taking risks with her life if they felt backed into a corner. But I wasn’t a cop, and these fucking animals were about to pay.

They were about to scream.