Grayson
When my phone pings, I wake completely disoriented and my neck aches. I must’ve fallen asleep on my desk. Adrenaline pumps when I pick up the phone and see the message is from Xavier Cross.
He thought that phrase was fucking hilarious when we were in college. It was how he always downplayed my accomplishments, claimed I got by on my looks and good manners. When he texts me a picture of a hooker, at first, I’m confused. Then, I moan when I realize it’s Isabella. Two white globes of flesh bust out of a spandex dress that barely covers her nipples. Full lush lips are painted bright red, her eyelids smoky, and lashes thick with mascara.
Dammit. Slate was supposed to be watching out for her. Quickly, I text him.
Me: Is Izzy with you?
My phone pings again but it’s not Slate, it’s Xavier.
X: Does she scream when she comes?
Me: Touch her and you’re a dead man.
Fuck it all. When Slate doesn’t pick up, I call CJ Quinn, the only other guy, besides me, with a bodyguard-driver-pilot. After this, I’m going to owe him big time.
“I need another favor.”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“Can you send your driver to my place? I think something may have happened to Slate. He’s not answering my calls.”
There’s a slight pause. “I think I’ll need a little more explanation.”
“Remember, Bear Mountain?”
He whistles. “Of course. That was my cabin, after all. What are you saying? Is Xavier back? I thought he was long gone.”
I brief him on my situation and am not surprised when he’s in the back seat of the town car that pulls up in front of my building.
We circle around Isabella’s block in Brooklyn a couple times, Then, I hop out to have a little chat with the three Hispanic men hanging out on her stoop.
“You seen this girl?” I shove a shot of Isabella under their noses.
The youngest, maybe sixteen, peers up close and nods. “She the blondie that lives on the second floor?”
I nod.
He shoves his hands in his dark, oversized hoodie and his eyes dart to his older friends’ faces. “She left with some other dude in a penguin suit. She cheatin’ on you, man?”
Scrolling through some more pics, I find an old shot of Xavier. “Was this the guy?”
“Yeah, that’s him.”
My gut churns. I will kill him if he touches her.
One thing at a time.
Again, I scroll through my pics and show them to the three men. “This is my driver, Slate. He was supposed to be watching out for her. Did you see him?”
They shrug, their faces get sullen, and I know I hit pay dirt. “How much? How much is it worth to you?”
CJ hears my shouting and jumps out of the back seat to join me. “Gentlemen, the man asked you a question and we’re in a bit of a hurry.”
Three sets of eyes go wide and the tallest says, “Da fuck! You CJ Quinn?”
“Yeah, and this is my friend and he asked you a question.” The NFL star looms over them.
“Hey, no need to get in our face. We was just funnin’ with you. We seen this guy.” Three sets of sneakers shuffle nervously on the bottom step of the stoop.
The one that hasn’t spoken is older by at least a decade, his voice is scratchy, his lids heavy from smoking weed. “Yeah, yeah, he was hanging out in the bodega. I saw him buy some coffee.”
The younger squirms and CJ picks up on it, too. “Hey, we’re not the cops or anything. We just want to find our friend.”
I shove a wad of twenties at them. “Where is he?”
“Down the block, in an alley next to the old dry cleaner, next to the dumpster. He’s okay, man, so don’t freak.”
CJ eyes him, standing in his space, close to his skinny frame. “Don’t mess with me.”
“Not messing. He’s there, alright. I saw a couple black dudes take him down.”
“If I find out you’re lying, me and you? We got issues.”
As we rush back to the car, the oldest of the three shouts, “Hey, want us to watch out for this place?”
I roll down the window, Jack slows, and I hold out a card. “A woman will answer. You tell her to tell me if you see anything.”
“We’re your men, we got your back. Don’t worry. You got super bowl tickets?” The oldest is still shouting as Jack drives through a red light, and heads down the street. We exit onto the sidewalk in front of an abandoned dry cleaner, and walk down a narrow alley between buildings.
I see a guy crumpled up, lying in a pile of trash.
Fuck it all. Did Xavier have him killed?
My heart freezes when I squat next to his body and check for a pulse. Finding one, I slap him on the cheek and when he moans I ask, “How bad you hurt?”
“Real bad.” He tries to grin as he opens his eyes. “In the fucking pride. Fucking bitch in the bodega must’ve slipped something into my coffee. Then, those stoop degenerates dragged me here and shot me up with some nasty shit.”
He sits, reaches up a hand, and I pull him onto his feet.
“Do you need a doctor?”
“Hell, no but they will. Where are they? I’m going to bash some heads.”
He groans, spits, and when he stumbles, rights himself by pressing his hands against both brick walls.
Suddenly alarmed, he taps me on the back. “Dammit. Xavier’s got Isabella. He’s taking her to some big charity event.”
“Fuck.” I check my phone and call Cherry. “Hey, luv. I need the low down on any big parties happening in the city tonight.”
Jack throws his keys at me. “I got Slate. You go get her.”
Somehow, I get the feeling, I’m playing right into Xavier’s game and yet see no way out of it. Back in Manhattan, I park CJ’s Town Car in my garage, then Cherry pings me with the most likely events in town.
After dressing, I rush to Seventh Avenue where a street vender offers me a green pretzel.
“What’s up with that?”
“Saint Patrick’s Day, mate.”
I politely refuse, hail a cab, and hand the driver two twenties. “Fifth and Twenty Third. I got more if you can get me there in ten minutes.”
“Yes sir.” The cabbie races around a line of slow moving cars, through a yellow light, and zig-zags cross-town where all the local pubs have suddenly turned Irish. Signs tout green beer for sale and Irish jigs blast out through open doors as we zoom past.
At the door to Mickey O’Shea’s Steak and Ale, I tip my driver, the doorman greets me, and I’m ushered up two sets of stairs to a private party in full swing. At the top, I hand off my raincoat to a young brunette who gives me a gold token in the shape of a shamrock, with the lucky number thirteen-thirteen.
My hostess, Mrs. Guzman, a pear-shaped octogenarian is dressed in black feathers which flutter as she rushes around the green linen tablecloths, her short, fat arms outstretched.
I endure a hug, after which she peers at me through thick glasses surrounded by sparkling gold frames. “Grayson, dear, I’m so glad you asked to join us. Your father, God bless his soul, never missed one of my parties. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
She’s so sorry for his lack of his contributions but I smile politely until I notice who else has gathered to her side.
“Have you met Xavier Cross?” She giggles as if sixteen instead of almost ninety. “Oh, he used to work for you, didn’t he?”
It seems as if the whole room stops talking and gawks, wondering what my response will be. I had a perfect comeback in mind until I see Isabella approach in that little black number. My mouth goes dry and every socially acceptable behavior I ever learned is forgotten as I grab her by the arm and pull her to my side.
I hand my gold token back to the coat-check girl. “My coat. Now!”
The girl pales and shakes as she struggles with the hanger. When she hands me my jacket, I throw it over Isabella’s shoulders and fasten the top button over her cleavage.
“W-What are you doing here? We broke up, remember?” The tops of Izzy’s cheeks burn bright red and her painted lips quiver.
She thinks I’d leave her alone, with this monster?
“We’re leaving.” My voice is firm, leaving no chance of an argument.
Xavier’s eyes narrow as he pulls on her upper arm, bringing her back to his side “Don’t let this Neanderthal bother you, dear. Get me a drink will you.”
As she obediently turns, he pats her ass and I fucking lose it. “Enough.”
“What the hell is your beef? Maybe it’s because she chose me over you? It takes a real man to bring out the slut in her.”
Just like he intended, he’s drawn a crowd. Most gathered here are of a tax bracket that understand what it’s like to live in a glass bubble but the busboys and waitresses have secretly pulled out their cell phones and are recording.
God damn it, I don’t need this kind of publicity and he knows it.
I leave him standing there looking all smug but I got other more important things to do, like finding Isabella.
After canvasing the whole room, I ask at the bar, “Did you see a, ah… very voluptuous woman in a black dress?”
“Ladies Room.” He tosses his bald, tattooed head across a field of china and stemware, eyes on a dark hall.
Dammit.
Green linen tablecloths catch on my slacks, stemware crashes, and Xavier follows on my heels.
“Izzy?” I knock on the lady’s room door and when no one answers, push but it doesn’t give. “Isabella!”
At that, Mrs. Guzman appears, feathers flying. “Grayson dear, what is it?”
“I think my fiancé is ill and she’s locked the door.”
“Oh my. Let me get someone to help.” She calls over an assistant as I pace the hall, wondering how to break down the door without making a scene.
While I wait, I ping Slate.
Me: How are u?
Slate: Waiting downstairs with the car. Izzy?
Me: B ready 2 go.
Xavier looks calm on the outside but we’ve been friends for years and I know he’s pissed by the way he stands with his hands in his pockets, mouth tight, and slight red dots on his upper cheeks.
It’s almost twenty minutes before the custodian arrives. During that time, I’ve imagined the worst and would’ve broken down the damn door except for the fact I’m not even certain she’s in there. Xavier could’ve set me up and I can’t afford any more mistakes.
When the door opens, I blink a couple times and can’t fucking believe it. There’s the spandex number that Izzy was wearing but it’s not on her, it’s on the coat check girl.
A cold breeze blows in from the open window.
Atta girl, Isabella.
Now, I just need to find out where she went. After parting with another few hundred bucks, I find out the staff helped her in through the kitchen window and down the back stairs. From there, she hailed a cab.
I jump into the waiting limo and with Cherry’s help, make some calls to the local cab companies and learn that Isabella is heading for LaGuardia.
Slate adds his two cents, “Find out what flights are headed to her hometown and we’ll probably know what terminal.”
“How the hell do you figure that?”
“Jeesh, Gray. Get a clue. Women always go home to Mom when the shit hits the fan.”
“Now, you’re Dr. Phil?”
He grins as he races crosstown, his face lit yellow by the lights of the oncoming cars.
After searching the internet, I clunk the back of my head on the seat. “Fuck. I have no idea where she lives.”
So, I call Cherry. If anyone can find her, she can. “Can you find out where Isabella’s Mom lives, then find the next flight?”
Slate raises his brows but is smart enough not to say anything. Soon, we’re heading back over the Triboro Bridge but turn south to the airport. The traffic is heavy and it takes almost an hour.
He drops me off in front of terminal one and I can’t believe my luck when I see a familiar blond head getting out of a cab. “Izzy!”
She turns, dressed in black slacks that are too long and a white button-down shirt. With those running shoes, I’m fucking worried that she’ll bolt and she does.
Right into my arms.
I console her as she weeps, standing on the sidewalk in front of the glass doors where dozens of curious eyes pass by.
When she stops, I cup her cheeks and stare into those huge blue eyes, still brimming with tears. “Why did you run from me?”
A weak fist hits my chest. “I need to go home.”
“Why didn’t you ask me? I would’ve taken you.”
“We broke up. Did you forget?” She stares at me like I’ve grown two heads and I moan.
“Honey, you said you were wired. I was just baiting Xavier.”
Her mouth drops open wide and I can tell a light bulb goes off in her head. “Oh my God, you sounded so serious.”
“I gave you the look, Izzy.” I cannot believe she missed my flawless acting.
“Sorry, didn’t get that.” When her eyes lock onto mine, my stupid heart does some kind of flip flop, and all I want to do is make love to her until it’s all good between us.
I hold onto her tight, never wanting to let her go. “Where are you headed?”
“International Falls, Minnesota. I warned them but I need to be there. Gray, I’m going to miss my flight.” She struggles to break free.
“We’ll take my jet. It’s faster.” I drag her to where Slate is double parked, he pulls into traffic and exits out of the airport, back onto the interstate.
I take my handkerchief, wet it with Perrier, and wipe away the black streaks of mascara running down her cheeks. Then, I kiss her soundly. “Never doubt me ever again, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Wait.” She reaches into her purse, pulls out one of our latest wands, the Bug-Off-3000, and waves it around the inside of the vehicle. “It’s clean.”
Slate smiles and says, “Damned right. No bugs in here.”
“Shit. The tip of the rod turned red for a second.” I grab the rod, wave it around, and it lights up anywhere near her shoulder.
I put my nose to a small needle mark. “I think he implanted a micro-GPS under your skin.”
“Get it out, dammit.” Isabella raises her hands, as if to scratch it out but we both know it’ll take more than that to remove it.
She calms after a moment, closes her eyes, and sighs. “I remember the prick of a needle right after he gave me the necklace. I thought he drugged me and when I had no symptoms, forgot all about it.”
“I don’t suppose you have a Disrupter?”
With a triumphant smile, she digs back into her purse, and dangles a small device on a chain in front of my face, “Voila.”
Slate sighs, “Okay, you two lost me. What’s a disrupter?”
I hold up the device, built to resemble a USB drive. “It re-transmits GPS. You can pre-program it with any destination.”
“Shouldn’t we do it?”
She shakes her head. “Maybe it’s time I tell you a little bit about my family.”
We’re at Teterboro Airport by the time she finishes describing her fifteen shotgun-carrying uncles, one who just happens to be the local sheriff.
When Slate files a flight plan, Isabella’s eyes go wide, “Wait. You’re a pilot, too?”
He grins. “I’m a man of many talents.” He finishes the paperwork, grabs his bag and asks, “What about the district attorney? He didn’t want her to leave town.”
“We’ll be back before he even knows she went missing.”