“Yes, yes. Ok, I see.” The guard at the front desk of the museum hung up the phone. “I’m sorry, Miss Johnson isn’t in.”
Scott had dropped his bags at home right after his flight and headed straight to the Hirishorn to try and track down Tori, who wasn’t answering any of his calls.
Bullshit. She obviously was up there saying she didn’t want to see him. Who else would answer the phone in her office? After ten hours of air travel, he was in no mood to get into it with this guy. The man was just doing his job.
Scott moved to the side and tried calling her again for possibly the millionth time—again straight to voicemail. He didn’t bother leaving a message, Tori never checked them. He tried Keith, who wasn’t answering, either. What the hell?
The security guard turned to speak to the next guest, and out of the corner of Scott’s eye, he noticed a stray security badge just lying on the desk, begging him to reach out and grab it. It was like angels singing and heaven shone a light on him. Scott swiped the badge and left the museum.
He walked a half mile to the florist not far away and picked out the most fragrant bouquet of roses he could find. Maybe she wouldn’t be pissed that he was about to barge into her office if he brought a peace offering.
He waited and watched as the guards changed duty, then marched right back into the museum, straight past the new guard, and headed for the staff elevator.
“Excuse me, sir?” The guard’s voice boomed as he sauntered past.
“It’s all good. I work here.” Scott waved and went on.
The guard scowled. He was not buying it. Probably because Scott was dressed in jeans, riding boots, a snug T-shirt that said Fuck Your Sensitivity and carrying the most obscenely large bouquet of roses he’d ever laid eyes on. There was not a thing about him that said he worked there. “Sir, you cannot go up there.” He stood from his chair.
Maybe he should have rethought the eye-catching flowers.
“I’m new.” Scott waved the badge, swiped the elevator access, and waited. He could hear the man calling for backup into his walkie-talkie.
“Eh, hem…” a throat cleared behind him. “What in the fresh hell are you doing here? Have you lost your damn mind?” the voice hissed in a whisper.
Scott grinned slyly. He’d know that high-pitched, shrill voice anywhere. “Hello, Keith.” Scott turned and flashed a lopsided grin.
Keith stood there, with his hand on his hip, wearing a plaid shirt, bow tie, and a tailored, navy jacket. Every red hair on his head was styled to look unkempt, like always.
The elevator opened as the guard was coming their direction.
“He’s with me, Charles.” Keith nodded to the guard, grabbed Scott’s arm, and drug him into the elevator.
Keith’s blue eyes bore into Scott. “You just about stirred up a damn hornet’s nest, waltzing in here like you own the place. The jet lag has seriously impaired your judgement.”
Scott grinned, leaned over, and gave Keith a big bear hug, lifting him off the ground with his free hand. Scott placed him down and messed up his perfectly kept hair. Keith grunted as if annoyed, but a smile tugged at Keith’s lips as he put his hair back in place.
“Is this some game of yours? Is she bribing you with a kinky reward if you can break into her office?” Keith huffed.
Scott let out a huge belly laugh. “Maybe…”
Keith punched the button for the fourth floor, and the elevator moved upward. “Jesus, Scott. I don’t have time for your sexual heist. Some of us have work to do.”
They rode in silence for a moment. “Why haven’t you returned my calls?” Scott asked as the elevator doors creaked open.
“Did you see the lines out there?” Keith huffed as he walked briskly down the hall. “I’m working the Art in Exile public exhibition. I’ve been crazy busy all morning, haven’t even had a chance to look at my phone.”
“You say that like I know what the fuck that means.” Scott snorted. They came from such opposite worlds.
“Obviously, from what you’re wearing. Does that shirt come in the military douchebag starter kit?” Keith pointed to Scott’s shirt and let out a deep breath. “She’s an Iranian artist.”
Scott chuckled. Yeah, that could turn some heads. Tori would be mortified.
Keith rolled his eyes. “You still haven’t answered my question. What are you doing here?”
Scott let out a long breath. “We had a fight. I’m coming to make nice.”
“You know Vic hates flowers, right? She finds them cliché. Threw the whole vase against the wall when her mom brought her some in the hospital.”
That’s my fiery Tori.
Scott grinned. “I’ll stay out of her line of aim.” They turned the corner and went into Tori’s office, which was empty.
Scott placed the vase down on her desk. “She really isn’t here.” He scratched his brow and looked to Keith as a young, skinny blonde with black, square glasses came into the room.
“Alex, where’s Vic?” Keith asked him.
“Victoria didn’t come in today.”
Probably hungover.
“Did she call?” Scott furrowed his brow.
“No.” The man cocked his head to the side. “Who are you?”
“He’s a friend of Vic’s, Alex,” Keith answered.
Alex’s face lit up in recognition. “Ah! You are the one in the photo on the desk. I almost didn’t recognize you without your costume.” Alex snickered and left the room.
Curious, Scott went around and looked at the picture.
“Of all the damn photos, she, of course, chose this one…” he picked it up and started laughing.
It was them, in Amsterdam, all dolled up in the Steampunk fetish costumes she’d made them for the club. Tori was adorned in a brown Victorian-esque bustier with her tits spilling out. She’d added a top hat with goggles and vampy-looking makeup. He was shirtless with an aged leather vest. She’d given him an eyepatch, and a leather arm piece adorned with gears that had a matching cover he’d slipped over his prosthetic. Steampunk robotic was what she’d called it.
Keith grabbed the frame from his hands and sat on the edge of the desk. “I know you’re enjoying your trip down memory lane, but Scott, Vic would’ve called in. This isn’t like her.” Keith frowned and put the photo back in its spot.
Scott slumped down into Tori’s chair, grabbed his phone and called Presley in his office while Keith paced the floor. “Hey, Pres, run a trace on a number for me and pull up all the recent calls?” Scott rattled off Tori’s number.
“Can you do that?” Keith hissed.
Scott waved his hand for Keith to shut up. “Thanks.” He cut off the call.
Keith’s face went blanch, and he slowly sank down into the chair across the desk. “Do you think she’s ok?”
“I searched that dude you sent. There was no indication he moved to DC, but also no indication he hasn’t.” Scott nervously ran his fingers over the braille display in front of her computer keyboard.
“Good grief, that woman is trouble with a capital T.” Keith crossed his arms over his chest. “She runs straight into the fire without a second thought as to how much she’s going to get burned. She has too much of her father in her.”
Is that how her dad died?
Keith’s blue eyes looked at him seriously. “I’m worried about her. She hasn’t been herself lately, since…” Keith scanned Scott curiously as he sat across from Tori’s desk.
Scott raised his brow and rested his elbows on the desk. “Her accident?”
Keith backpedaled. “Yeah, of course.” His eyes darted away from Scott.
He’s hiding something. Scott could tell Keith was debating how much he should flap that damn mouth of his. He leaned back in Tori’s chair and rested his arms on top of his head. His eye caught a painting hanging on her wall. It was hauntingly beautiful. Several hands looked like they were pressed up against the frame trying to break through imaginary glass. Braille dots lined the canvas on top of it.
“Magnificent, isn’t it?” Keith caught him looking at the artwork. “A blind painter did that. I bought that for her, hoping it would inspire her to paint again someday. If anyone can do it, Vic can.”
Scott smiled warmly and blinked away the emotion that choked him.
His phone chimed a few moments later.
Presley
One number traced back to journalist Hunter Ayers, rest to a Jane Sullivan, Keith Nielsen, and you. Her phone is off. I can’t get location.
“Damn, that was fast.”
“She’s good.” Scott laughed.
Scott turned his attention back to Keith. “Her friend Connor is actually Hunter Ayers.”
Keith sucked in a breath as he mulled that over. “The reporter? Jesus. Never sleep with a congressman,” He mumbled. “Knowing Vic, she probably turned her phone off and went into exile if she found that out. You gonna find her?”
Scott curled his lip and stood. “What do you think?”
“I think that you, Scott Harris, will take care of anyone that dares threaten Vicky.” Keith dug in his pocket and pulled out his keys, removing a fob from them. He tossed it to Scott. “Here’s her key.” He followed Scott to the door.
“Thanks.” Scott shoved the key in his pocket. “You know she hates you calling her Vicky, right?”
Keith stopped and turned to him. “As much as everyone knows you two are in love but are too damn stubborn to admit it to each other.”
Scott grinned slyly.
“It’s good to see you, Scott. Go find our girl.” Keith patted the doorframe and left.
Scott went straight to Tori’s apartment only to find it empty. He did a quick search, and everything seemed to be in perfect order except for her bed, which was unmade, and the bathroom. He covered his mouth and gagged at the smell of vomit still curing in the air. She’d completely missed the toilet. That wasn’t the only thing on the floor, though.
Streaks of dark red blood lined the tile. Watered down, pink stains filled the tub where there was an attempt to wash it away.
“Jesus,” he whispered.
I can’t do this anymore. It’s time for me to say goodbye. Her words echoed in his head, and a sickening dread filled his stomach. No, Tori wouldn’t hurt herself. Would she?
His heart thumped against his chest. He left the apartment and headed to the elevator. Her purse was gone, cane had been nowhere in sight… His rational brain said she probably was drunk, hurt herself, and went for medical attention. There were no signs of struggle, and the amount of blood was minimal.
But why is her phone off?
It was time to pay a visit to Hunter Ayers.
Scott was just simply going to have a chat with Hunter. As long as he didn’t harm Tori, the man had nothing to worry about. If he did, God help him.
Scott glanced at his watch as he rapped on the door of the apartment. It was nearing six p.m., so either the dude wasn’t home from work yet, or he wasn’t answering. Scott beat a second time. Finally, it cracked open, and he could see the man with square glasses peering between the chain.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Victoria Johnson. Is she here?”
The guy’s eyes widened. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.” He started to shut the door, but Scott had his foot firmly planted in the small opening.
“Bullshit. Do not make me break down this door.”
Hunter eyed him. “Listen, whoever you’re looking for, she’s not here.”
Scott stared him down coldly. “I know you were out with her last night, and you’ve been lying to her about who you are. Now, you can open the door, and we do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way. Your choice.”
“You need to go. I will call the cops.”
“Go for it. I’d love to get the police involved. I’ll show them the phone records of your conversations this past week, Connor. Tell them how she’s missing, and that there’s blood all over her apartment, and that you were the last one seen with her.”
Something in Hunter’s expression softened. “Fine.” He nodded his head down toward Scott’s boot. Scott removed his foot from the door. The clank of the chain scraped across the door, it opened, and Hunter invited Scott into the small foyer.
“Listen.” Hunter turned his back on Scott while he walked into the living room. “You can search this entire place. She isn’t here. She called me late last night after I dropped her off at her place, drunker than I left her, screaming at me about how she knew I wasn’t who I said I was. That’s when I came clean. She flipped her shit and never wanted to see me again, which I can’t blame her for. Honestly, that’s the last I heard from her.”
Ok, at least Tori had listened to his warning.
“Why didn’t you tell her your real name?”
Hunter snorted. “I’m a reporter. Her and her family avoided us like the plague after the scandal with Donaghue. I knew I had zero chance of her ever talking to me if I gave her my real name. I spun a story quick, gave her my cousin’s name. I knew if she Googled me, I’d check out. The fact she was blind made it easy. VoiceOver software isn’t going to tell her what I look like.” He chuckled.
Using Tori’s blindness to deceive her was the lowest this guy could sink. Scott grabbed a fistful of Hunter’s shirt and shoved him against the wall, pushing his forearm against his neck. Hunter let out a slight gurgle. “Listen here, Hunter. If anything ever hits the papers about Victoria, I’ll make certain your fingers can never type another story again. Are we clear?” Scott clenched his fist and resisted his primal urge to knock this dude’s teeth out. “If I so much as think that you’ve hurt her—”
“I swear man, I’m not printing a story. My conscience got to me,” he croaked. “I actually started to like her.”
Scott released his hold on him.
Hunter grabbed his sore neck. “Good grief. Who the hell are you anyway? You can’t be her brother…that’s not possible…” he shook his head.
Tori didn’t have a brother, and, of course, he’d know that from his digging. Sicko. Scott was at his boiling point. He took a deep breath, yielding every ounce of self-control he could.
“Don’t worry about who I am.” Scott crossed his arms over his chest. “Did you see who was following her in the park?”
“Honestly, there wasn’t a soul in sight, and it’s a teeny park with no place to hide. I think her imagination was getting to her.”
Scott let out a heavy breath. Everything the man said sounded plausible. Scott turned for the door.
“Hey, can you let me know if you find her? I’d like to know she’s safe.”
Scott snorted. He’d find Tori, but this guy would never lay eyes on her again. “No, I will not. Stay out of her life, Hunter.”
As he walked out onto the street, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and glanced at it.
Keith
Little lost lamb is headed back home.
Scott went back to her place and somehow willed his stomach to clean up mess in her bathroom, lurching himself as he scrubbed. He did not handle vomit well. He washed up, leaned back on Tori’s sofa, and rested his hands on the top of his head.
He glanced around Tori’s apartment, remembering the last time he was there. Whenever he came to town, they usually met up in a hotel or went to his place since he was in the heart of the city, but he did come here the last visit they had before her accident.
He showed up unannounced, standing at her door with her panties in his hand. Her eyes had lit up when she’d seen him. She’d thrown her arms and legs around him as they hugged in the hall. He carried her into the bedroom, and without as much as one word, threw her on the bed, and they went at it like wild animals.
Tori’s apartment was small, but nice. Her sofa was a simple grey but adorned in colorful, native print pillows and throws. Her accent furnishings were an eclectic mix of thrift store finds she’d refurbished. Stunning artwork hung on the walls, and handmade pottery was scattered across the furniture.
Not much had changed in the décor, but her apartment was immaculately clean. He noticed that when tossed the dirty towels in her closet, which used to be a haphazard mess. Tori had never been a tidy person in her life. Everything was now put away, color-coded, and organized.
His eye caught a yellowing fern hanging from a modern-looking macramé planter in dire need of water.
She never could keep a plant alive.
He walked into her kitchen that was adjacent to the living room, filled a glass of water, and took care of the thirsty plant. He opened the fridge, hoping for a beer to take the edge off. She may have called Keith, but she still hadn’t returned any of his calls.
In the same fashion as her closet, her fridge and kitchen were also organized and neat. Everything was put away in perfect order. He grabbed a salad dressing out of curiosity, and it was labeled with braille. He ran his fingers across the raised dots. He’d nearly learned braille by sight, but touch was a whole other ball game. Scott had picked up a fancy, hi-tech transcriber that cost him nearly two grand to make the package he sent to her a week ago. That was the most expensive card I ever sent, he chuckled inwardly. He grabbed a beer, opened it, and took a swig.
His eye caught a photo on the fridge attached with a magnet. “Holy shit,” he whispered, laughing. It was her and him, in Amsterdam years ago, getting his tattoo on his calf. He could still remember her, scratching away at the paper as she drew the tombstone that now was permanently etched on his right calf.
“What’s the date?” she’d asked him.
“April fifth. That was the day they took my leg.”
“April 5th shall forever be your legiversary. You have to promise me to do something every year to celebrate it.”
And he did. Every. Single. Year. He placed the photo back under the magnet.
I made her desk and the fridge. Guess I should be honored.
He wandered into her office that was straight back from the living area. The balcony attached to her office offered a beautiful panorama of the city across the Potomac. The sun had just sat giving him a perfect view of the Washington Monument lit up in all its glory. She’d come a long way from the starving artist who could only afford Funyuns when she came to see him in the hospital. He smiled, thinking of that fond memory. Tori had done well for herself.
Her white desk faced the wall with her MacBook sitting on top of it. The last time he’d been here there was an easel in the opposite corner and had been working on a painting. Now the easel was gone, and the finished piece was hanging on the wall. He wasn’t an art buff, but anyone could see it was well done. God, she was so fucking talented. His heart ached knowing that was probably her last painting. A comfortable, overstuffed chair and side table had taken over the corner where her easel once sat.
Her bedroom was adjacent to the office, no wall separating it, just a partition and a curtain on either side. It was a modern, open floor plan, but with Tori’s artistic touch, it had a homey feel.
He wandered into her dark bedroom. He was being a bit nosy, but he didn’t have anything else to do. He turned the lamp switch but it didn’t flick on. The bulb was burnt out, but she’d have no need to change it. He didn’t know whether that was funny or sad, but he chuckled slightly, wondering how much she saved on electricity. His eyes adjusted quickly to the dark because there was enough light from the city behind him to illuminate the room.
He took another swig of his beer and sat on the edge of her bed. He glanced at her night table. That same photo of her and Jane that sat on her table in college was there. He picked it up and stared.
He didn’t know it back then, but that wild, messy college girl had captured his heart. Clothes strewn about all over the floor, dresser drawers open, and art supplies scattered about the room. The sultry smile on her face as she sat across from him in the nude, franticly scratching away at the paper in front of her. That long, wavy hair that flowed across her shoulders. She’d captivated him.
Tori had grown up, but she was still the same girl to him—passionate, funny, and sexy as hell. He smiled and placed the photo back in its spot.
His eye caught two pill bottles lying next to the frame.
His brow wrinkled as he picked it up and read the labels. From the date on it, he could see they had been filled recently. Her braille label was stuck on top of it, covering the number of refills left.
She’s still taking Xanax and painkillers? His brow went into a deeper crease. He knew she liked her recreational drugs back in her college days, but she was never an addict. He was getting a glimpse that Tori wasn’t doing as good as she led him to believe. He placed the bottle back her nightstand, went into the pantry, found a light bulb, and changed it for her, then walked out onto her balcony into the fresh night air and waited.