Chapter Twenty-Six

Eamon

Tonight would be my last night with Layla. For some fucking reason I was nervous. Sitting inside my living room staring at the roaring fire, I wondered what in the hell the sexy blonde had done to me. I didn’t do a lot when it came to women, just a few nights of pleasure and maybe a bauble or two before we’d call it quits. There was no commitment, no relationship, and no chance at anything more.

I liked it like that. No strings attached.

But somehow the girl had gotten under my skin and I wanted more. Goddammit, how in the hell could I possibly want more? What the fuck did more even mean? Did I want a relationship? Hell no. But I wasn’t ready to let her go yet.

I would eventually, because that was how things worked. I’d always got out before they got that look in their eyes, the one that said they were dreaming of happy endings and white picket fences.

I didn’t do any of that shit.

“If she ever fucking gets here!” I stood at the bar and poured more whiskey into a crystal tumbler with one half moon cube of ice and knocked it back like a shot. Layla was already an hour late and it occurred to me that since I’d pissed her off this morning, she might not show up at all. But then I dismissed that thought. Even angry, Layla would honor our agreement if for no other reason than she loved her no good loser of a father.

But still, she wasn’t here. Yet, I corrected myself mentally. She’d be here. And when she got here, she’d be all smiles once I let her know her father’s debt was officially cleared. She would get that wide, contagious smile on her face, the one that made her look like the sexy girl next door and lean toward me without ever moving forward. Hesitant, because she was as confused by this thing going on between us as I was.

Or maybe I was doing exactly what I accused her of doing this morning, dreaming with stars in my eyes? There was a good chance she was late because she didn’t want to be here. I didn’t believe that though. The way she looked at me, before, during and after sex, spoke of a connection that went beyond the bedroom. That was probably why I’d been such a dick to her earlier.

And now I was paying the price for my behavior.

But I waited impatiently, so sure she wouldn’t flake on me tonight. But as another hour passed, my anger turned to worry. Fear. Layla was a woman of her word, of that much I was absolutely fucking certain. Which meant something was wrong.

I picked up the phone and punched in her number, not sure if hearing her voice would leave me relieved or angry. I was saved from that particular answer when the call rang and then straight to voicemail.

“Goddammit!”

Where the fuck was she?

Fuck this. I wouldn’t wait one more fucking minute to get to the bottom of this. Either Layla was playing games with me or she was in trouble. Neither option sat well with me, so I grabbed my keys and wallet. If Layla wouldn’t come to me, then I’d go to her.

I spent the drive over to her apartment thinking about what I would say to her. If she was home and not deathly ill then I knew my temper would take over but even as I got closer to her place, I knew something wasn’t right.

Being raised by Patrick Connelly, I knew how important it was not to ignore gut feelings. Hell, they’d saved my life at least a dozen times over the years, maybe more. Shae and Rourke too. Everything inside me screamed that something was wrong. But when I pulled up to her apartment and saw the lights from outside along with the flickering blue light of the television, I knew that the something wrong was me.

And soon, it would be her too.

I killed the engine and locked the car from my key fob as I walked toward the entrance of Layla’s apartment. Heart in my chest, I recognized the feeling as anxiety and brushed it off. I didn’t get anxious over women, no matter how good the sex. Or how sweet the woman, my subconscious taunted me but I ignored that bastard as well. I was on a mission to get what I wanted.

What I was owed, goddammit.

Just as I stepped up to the front door of the lobby and the digital keypad a young couple stepped out, so engrossed with each other they didn’t realize I’d slipped in without permission, which was another fact weighing on me as I bypassed the elevator and took the stairs two at a time up to Layla’s floor.

It was mostly quiet as I approached her apartment, the low sounds of a television sounded behind me and up ahead the low strains of rock music played. Everything seemed normal. Typical even, and I began to relax. Everything was fine. Layla had probably overslept or she was running behind schedule. That was it.

That was the lie I told myself, anyway.

But when I stood on the cheerful welcome mat in front of her door, a lump lodged in my throat and the whiskey in my gut burned like kerosene.

The door was open just enough for a sliver of light to shine through and I was immediately on alert. It was a damn good thing I didn’t go anywhere without at least one piece on me. I slid it out of the holster and nudged the door open with my foot. Leading with my gun, I stepped inside Layla’s apartment. It was a complete and total mess.

Pillows and cushions that should have been on the sofa were strewn across the floor and the coffee table was on its side, which left a broken vase with hundreds of little marbles scattered like hail. Glass was everywhere. Whatever had gone down, Layla had put up a fight. Mugs and ashtrays were smashed, along with photo frames, statuettes and even a few porcelain angels were smashed all over the floor. Small droplets of blood had sprayed everything and I bit out a string of fucking expletives.

“Layla! Layla, are you in here?”

There was no answer. If she were here, there would be flashing blue and red lights outside. Layla’s blue eyes would be blazing anger the same way they had when she found me pounding her old man’s face.

Shit! Layla was in trouble. Sliding my phone from my back pocket, I dialed her number again as I walked around her place, hoping to hear it ring or vibrate somewhere inside. The phone rang in my ear but Layla’s apartment remained as silent as ever.

When the voicemail kicked in, I ended the call and dialed the number again. The phone continued to ring with no answer, so I searched Layla’s apartment until I found her spare key in a junk drawer in the kitchen. I’d have a talk with her about that but not until I could be sure she was safe. Before I left, I turned off the TV and the lights, sweeping one final glance around the place before locking the door behind me.

Wherever Layla was, I had to fucking find her.