Fourth a Lie

“No, ma’am.”

“Do you know of the proprietor, Sullivan Sinclair? He’s an American who has chosen Java as his home.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Can you suggest someone who might be able to charter/guide/find Goddess Isles?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Do you have anyone else I can call? A sister agency/airline/company?”

“No, ma’am. Thank you for your call, ma’am. Good day.”

Argh!!!!

I dug my elbows into the desk and dropped my face into my palms.

Sully!

I swear if I wasn’t so fucking worried about him, I would be fuming wild!

How dare he agree to temporary?

How dare he fall in love with me?

How dare he pretend to trust me, all while knowing that I was powerless to return to him!

Three days!

Three fucking days!

Anything could’ve happened.

He could be dead and in pieces on the ocean floor by now. He could be wounded and dying without me by his side. He could be held prisoner by his brother.

Or...

And this was the worst part.

The sickening nerves and self-pity that kept me up at night, ensuring I hadn’t rested properly since sleeping in Sully’s arms with Nirvana splashing outside his bedroom.

He could have killed Drake.

He could’ve won the war.

He could be back to drugging goddesses and entertaining his smarmy guests.

He could have returned to his world...without me.

He could look at his credit card statement and see I’d spent an exorbitant sum on three nights in a five-star hotel instead of flying home like his staff had told me.

He could be laughing at me because I’d chosen to stay.

He could be pitying me because I couldn’t damn well fly away without ensuring he was okay.

Even a cell phone number would be fine.

An email.

A PO Box, for God’s sake.

Anything so I could contact him and find out if he was still alive.

I needed to hear his voice.

I needed to hug him and convince myself that the nightmares that found me when I couldn’t stay awake weren’t real.

That the images of him shot and injured weren’t real.

That the fears of him bleeding out and dying on his beach weren’t real.

That the terrors of Skittles and Pika being killed and plucked and roasted on a skewer weren’t real!

Dammit!

I stood in a rush, and the chair that I’d sat on for the past seventy-two hours and called every tourism and travel firm I could find in Indonesia, shot backward on its wheels.

I’d exhausted my online searches.

I’d spoken to every single person who could possibly, maybe, slimly help me.

I’d even rang two police stations, enquiring if they knew of Sully Sinclair.

And I’d run into dead end after dead end.

I was in a maze with no way out. No clues. No hope.

Sully was hidden, and no matter how hard I tried...he remained unreachable.

Fine!

Sweeping from the office space, I ran to the bathroom. I was done being a hermit in my hotel room. I’d shower, withdraw some cash, and swap online hunting for physical.

I would door knock every damn backpacker, dive bar, and local transport.

I would bribe every bus, taxi, and motorbike driver if they’d ever heard of Goddess Isles. I would march into every pet store and request if they’d made bulk sales to an island called Serigala. I’d talk to veterinary clinics for medicine deliveries. I’d track down supermarkets and wholesalers about large quantities of goods sent to an island in the middle of nowhere.

I would do whatever it damn well took to find him.

I’d chosen to be loyal.

I’d chosen him as my future.

No way was I walking away just because he’d sent me away and slammed the door in my face.

It’s not permanent, Sully.

I’ll find a way...you’ll see.

And then, you and me? We’re having a serious chat about commitment.

* * * * *

“Sorry, ma’am. We don’t fly there.”

“Sorry, ma’am. We don’t sail there.”

“Sorry, ma’am. There is no island by that name.”

“Sorry, ma’am. We have never heard of Sullivan Sinclair or Goddess Isles.”

“Sorry, ma’am. We did not make bulk pet food deliveries to a place called Serigala.”

“Sorry, ma’am. We do not have vets who treat rescue animals in the Javanese Sea.”

“Sorry, ma’am. We do not have records of sending non-perishable food to Sullivan Sinclair.”

“Sorry, ma’am.”

“Sorry, ma’am.”

“Sorry.”

Sorry!

Don’t tell me fucking sorry.

Tell me something!

Exhausted tears ran down my face as I stumbled from the tenth market that dealt in spices and sweets. I’d had to return to ATMs four times to withdraw money for bribes. I’d wafted hundred-dollar bills beneath the noses of tour operators, greengrocers, and vets.

They all took the money.

Yet they gave nothing in return.

They either all lied spectacularly or...Sully had locked down his name, businesses, and address with military precision.

What am I going to do?

I didn’t even know where I was.

I’d caught so many taxis, zipping north, south, east, and west, that I had no idea how to get back. I couldn’t remember the name of the hotel I’d been staying at. I had no belongings apart from the small bag I’d bought to keep my cash and passport inside and the pair of white sandals I’d grabbed from a local stall.

I was homeless and frazzled, running on worry and adrenaline.

I couldn’t keep up this level of franticness. But I also couldn’t stop because if Sully was hurt...

He can’t be hurt.

I’d rather he be a bastard who turned his back on me than hurt.

A bastard, I could reason with. I could convince him that what we had was special and worth fighting for. A dead man, I could not.

God, please, Sully!

The sun slowly sank behind skyscrapers and shacks, painting the sky crimson and tangerine. The humidity was different here. Stickier and polluted. My hair was limp and stuck to my shoulders. My feet throbbed from walking so much. And my body needed liquid and nourishment.

Plodding onward, stores shut for the day and workers conversed in happy Indonesian. A man bumped into me as he skipped from a convenience store, his hand holding a dewy, icy cola.

My mouth instantly craved wetness.

Stepping into the blast of air-conditioning, I beelined for the fridge, selected a sugary raspberry drink—desperate for one of Sully’s nourishing thick smoothies—and grabbed a stale chocolate croissant from the shelf.

I hated eating these days.

I hated how everything tasted packaged and plastic-y. I missed nuts straight off the tree and berries right off the vine.

I didn’t just miss Sully.

I missed his way of life, his ideology, his paradise.

More tears sprang to my eyes, and I angrily swiped them away as I handed over money for my pathetic dinner. The shopkeeper gave me a sympathetic smile.

I attempted to smile back, my gaze snagging on a prepaid smartphone.

New hope sprang ridiculously savage.

“I’ll buy one of those too, please.” Snatching the box, I asked, “Does it have internet?”