A minute later, I stumble inside, bell ringing overhead as blessed coolness envelopes me. A sob of relief gathers in my chest, about to be born into the world, when I hear his voice. Colin’s voice. Singing a song I’ve never heard before.
At first, I’m certain I’m losing it—I’m hallucinating this gas station and everything in it—but then I recognize the melody. It’s the same one Colin was fiddling around with while I was putting my makeup on last night.
It’s real. Colin is really singing a song. About missing his only one.
My hands start trembling first, and then my arms, and by the time I shuffle over to get a view of the television mounted on the wall above three faded yellow diner-style booths, I’m shaking all over. And then I see his face, looking so exhausted I know he must have been up all night worrying about me, and I start to cry, my shoulders shaking and my face scrunched as the last of the liquid left in my body oozes out to stick to my lashes.
Because the lyrics are exactly what I’ve always wanted to hear. That he’s looking for the one who got away, the girl he didn’t get a chance to love the way he wanted to love her, the person who is now and has always been his only one.
His only one. My only one.
Thank God.
And then he speaks directly into the camera, banishing any shred of doubt.
“I’m asking for your help guys, to find my only one,” he says, as the screen cuts to a shot of me, laughing on the boat last summer, my hair wild around my face. “Kirby Veronica Lawrence went missing from the Cairo casino carnival display last night around three a.m. She’s five foot three, slim, blond hair and blue eyes, last seen wearing a short, sparkly midnight blue dress and heels. If anyone has seen her, please call the number at the bottom of the screen or post on the message board we’ve set up on the Lips on Fire site.” Colin’s face fills the screen again, making me sob even harder with a strange, elated sort of sadness as he adds, “Let’s find her, guys. She means the world to me, and I’d really appreciate your help.”
I press a hand to my chest, trying to pull myself together as the bored-looking attendant leaning against the wall of cigarettes behind the counter fluffs her ball of heavily-sprayed brown hair and asks, “You all right, kid?”
I point to the television. “That’s my friend. He’s looking for me.”
She frowns, glancing back and forth between the television and me twice before something clicks behind her eyes. “Oh my God, you’re the one? From the song? Girl, you look like hell. You must have been through something.”
I nod, face scrunching again, but before I can start sobbing or attempt to explain myself, she hurries around the counter, wiping her hands on the thighs of her skin-tight faded blue jeans. “Here sweetheart, you sit down.” She reaches for me, taking me by an elbow and guiding me to one of the booths with a hand on my back. “Those motherfuckers. They’ve got no decency. Trafficking women right and left. You’re lucky you got out alive.”
I start to tell her that I wasn’t trafficked, just thrown away in a coffin by a crazy woman, but she shushes me with a wave of her hand.
“Save your strength, honey, you’re safe now. Let’s get you something to drink. You look parched.” She wiggles over to the wall of soda dispensers next to the pizza-to-go window before glancing over her shoulder. “Sprite? Lemonade?”
“Water,” I croak. “Just water, please. No ice.”
“Water coming right up.” She grabs a cup, filling it with a rush of cool, clear goodness that summons a rabid wolf spirit to life inside of me. If I had the energy, I would race across the room, shove her out of the way, and stick my mouth directly beneath the dispenser. But now that I’m finally safe, my adrenaline and fear-powered strength has abruptly abandoned me.
I’m so weak I can barely pull a napkin free of the dispenser to wipe the dust from my face without shaking.
“Should have offered you water in the first place,” she says, setting it down in front of me and watching with thinly disguised fascination/disgust as I grab the cup with both hands and guzzle like a savage. I’m probably going to make myself sick, but I don’t care. If I puke it up, then I’ll fill the cup and try again. I have returned to the land of milk and honey, where water is just a button-push away, and I intend to take full advantage of this blessed miracle.
I’m never going to take water for granted again.
Sweet, sacred, beautiful water…
I finish drinking and slam the cup back down onto the table with a satisfied huff.
“More?” she asks.
“Yes, please,” I say, holding it out to her with an already less trembly hand.
“Okay, I’ll get you some, but you should take it slow, kid, or you’ll bring it back up again.” She takes the cup, keeping me in her sight as she backs toward the machine. “So how long were you out in the desert? I’m Patty, by the way.”
“Kirby,” I say. “And a few hours, I think. Since I woke up, anyway.” I glance toward the checkout counter. “Do you have a phone? I should call my friend and let him know that I’m okay. I hate to see him so worried.”
“So that rock star guy is your friend?” she asks, pressing the cup against the dispenser again. “Like, for real?”
“For real.” I’m trying to remain patient. I get why she’s interested. I bet they don’t get a lot of juicy drama out here in the middle of nowhere.
“Like…your boyfriend, too, though, right?” She jabs a thumb toward the television, where the local news has moved on to a story about a bed bug epidemic at some of the less savory casinos, confirming that I want out of here. Yesterday. “That was a pretty romantic song to write for a friend.”
“Yeah. He must have written it after he realized I was missing.” My heart attempts a giddy River Dance in my chest before realizing it’s too weak for giddy and settling for disco-fingers instead. “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard it.”
Patty presses a hand to her chest and sighs. “Wow. That’s special. I mean, not worth getting kidnapped by human traffickers for or anything, but special.” She starts toward me with the water refill, but pauses halfway across the scratched black-and-white tile, motioning toward me with her free hand. “But you’re okay, right? They didn’t like…hurt you, hurt you? Did they?”
I shake my head. “No, I wasn’t hurt. And I wasn’t taken by human traffickers. It was…” I trail off, too desperate for more water and access to the phone to get into the sensational details right now. I’ve known Patty all of five minutes, but I can already tell she’s like a dog with a bone with juicy gossip. “It’s a long story. Bottom line is that my friend has no idea where I am, and I should call him.” I point toward the counter again. “So could I? Use your phone?”
“Duh. The phone.” Patty thunks her forehead with the heel of her hand. “Of course. Sorry. I’m working a double. Been on since midnight.”
I make a sympathetic face as she sets the water down in front of me. “I’m sorry. That’s a long stretch.”
She grins. “Yeah, but I don’t mind. My ex has my kid Sunday through Tuesday, so I like to work extra these days, save up my time off for my little guy. He’s two and so fucking cute, you wouldn’t believe it. I’ll show you a picture when I get back. Going to have to let you use my cell to call. The landline here is a piece of shit. Our credit card machine is out more than it’s in service. I keep telling the owner to get a chip reader so we can run shit on our cells when it’s down, but he won’t listen. Cheapest bastard you’ll ever meet, which you probably will.”
She glances at the clock on the wall beneath the television. “He’ll be in any second. Comes to pick up the cash himself because he’s a lunatic who doesn’t trust the armored van service. He’d rather tote around a bunch of money in his stupid Subaru.” Patty rolls her eyes and points toward the front door. “If he comes in while I’m gone, tell him I’m taking a leak and don’t ask for the phone when I get back, okay? I’ll have to explain it to him first, or he’ll flip out on me for h
aving it out of my locker.” She taps her head. “Not quite right up here, if you know what I mean. Or maybe he’s just old and set in his ways. People get like that sometimes as they age. Rigid, you know? Like they can’t handle things changing anymore.”
I nod, fighting the urge to beg Patty to get the phone already. After prolonged exposure to Bridget’s best friend, Theodora, I thought I was used to chatterboxes—the girl couldn’t shut up to save her life and talks through movies like it’s her job to offer a running commentary—but Patty is giving her a serious run for her money.
“But change is the only thing you can count on,” Patty says, pointing at me. “Take that to the bank, right? I mean, you didn’t expect to be hanging out with me when you woke up this morning. You gotta take what life dishes out and roll with the punches, ya know?” Her finger slides to the right. “Grab yourself something from the bakery case if you want. My treat. Going to get the phone now. I know I talk too much.”
I smile, but don’t disagree with her. “Thank you. I’ll take you up on that.”
Patty gives me a thumbs-up before doing a quick one-eighty and wiggling back behind the counter, through a doorway that I guess leads to behind the scenes at the gas station. Her jeans are so tight she doesn’t seem to be able to bend her knees fully, and I can’t help thinking that she would have been out of luck if she’d woken up in a coffin and needed to climb a fence.
Though I suppose she could have taken her jeans off and gone over in her underwear. Patty strikes me as the kind who wouldn’t hesitate to do what needs to be done, even if she has to do it in her skivvies.
I rise, carrying my water with me as I cross to the bakery case beside the checkout counter. There isn’t much left this time of day, but what’s there looks surprisingly delicious. The lone muffin has a sugar-crusted top and fresh raspberries poking through the yellow crust, and the cinnamon roll is not playing around. It’s as big as my hand and drenched in icing.
Just looking at it is enough to make my belly snarl with sugar-rush anticipation.
The water is playing nice with my stomach—a little sloshy, but no nausea—so I figure there’s no reason I can’t add some cinnamon roll into the mix. I fetch the tongs from the holder and load the sinful treat onto a paper plate from the stack on top of the case.
I fully intend to sit down before I dig in, but as soon as the bun is in my hot little hands, all bets are off. Sliding the pastry until a gooey edge hangs off the side of the plate, I open wide and take a T-Rex-sized chomp. So when the bell tinkles over the door, signaling the arrival of another patron, my mouth is way too full to tell them that Patty will be back in a second.
I spin, holding up a hand with one finger raised, but the person who just walked in isn’t a cranky old change-hating man coming to pick up a money drop.
It’s Peter.
My ex.
This isn’t good news for me. I know that even before he pulls the gun from his pocket and says, “Guess who’s still getting emails every time you use your frequent flier account, babe?”
Not good at all.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Colin
Within twenty minutes of the video going live, the message board gets enough traffic to crash the site, and my cell phone is ringing non-stop.
Shep had the hotline number forwarded to my cell first, then Bridget’s, then his. But even with the three of us answering calls as fast as we can, soon fans are raging on social media about not being able to get through to me. Then other fans pile on the complainers—ripping them a new one for misuse of the hotline number and potentially putting a woman’s life in danger with their immature behavior #GrowUp #BasicAF #LipsOnFire #FindKirby.
Soon the Find Kirby hashtag is trending, and random people are using the label to hawk their protein supplements and work-from-home schemes, and I’m feeling like a royal, Grade A idiot for thinking I could tame the dragon of social media.
The only good news is that if the Vegas cops have noticed what I’m up to and are calling to tell me to cut it out, they haven’t been able to get through the bombardment.
Thankfully, my close friends are able to bypass the madness with a text message. Within ten minutes, I hear from the rest of the band, Cutter and Zack both texting to let me know they can be in Vegas by the end of the day if I need help searching for Kirby or just friends around for moral support. Shep offers to fly out with Bridget, as well, but I tell them all to hold off for now. If I know Kirby, as soon as she’s safe and sound, she’s going to want to be on the first plane back home. She loves a good adventure, but this hasn’t been that. It’s been a shit show, and I’m sure she can’t wait to put Vegas in her rearview mirror.
I have to believe we—someone—will find her today. Any minute, in fact. The thought of her still missing by the time the others can get here, still missing when the sun goes down tonight, makes me sick to my stomach.
Though I’m sure the coffee I’ve been guzzling since five a.m. isn’t helping the stomach situation.
Phone pinned between my ear and shoulder as I listen to yet another young girl tell me how much she loves my music in a breathless rush that makes me worry she might pass out before she finishes, I cross to the minibar and grab a roll of antacids from the top shelf. I pop two, chewing and swallowing before I interrupt as gently as possible. “Thanks so much, but have you seen a woman resembling Kirby Lawrence? This hotline is just for sharing news that might lead to her being brought home safe and sound.”
“Oh, um, yeah,” the girl says with a nervous laugh. “I do know a girl who looks like her. But she’s in eleventh grade at my school. Is your friend in eleventh grade?’
“No, my friend isn’t in eleventh grade,” I say, just barely keeping the anger from my voice. This is just a dumb kid being dumb. She has no idea what it feels like to worry that something terrible might have happened—or is currently happening—to the person you love most in the world. “Thanks for the tip, but I need to move on to the next call.”
But when I tap the red button and my cell immediately starts buzzing again, I don’t answer.
I’m so frustrated I’m afraid I’ll lose my shit on the next caller.
I collapse back onto the couch, staring out at the skyline as Murder leaps onto the cushions beside me with a plaintive meow. “I know,” I say. “I miss her, too.”
Murder meows again, cocking his head as he steps closer. Tentatively, I reach out, slowly bringing my fingers to his neck and working them into the fur beneath his collar, the way I’ve seen Kirby do a hundred times. After only a moment, a soothing rumble fills the air, and Murder curls onto the couch beside me, one paw resting on my thigh in a way that seems to say, “I’m here, dude. You’ve got this. Keep answering the phone. We’ve got to find Kirby.”
I don’t know if this truce is permanent or if Murder has simply decided to play nice until his favorite human returns, but the fact that he isn’t trying to bite my hand off or separate my balls from my body is comforting.
And he’s right. I have to keep trying. I’ve answered a hundred useless calls, but the hundred and first might be the one we’ve been waiting for.
I take a deep breath, but before I can hit the answer button, a text pops through from a number I don’t recognize. I pull up my messages, nearly jumping out of my skin when I see Kirby’s face staring back at me from the screen. I surge to my feet, sending Murder leaping to the floor with a yowl as I pace away from the couch, enlarging the shot.
Kirby’s face is streaked with dirt, her hair is a windswept mess, and her shoulders are sunburned, but she’s wearing the dress she was wearing last night, and she’s alive.
But scared. Or angry? Angry and scared?
I’m staring into her wide blue eyes, trying to read her mind, when the second text comes through—If you want to see your fuck buddy again, meet us at the Pancake House by the airport in thirty minutes. Come alone. That includes the cat. Leave it in your room. If you call your friends or the police, I’ll k
now, and we’ll be gone. As soon as I have confirmation that you’ve received this message, I’m destroying the phone. You won’t be able to contact me again.
Heart pulsing in my throat, I reply, Who is this? Regina, if this is you, we can put this behind us and talk as long as you want to talk. Just let Kirby go.
Bubbles fill the screen and then, Right. How stupid do you think I am, dipshit? I’m using a burner phone, but I’m going to reveal my identity because you asked? Fuck you, asshole.
Jaw clenched, I scan the text, something pinging in my gut. This could be my ex, but my intuition is screaming that it’s someone else. Fine, I type back. Then just let me talk to her. Let me hear her voice so I know that she’s all right.
A middle finger emoji pops up, followed by, Pancake House. Thirty minutes. You’d better get going, hotshot. Even without traffic, it’s going to take you twenty minutes to get across town. I’d hate to have to do something awful to your best buddy because you can’t stop being a pompous dick for five minutes and follow directions.
I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood. Don’t you dare hurt her. She’s innocent. Kirby’s one of the most good-hearted people in the world. Whatever beef you’ve got with me, she’s not part of it.
A laughing emoji and another middle finger are my only response. And when I try to send another message—Seriously. Don’t touch her. I’m on my way—it fails to deliver.
The bastard clearly wasn’t kidding about trashing the phone.
It’s a man who’s got Kirby. I’m almost sure of it. The tone of the texts screams smug, pissed-off, entitled dickwad.
The suspicion alone is enough to make my vision haze over with red. Some piece of shit has his hands on Kirby, threatening her, maybe even hurting her, and I don’t even fucking know why. He didn’t ask me to bring money for a ransom. But maybe he’s planning to swap my life for Kirby’s and escort me on a tour of Vegas’s ATMs at gunpoint before shooting me in the head and leaving my body in the desert to rot.
The Bangover Page 17