Page 34 of Reckless Woman
No voicemail.
No Joseph.
Nothing.
He better have a good explanation for this. Thetick tocksfrom the clock above the front desk are starting to sound like the opening chords of a really shitty break-up song.
Do you even break up with master criminals?
I’d figured it was a lifetime deal with him. Like an arranged relationship with no get-out clauses. I’ve draped it around me like a comfort blanket because the thought of taking a single breath without him makes a mockery out of living.
“Has he messaged you yet?”
Vi’s slumped in the willow-green chair opposite, watching me like a hawk. She’s pretending to read a fashion magazine, but she hasn’t moved past the contents page for thirty minutes.
“Not yet.” I stare down at my newly returned cell and attempt to telepath it back to life. “You don’t have to wait with me, Vi.”
She grins. “Oh, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
That just pisses me off even more. She wants me to give him hell about this, but it’s never going to happen. All I want to do is bring that hard body in close and take his shelter.
It’s twelve fifty-five. He was meant to pick me up at midday, and my panic levels are fast approaching the red zone. If he was stuck in some meeting for bad men, he would have sent another bad man to pick me up. He’d never leave me stranded on this white island, surrounded by the rough seas of uncertainty.
That’s not Joseph’s style.
“I’m calling, Eve,” I mutter, finding her number and lifting the device to my ear before Vi has a chance to talk me out of it.
The call rings out as well.
“Shit.”
I try again. More nothing. Meanwhile, there’s a commotion going on over by the front desk. Five of the team are crowding around the receptionist and talking in hushed voices. There’s a fast clicking of high heels as Rina cannonballs down the hallway toward the living quarters, her frizzy brown hair flying.
I glance at Vi, who’s pretending to ignore that as well.
“What’s going on?”
“How the hell should I know?”
“Don’t go all ‘moody pop star’ on me, Viviana.”
“Some guy was found hanging in his room an hour ago,” says Soccer Mom, leaning over the seating divide to whisper, “suicide,” at me like it’s an insult.
“Are youserious?” I’m shocked. “I’ve stayed here loads and nothing like this has ever happened before.”
“Medics have already called it. The cops are on their way.”
Cops?
An unpleasant shiver zips up and down my spine. I feel bad for the poor guy, but I’m on a wanted list myself somewhere—a girl with an old life and an old surname. Joseph definitely is. He’s got his own headline and graphic, and I’m damn sure Vi’s international rap sheet is nudging into the CIA and DEA’s viewfinders.
Vi slaps her magazine down on the coffee table. She’s clearly thinking the same as she motions me away from Soccer Mom.
“We need to go.”
My heart lurches. “What if Joseph’s delayed? What if he’s on his way and we miss him? I can’t let him turn up and be greeted by a pair of handcuffs, Vi.”
“That would never happen,” she scoffs. “He’s apinche puto, motherfucker, but he’d read the signs a mile off.”