Chapter 2
Dane
My phone rang, and I snatched it up; the screen told me it was Jax calling, and I glanced at Raquel and Hamish, who were sitting on the loveseat in the den of the apartment above Badd's Bar and Grille. "It's Jax," I told them, and then swiped to answer. "Jax, buddy, thanks for calling back."
"Let me up, jackass. I'm at the back door."
"You didn't need to come here, dude, we could've done it over the phone."
"I'm an in-person kinda guy, Dane. You know this. I hate being on the phone more than just about anything on the planet. Now come down here and open the fuckin' door."
"Coming, coming, keep your shirt on, Jesus." I hung up on him and trotted down to the bar and through the kitchen, unlocking and opening the door to the alley, which was the door the family always used to enter the building.
Jax's vintage Chevy Li'l Red Express pickup was parked in the alley, twin vertical exhaust pipes sticking up above the cab.
He had a messenger bag slung over his left shoulder, and he was wearing pressed khakis and a Geek Squad polo; he was a freelance web designer and all-around IT pro, moonlighting as a Geek Squad tech to make ends meet when his freelance gigs left income gaps.
As Uncle Xavier's protégé, he could have his pick of positions within Xavier's tech empire, but he was determined to do so without nepotism, which meant logging a rather morbid and masochistic amount of hours slaving away over piddly jobs from Fiverr or wherever simply to build out his resumé.
He has the talent, undoubtedly, and to be honest, most of the family has, at one point or another, told him to just ask his uncle for a damn job, but Jax is stubborn.
He's even talked about applying under the name Jax Quinn—his mother's maiden name—to avoid any possibility of nepotism.
Jax pushed past me through the kitchen and upstairs, plopping onto the couch and whipping a laptop out of his bag. He glanced at Raquel and Hamish. “Hey, guys. I'm Jax Badd, Dane's smarter and better-looking cousin. So, I hear we're looking for someone."
Raquel clenched her hands together between her knees, giving him sad puppy dog pleading eyes. "Yeah, my friend, Lindsey Snelling. She took off early this morning or late last night and isn't answering her phone."
Jax frowned. "So, just to be clear, here: how worried about her are we? Like, does she have a history of self-harm? Because if that's the case, you need to contact the authorities, not a sexy nerd with a laptop."
Raquel shrugged. "I know she's had issues in the past, but this doesn't seem like that."
"She does have a semi-colon tattoo on her wrist," I said.
Jax sighed. "Well, I'll see if I can track her down, but if you have any concerns for her well-being, don't wait to send someone with real authority to locate her." He opened his laptop and did something that involved a lot of typing. "Okay, let's start simple. Phone number?"
Raquel rattled off Lindsey's cell number, and Jax went to work. A map popped up on the screen, and a red dot blipped. A second, and a third, and then after a few minutes of processing, the three dots became a triangulation, putting a fourth dot in the center.
“Looks like the last time she had her phone on, she was in…
LA. Near…let's see, let me zoom in…" he named some cross-streets that meant nothing to me—I'd been at her apartment, yes, but we’d taken a cab from Rune’s parents’ house to the restaurant where we had dinner, and then another cab to the bar, and then had walked to her apartment, and I hadn't paid attention to street names.
I'd been too focused on her, and on the delicious prospect of getting her fine ass naked.
Raquel sighed. "That's her apartment. She went home? The crazy skank-ass ho is home and not answering calls or texts? I'm gonna kill her!"
"Raquel," I said, going for a placating tone, "she seemed really upset.
I don't know what about because she wouldn't tell me shit. I don’t know her well enough to know if her level of upset is within normal bounds or not.
I just know she wasn't okay. I won't be able to relax until I know she's safe, at least. She doesn’t have to talk to or see me, but we have to see her face-to-face. "
Jax did more computer shit. "Looks like she shut her phone off a few hours ago." He glanced at Raquel. "Want me to sweep her feeds?"
"Sweep her feeds?" Raquel echoed.
"Check her socials," Jax clarified. "If you know her handle on Instagram, I can start there."
Raquel gave him Lindsey's IG handle, and Jax did more computer shit, then leaned back, frowning with a sigh. "She's killed everything. Her Insta is offline, so is her TikTok, Snapchat, everything. She's gone dark."
Raquel covered her face with both hands. "That's not good. She's always been super active online. She basically lives on Instagram."
Hamish was on his phone. "We can get flights out of Ketchikan tomorrow morning at the earliest," he says, his thick Scottish brogue rendering “tomorrow” as tuh-MOHR-uh and “earliest” as EARRRR-Leest, with a thick, juicy roll of the R.
"Book'em, baby," Raquel said, patting his thigh.
"Get me one," I said. "I'll Venmo you back.”
"Three in business, departing at seven…" Hamish muttered under his breath as he booked the flight.
A few minutes later, I had my digital boarding pass on my phone, and had paid Hamish back for the ticket. It burned like hell to have to sit around the rest of the day, worrying, but it was still faster and cheaper to wait and fly tomorrow morning than to leave now and spend three days driving.
Raquel, it turned out, is not much of a morning person.
She's not cranky, she's just a zombie. Dressed in a matching crushed pink velvet Juicy Couture track suit, she had her feet stuffed into a pair of Ugg slippers and a silk hat/bonnet sort of thing on her head and giant bug-eye sunglasses on her face.
She clung to Hamish's arm with both hands, her backpack-style purse on her back while Hamish and I dragged the luggage; I had a single duffle bag across my back and nothing else, so I willingly helped Hamish with their suitcases—it didn't look like Raquel was even aware of where she was or what was happening, but was just blindly going along with her husband.
We reached our gate with time to spare, and as soon as her ass hit a seat, Raquel tipped her head onto Hamish's burly shoulder and was asleep within seconds.
I grinned at the Scotsman. "She's not much for mornings, huh?"
Hamish chuckled. "Nah, she's no. Gettin' her sweet wee arse out the tent on our honeymoon was always a bit of an ordeal."
"Kinda seems like you could lead her anywhere and she wouldn't notice."
He snorted. "Oh, aye. I could walk her into the fires of Mount Doom with the One Ring, and she'd no notice if it was before noon." He shot me a look. "You're invested in this wee guddle, are y'no? Got to be if you're flyin' all the way to LA to clap eyes on the thrawn lassie."
I stared at him. “Yeah, so I have not a clue what the fuck you just said.”
Hamish passed his fingers down through his long red beard. "Guddle means a messy or complicated situation, and thrawn means difficult or hard to please."
I hummed thoughtfully. "I dunno, man. I don't think Lindsey is difficult or hard to please—I think she's just been through some gnarly-ass shit. I just wish she'd talk to me about it instead of blowing me off and ghosting me."
"Get yo ass in line," Raquel muttered, sounding more asleep than awake.
"She'll talk to Rune about that mess, but no one else.
I don't know much more than you, and I’ve been her friend for almost four years.
" She nuzzled closer to Hamish. "And boy, if you walk my half-asleep ass into a volcano, I'll haunt you into the next millennium.
You'll wish your ass was Gollum by the time I'm done with you. "
Hamish sniffed a laugh and kissed the top of her head. "You know I'd walk into the volcano my own self before I let you come to harm."
"Mmm-hmmm," she hums. "I know that's right.
Now, if you'll excuse me, my sweet wee arse," and here she adopted a funny impression of Hamish's thick burr, "needs a nap.
Wake me up when them bitches start boarding.
" She slides down to rest her head on Hamish's lap, pulls the voluminous hood of her tracksuit hoodie down over her eyes, and was very swiftly snoring with a delicate huff-snurk.
Hamish rested one hand on her hip, and with the other toyed with the end of one of her braids, his expression idly affectionate as he watched her sleep.
We sat in silence for awhile, Raquel sleeping, Hamish dozing off while occasionally reading a few pages of a dog-eared Ludlum paperback.
For my part, I let my thoughts wander, and they inevitably wandered back to Lindsey. To that night. It's where my idiot, caveman brain goes, all the time, on repeat, like a tongue probing a sore tooth.
What did I do? Was it something I said? How I said it? How I did it?
I know, I know—the note; It wasn't you. Wow, that really clears shit up, thanks a fucking ton, Lindsey.
Not.
So then, what was it? Something she went through at some point in her life, obviously. But why wouldn't she just tell me? Literally anything—any amount of explanation at all would help. I don't need her life story, although I'd gladly hear it.
I also found myself revisiting that night for more…prosaic reasons. Or perhaps a better way of putting it is for less emotionally-charged reasons.