46 - Death Wish
Logan
When I receive the call from my ex-girlfriend, I don’t know what to make of it at first. Her speech is a jumbled mess, spilling from her lips at an incomprehensible speed.
That’s one of the qualities that always did frustrate the hell out of me when we were together.
Whenever she was scared, nervous, or anxious, her voice translated to that of a chipmunk on double-time.
The fingers clutched to my ear clench as I exhale an uneven breath. “Cee. Calm the fuck down, take a deep breath and speak the fucking English language.”
More gibberish swamps the line. A ruckus, shuffling, and frantic female voices before Scarlett’s cuts in.
“Did you book an uber for Cordelia?”
My brows knot together. “What? No? Why would I book an Uber? She’s with you, isn't she?”
“She was.” Her dubious response turns my blood to ice. “She left. Just got in an uber and took off. She said you’d booked it for her to get home. Fuck. Fuck.”
Tension chokes my throat as I force the words out. “I didn’t book shit.” I have no idea when I began pacing the floor like a caged animal, but it could have something to do with my very pregnant fiancée going fucking AWOL.
“Cox. Something wrong?”
My eyes sweep over Clarke, finished pummelling darts into his personal pin cushion for the afternoon, he levels me with a critical gaze
“Cordelia’s done a runner,” I say. “Girl’s, say she got into a red uber.”
He nods, firm, assertive. “I’m on it.”
“Did you get a plate number?” I demand. Sweat beads along my brow. “A look at the driver? Anything?”
Scarlett lets out a helpless cry, her voice distant. “No. It happened so quickly.”
“Shit, shit, shit,” I mutter, swiping my hand over my face. “Where are you? We’ll send someone to fetch you.
“Tommy’s on his way now,” Casey supplies. “He’ll be here in less than five.”
“Let one of us know when he’s there.” I dip my chin, and end the call, turning my attention to the boys. “Casey’s bloke’s fetching them.”
If it weren’t for the trepidation brewing in my chest, I’d find Ezio’s all-consuming laser-eyed glare highly amusing.
He clearly can’t stand the thought of Scarlett in the back of another guy's car. People think he’s easy-going, the laid back one, but I’ve seen him up-close in action.
He’s just as unhinged as I am, only better at wearing the mask.
That shitty red pin on the map is frozen on Cordelia’s bedroom, mocking me from behind the safety of the glass.
I grunt in frustration and make haste for the stairs.
On my way up to the surface, I try ringing her, but every failed attempt cuts to voicemail.
The smooth lilt of her angelic voice serves as an aphrodisiac to help ease my racing heart, so I hammer the call button relentlessly.
Hoping and praying she’ll answer. I don’t believe in the lord or any other higher power so there isn’t a hope in hell of that working out for me.
When the afternoon sun peaks over the horizon, and the signal bars surge, I flick back to the app. The pin faffs about for a second, darting around like the last flicker of a dying pulse. But then it settles and I have the location secured.
Rapid footsteps on the gravel forewarn of the guy’s pursuit, before their faces come into view. I spin around, heart in my goddamn throat.
“Location?”
I point to the phone. The weight presses into my palm, trembling with my spiking adrenaline.
“That’s the old storehouse by the docks,” Clarke says, eyes scanning the screen vehemently. “Let’s go.”
We barrel into the cars. I jump in with Ezio in the merc, Clarke’s upfront in the Lambo.
Ezio swerves into the oncoming traffic whilst I input the location into the built in sat nav.
Usually his erratic driving doesn’t unnerve me, but the knot twisting my stomach already has me nauseous to the point of throwing up.
“She’ll be okay, Amigo. Your woman is fuoco.”
I nod. Cordelia’s fiery alright, but that isn’t always a positive. Much worse people exist in our world than me, and she’s only got to anger the wrong one.
“Who even uses that location anymore?” Ezio wonders out loud. I think he’s trying to stop me from combusting into a blaze of roaring fire whilst sitting in his passenger seat. “It’s not one of ours.”
“No idea,” I growl. ”But whoever's responsible has written their fucking death wish.”