Chapter 8 Bolton
BOLTON
The snick of a door closing pulls me from a soft, unexpected slumber. I roll over to snuggle with Cal, but the bed is empty with cold sheets.
Cal isn’t here. Was he here to begin with? I think I remember him carrying me to bed and whispering something to me. No matter how hard I rack my brain, I can’t remember what he said.
His wallet is missing from his bedside table. He always has his wallet when he leaves the penthouse…which means he isn’t here. I jump out of bed, dizziness crashing over me.
Oh my god, I haven’t felt this shitty since the one and only time Cal and I took a cruise. Seasickness isn’t a punishment I’d wish on my worst enemy, even Meredith McSatan.
I search the living room, his office, the kitchen—every nook and cranny in this place including the pantry and closet—only to confirm my worst fear.
He’s gone, despite my begging him to stay.
I cried in his arms like a lunatic about how he had to stay home where he’s safe, and he left!
He could be dead, his body thrown in a ditch out in the cold, alone. I need to find him.
I quickly dress in a pair of black joggers and a matching sweatshirt. After shoving my old Swiss army knife in my pocket, I lace up a pair of sneakers, praying to whoever is listening up in the sky that he hasn’t left.
Please, please, please let him be safe in this house somewhere.
My hands shake so badly, I can barely unlock my phone. I take the elevator down to the lobby, calling Cal while I wait for it to descend all fifty floors. The call rings out to voicemail.
I call three more times, only to get the same result. With every passing second, I feel my blood drain from my face. My thoughts race between all the murder scenes from my books, the dozens of ways this murdering sicko can kill my husband.
Some of the scenes from my past books are…
dark. In one scene, the hero rips every single fingernail off the villain, then each finger and toe.
Then he cuts his dick off for daring to touch the heroine and lets him bleed out.
In another scene, the villain watches a supporting character drown in the ocean while giving a classic antagonist’s monologue.
Cal can swim, but he’s already in his late forties.
Can he even hold his own against a rip tide?
I’ve written all kinds of shit. He could get shot, stabbed, hit by a car. My imagination runs wild when I write.
Why can’t I just write cutesy rom-coms with happy endings?!
I’m gripping the decorative bar in the elevator for dear life, an inch away from passing out by the time I reach the ground floor.
He isn’t in the lobby. I run outside to see if he’s waiting for a car, and find him hopping into his driver’s back seat. They pull away too quickly for me to get their attention.
I hail a cab, instructing the driver to follow Cal’s car. He’s an older man in a trucker hat and buffalo flannel, and he reeks of cigarettes, but I’m in too big a rush to care.
“I’m not following another vehicle,” he wheezes. “Get another car.”
“Please follow his car. My husband is inside it, and I need to know where he’s going. Please?” I beg, my voice heavy with desperation.
His scowl softens as he pulls away from the curb. “You think he’s fucking around on you?”
“He’s definitely hiding something,” I quip, not feeling bad at all for misleading the driver. I’ll do anything to save my husband.
And it’s not like I’m lying. He is hiding something—like how big of an inconsiderate jackass he is. Why else would he fuck me to sleep, then leave in the middle of the night without so much as a text message to tell me where he’s going?
He just waltzed out of the penthouse like it’s a normal fucking day in the Upper East Side, all sunshine, money, and unicorns riding rainbows. It’s not like there’s some deranged killer out there reenacting murders from my dark romance books and his life is in danger.
This is how Mom must have felt every time she said, ‘Bolton, you’re raising my blood pressure’.
I can feel my heart beating down my chest like it owes money.
My arms and legs hurt, and I think the contents of my stomach are about to evacuate through my mouth.
Hopefully not my ass, because shitting myself in a cab while having a panic attack would be a new low point for me.
As we gain on Cal, the driver slows down. “We’ll stay a car behind so we don’t blow our cover. I’m sorry he’s doing this. When my first wife cheated on me, I found out this way too.”
The driver’s voice is raspy, but not in the sexy way Cal’s is. It’s more the smokes a pack a day kind of raspy. Regardless, it’s calming enough to keep me from losing my shit. Pun intended.
“I’m sorry,” I respond out of politeness as I text Cal, caps-shouting at him to come home.
His car gets onto the highway, heading toward Brooklyn. Why the fuck would he go to Brooklyn of all places?
“Thanks, buddy. I knew something was up, so I pretended to go to work, then followed her all over town while she dropped the kids off and ran errands. Turns out she was fucking the manager of the grocery store. She had a side piece for almost a year, and I didn’t even know about him.”
Maybe Cal is going to Brooklyn because he has a side piece there… but I doubt it. Our prenup has a provision for cheating, and he'll pay out the ass if I ever catch him. He’s smarter than that.
And even though we’ve had ups and downs, he loves me. Every day, he chooses to stay together and put the work in. He shows up to counseling and participates, something a lot of husbands aren’t willing to do. So I highly doubt he’s fucking around on me.
“So that’s why she’s your first wife?” I ask.
“No, we were willing to work through it for the kids’ sake. A few weeks later, the grocery bastard came to our apartment looking for her and I beat the shit out of him. A neighbor called the cops, and I served time for assault. She divorced me for that.”
I try to force the shocked expression from my face, but he only laughs. “My advice to you—if you catch him cheating, get revenge another way. Be sneaky about it so no one can trace it to you.”
“Um, thanks,” I awkwardly blurt, making a mental note to put this guy in one of my books someday. What a weirdo.
Thankfully the conversation ends. Cal’s car pulls over on a side street. I shove some bills into the driver’s hand and hop out.
“Good luck,” he whispers out the window as he drives away.
Why is Cal prowling down a side street on the edge of Brooklyn with his hood up at one in the morning?
I stalk him from a safe distance, keeping to unlit shadows in case he turns around.
He walks several blocks, probably without breaking a sweat because he’s Mr. Fucking Fitness, while I’m back here breathing like I’m climbing Mount Everest.
If Cal and I make it out of here alive, I swear I’ll start hitting the gym like I always say I will, I promise to whoever is up there taking prayers right now. I’ll even jog on the treadmill instead of walking. Oh, and I won’t stare at any of the muscly jocks, hunks, or bears either.
We keep walking for another ten minutes. I’m literally stalking my husband through the streets, trying to figure out what is going on. What can be so important he’d risk his life? That he’d risk leaving me here to live life without him…
With every step, the stale, pungent scent of stagnant gets stronger. We eventually reach the docks. Not the nice part the shipping companies usually use, but an older part. These buildings have seen better days. The shipping containers around them are rusty with huge dents, and the wood is warped.
Now I know for sure he isn’t cheating, because he’s too much of a germaphobe to be caught dead having sex somewhere like this.
Is he buying drugs? I can’t imagine him doing anything hard or smoking weed, but there’s a first time for everything.
Why would he come all the way out here to buy them?
Manhattan has every possible drug you can think of.
And he could just have his assistant buy them instead of doing it himself.
In the middle of my musings, I lose track of him between two shipping containers.
I pick up my pace, jogging forward to find him.
The containers are set up like a maze, and the whole thing gives off creepy vibes.
I make a few turns, and still can’t find him, like he disappeared out of thin air.
Panic rises in my throat, and I keep looking for him, frantically running around and losing my way.
I have no clue what direction I came from, or where Cal went.
The Christmas Cleaver could be slicing him to bits right now, and I won’t be able to save him because I can’t find my way out of a paper bag, let alone a maze.
I take a few deep breaths to ground myself, trying my hardest to think positive thoughts.
Cal is a grown man. He works out. He’s probably able to hold his own, and you will find him.
I turn around a sharp corner, determined to find my husband before he becomes my late husband. I’m running so fast, I don’t catch the tall, solid figure standing in my path before ramming into it and landing on my ass.
Any confidence I mustered moments before dies an instant death when I look up to see the Christmas Cleaver.
He peers down at me, his large body unnaturally still.
His white hockey mask is decorated with little multi-colored lights, their glow illuminating his cold, dark eyes.
He’s dressed in fitted red velvet pants and jacket with white fur trim, like a hot Santa out of my wildest fucking fantasies.
Christ on a fucking bike. Only I would find the man trying to murder my husband and ruin my life attractive. Why the fuck is Cal paying so much for therapy if I’m still so fucked up in the head?
Oh my God, Cal!