“Nick Hart,” he barks, mouth set in a grim line like he’s expecting bad news.
I guess I can’t blame him. The clock on the nightstand reads 12:01.
Nothin’ good happens after midnight.
How many times did my mother utter that phrase when I was in high school? My muscles tense and I pull the sheets more tightly around my body, covering my breasts.
Nick listens intently, not saying a word. The longer he goes without speaking, the deeper the groove in his forehead becomes. He’s actively frowning now and his eyes flash with an emotion I can’t identify. Anger? Fear? Frustration?
How about all of the above?
My pulse accelerates, uncertainty creeping in.
“Have you tried her cell phone?” He slips his pants on and makes a grab for his shirt, which is draped over the foot of the enormous bed. He turns to look for something else, his belt, maybe, and kicks the bedframe.
“Fuck!” he bellows, dropping the phone and hopping on one foot. He bends to retrieve it, and I watch in stunned silence. I’ve never seen Nick out of control. Not like this. He snatches the phone from the floor and holds it back up to his ear. “Are you still there?”
He’s silent for a beat before asking, “How long until the police arrive?”
I’m out of the bed like a shot, scooping up my own clothes and slipping them on at warp speed.
“I’ll meet them there,” he says, hurriedly buttoning his shirt. “I have a key.”
Nick disconnects and slips the phone in his pocket before turning to me. “I have to go. Family emergency.”
“What’s going on?” I zip my skirt and perch on the edge of the bed to put on my stockings.
“Nothing for you to worry about.” He rakes a hand through his hair, not meeting my gaze as he scans the room. Whatever he’s looking for, he must not see it, because he turns on his heel and heads for the door.
I abandon the stockings and follow, matching his pace as he races down the stairs, taking them two at a time in the dark.
Thank God for the full moon.
Otherwise, I’d probably be tumbling ass over teakettle behind him.
He grabs his keys off the kitchen island in one smooth motion, but I don’t miss the way they rattle in his shaking hand.
There’s no way he can drive. Not like this. He’s too upset.
I step into my heels and when he bends to slip on his own shoes, I position myself in front of the door, palm out. “Give me the keys. I’m driving.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Impatience flashes in his eyes. “I’m fine.”
Right. That’s why the keys are performing a jaunty little jingle at this very moment.
“You’re not fine,” I say, holding my ground. “And it wouldn’t be safe for you to drive. So, we can either stand here arguing and waste more time, or you can give me the keys and tell me where we’re going.” I lift my chin. “Your choice.”
A muscle in his jaw twitches, but he drops the keys in my hand. “Let’s go.”
Five minutes later, following Nick’s directions, I turn his SUV west on Cesar Chavez. “Stay on this road until it becomes Lake Austin.”
That’s all he says before pulling out his phone and tapping a contact in his favorites. He calls the number over and over, hanging up every time the voicemail picks up. I can’t quite make out the words, but it sounds like a woman.
When I glance over, he’s gripping the phone so tightly that his knuckles have gone white and his posture is so damn rigid he looks like he’s been carved from stone. I press down on the accelerator, giving the SUV a burst of speed.
“Fuck!”
He hangs up for the eighth time, and before he can redial, I ask, “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
