Unfortunately, most of the texts were from her students, who had already arrived and had their questions answered. At last, though, her thumb paused over the last one from John Flaherty.
—Call me ASAP.—
The sinking, roiling feeling in her stomach blossomed. Her hands shook as she held the phone to her ear.
“Hi, Anita.” He sounded busy.
“Hi, John,” she replied, holding one finger from her other hand in her opposite ear so she could hear better. The partition between the practice and competition rooms was too thin, and the din from the music and crowd was deafening. “I got your message.”
“Great. Is Patrick with you?”
“No.” And he was not answering any of her texts because she was a monster. A heartless, talentless monster. “He’s still asleep, I think.”
“I’ve been trying to reach him.”
“He’s supposed to meet me around lunch time to practice.” Not that she knew for sure he would turn up after the complete ass she had been.
“Maybe you can pass this message along? Let him know we found Mark Templeton’s car.”
Mark Templeton’s car? She had a feeling she was supposed to understand the significance of that. Probably something she and Patrick ought to have discussed the previous night instead of—
She made a noncommittal sound.
“Look, Anita, I don’t want to freak you out. I know you guys are pretty busy today, but just be careful. I have an idea of what’s going on and who’s doing this, and I’m worried she’s going to come after you.”
Anita’s mouth felt uncommonly dry. “Really? What do you think is going on?”
John exhaled, the sound amplified by the speaker on his phone. “I can’t really say anything until I’ve confirmed it. But just lay low, keep an eye on each other. You’re safer together. Can you pass it on to Patrick for me?”
A knot twisted again in Anita’s stomach. “Sure, of course. And you’ll let us know if anything else comes up?”
“Absolutely.” John paused. “How are things going there? Nothing unusual?”
Anita briefly considered the sight of Patrick grappling with Mikhail, those same hands wrapped around her body. The text from this morning. Everything would be fine as long as she stayed away from Patrick. “Nope.” Nothing except the absolute dumpster fire that she had made of her life. “Usual ballroom drama.”
“Great. Take care. I’ll update you guys as soon as I can.”
Anita murmured her thanks and hung up the call. She tried calling Patrick, but it went straight to voicemail. Apologizing would be easier without caller ID.
She sent Patrick a quick text telling him to call John, then leaned against the wall of the ballroom lobby, ujjayi-breathing to ward off the fatigue of lying. Would it have killed John to be a little more specific?
Duty called. She roused herself and headed back into the ballroom, forcing herself to smile, be calm. He was fine. She was fine. Everything was just fine.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Patrick groaned. His eyelids were glued together. Had he gotten himself into another fight? Everything was foggy, like he had been drinking heavily, passed out, and then woke up still drunk. Not to mention he ached everywhere. What had happened? He would kill for a glass of water, even just a sip.
He attempted to open an eye, found it too painful and stiff, groaned again. Wait, why couldn’t he put his hands on his face? His arms stretched, his shoulders tense. And cold…
Patrick tugged experimentally, then shocked himself fully awake. Handcuffs?
“Oh good, you’re up,” said a cheerful voice. A cloud of too-strong tuberose engulfed him, and the mattress beside him sank.
Patrick whipped his head around, then regretted it immediately because of the throb in his temples.
“Kim?” he whispered, his voice full of gravel and fatigue. “Kim? What the fuck is this?” He tugged again at the handcuffs.
Kim giggled, lay down beside him, and rested her head on his chest. Seriously, had she bathed in the perfume? Patrick tried not to gag. “Oh, my God, Patrick.” She sighed contentedly. “I can’t tell you how long I’ve waited for this.”
