Who the fuck is it?
There’s another thump that threatens to unhinge the bolt I’d screwed onto the inside of the door. The lock doesn’t work for shit and there are enough low-lives around here to keep me on edge, even with the bolt and chain in place. Fuck, the walls are so thin someone could probably just knock a hole through one if they wanted to get in.
“Andrea Carter,” a male voice shouts through the door and I stiffen, then go cold. Suddenly, the fogginess of booze is dissipating. The man knows who I am. “I have a message for you.”
I slide a hand beneath my pillow, reaching for the Glock. Rising silently, I slide the mag into place and tiptoe to the door. The handle rattles as someone jiggles it.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
“What do you want?” I finally croak out.
“Got a message,” he repeats. “Open up, or I’ll kick the door in.”
It wouldn’t be difficult.
I rub my eyes with my free hand. There’s no point in avoiding this. I slip the chain into place and slide the bolt back, then unlock the door. I pull it open just a crack, peering out at the man outside. My blood runs cold as I run my eyes over his features. I recognize him from when Mark’s men had taken me back to his home all those weeks ago. Time hasn’t faded the memory of the bastards who kept me locked up there. My only consolation is that I managed to get free from them that day. Now they’ve found me.
How the fuck did they find me?
I don’t understand it. I’ve taken every possible freaking precaution. And then it dawns on me. My phone. I’ve called him more than once. The bastard probably traced the number. Pinpointed this place. For all I know, he could’ve been watching me all along.
Smart move, Andy.
I hadn’t even thought about the possibility of that. It doesn’t matter. The guy’s here now. And he’s eyeing me impatiently.
I swing the door open and simultaneously raise my gun hand. Considering how broken I feel, I’m amazed at how smoothly I pull the move.
“What do you want?” I grind out. He looks down at the muzzle of the Glock aimed at his chest, then looks back up at me. He smirks.
Fucking smirks!
“Mr. Whitlock wanted you to have this.” He lifts a hand, pausing only slightly when I slide my finger to the trigger guard. His hand keeps moving and I drop a look at it. There’s a white envelope between his thick fingers. “Take it,” he says. “Ain’t gonna bite.”
I reach out hesitantly, then snatch it from him. He’s still smirking as he tips his fingers to his head in a mock salute, then turns and saunters away. Not bothering to look back at me. As if I wasn’t actually pointing a loaded gun at the back of his head.
I don’t breathe until he disappears from sight and then I hear his footsteps fading down the stairwell. Hair hisses from my lungs in a rush. I back up a step, then swing the door shut, locking it, and slamming the bolt into place. I turn and lean against the surface, feeling myself sag.
“Oh, Jesus…”
The urge to puke is back in full force. Even after sucking in several deep breaths, I still feel bile and vodka burning up the back of my throat. There’s nothing else there; I can’t remember the last time I ate. Sometimes even Twinkies lose their appeal.
My temperature spikes as adrenaline surges, and cold sweat beads on my forehead. I dash to the tiny room that houses the toilet and a basin I’ve tried to use for bathing and washing my clothes. I’ve succeeded at neither since I’ve been here. I stink. The revulsion at myself only adds to the nausea, and I drop to my knees just in time to empty the contents of my stomach into the bowl.
It feels like I’m there for a lifetime, retching until nothing comes up.
“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” I groan, the sound echoing around the porcelain. I fall back onto my butt and lean up against the cool surface of the bathroom wall. I wipe my mouth with the back of my wrist. The envelope is still clutched in one hand. The thick, expensive paper is splattered with vomit, and I cringe as I peel it open. Somehow, it seems appropriate, though. If there’s anywhere I could imagine vomiting now, it would be all over Mark Whitlock.
I blink several times to clear my vision, then stare down at the folded sheet of paper I find inside. It’s a note written in a bold hand. Mark’s idea of a masculine script, no doubt.
7 pm tonight. I feel like Chinese. Dress the part. No underwear. M.
That’s all it says.
No underwear. Fuck.
Tucked in with it is a bamboo-colored business card. A Chinese restaurant with an uptown address.
What the fuck? He wants me to meet him for freakingdim sum?
