“No. Let me do it now.” I say, feeling a little stupid for not thinking about it sooner. “It just went to voicemail.”
Chance lets out a chuckle. “Let me try. Maybe she just doesn’t want to talk to you.”
He’s lucky we’re in a social setting where we have to keep a certain demeanor, or that smart ass remark would earn him something worse than the glare I settle for. “Whatever. Just do it.”
“Nope.” He says with a frown. “Voicemail.”
I don’t even gloat like my brother would deserve. “I don’t like this. What if she’s feeling sick or something?”
He agrees. “Yeah, it isn’t like Zara to ignore our texts and calls. Let’s just go check on her. Maybe she bumped into someone she knows and is stuck in the foyer talking.”
Maybe. I seriously hope so.
Chance
After asking Lev to stay put in the dining room in case Zara comes back, Ares and I walk out of the function room to the Country Club’s foyer.
“There’s no one here.” Ares says.
We cross the big, airy room to the opposite side where the restrooms are, right before a hallway that leads to an area of the club reserved for the staff.
“It’s locked.” I inform my brother when the door handle doesn’t budge.
Ares knocks on the door. “Zara? Are you in there?” He calls out.
He puts his ear against the solid mahogany of the door, trying to listen for any sign of life coming from the bathroom.
“Maybe the cleaners are in there.” I muse.
“I doubt it. They would have put that sign that says, ‘cleaning in progress’. I don’t know if it’s my imagination, but I think I heard some noise coming from there. Like a muffled whimper.”
Fuck.
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe Zara is feeling sick. Zara?” I call out louder, shaking the door handle with more force than on my first attempt.
“Fuck this shit.” Ares grunts, nudging me out of the way with his shoulder. “I’m getting in there one way or another.”
He slams his shoulder against the door, but to no avail.
“Wait.” I stop him with a hand on his shoulder when he rears back to try again. “Let me try.”
“Why? Do you think you can do better?”
Ares is tall and muscular, but I have two inches on him, and while I might weigh only ten or fifteen pounds more than my brother, I play a contact sport every day. “I spend a lot of time ramming bigger assholes than me and you against the boards.” I say.
“Fine. Go for it.”
I put all my weight into the next blow against the bathroom door, and while it shakes and cracks audibly, it still doesn’t budge.
Rather than making fun of me or offering one of his snarky remarks, Ares pats me on the back. “Not bad, brother. I think if we both hit it at the same time, we might be able to get it open.”
“You’re right. On the count of three, ready? One, two…”
“Ares?”
We stop in our tracks, turning around to find Jules Cutler, the owner’s son, looking at us with a curious expression on his face.
“Is there any problem?” he asks.
