Page 36 of Blood Lovers

Next to the keys is a phone. And in the phone is one contact number.

His.

As if I don’t know his number.

I don’t want to call. He did all this to make me call, so I really don’t want to call.

But I’m not staying here. And this was a direct order, so… like it or not, I have to call and sort it out.

I press the contact. He picks up on the first ring. “Good morning, sunshine. How did you sleep?”

“What the fuck is this place?”

“I just bought it. It’s a mess, as you can see. Clean it up for me. Get it ready for the summer tourist season. Fishing and whitewater rafting. That’s what this place is about.”

I’m so annoyed. “Why the fuck would I stay here, Paul? I’m looking for your fucking feeder, remember?”

“She’s disappeared. The Guild has shuttled her off somewhere. I can feel the emptiness. There’s nothing we can do but wait for the next mistake. So while we wait, I would like you to get this place up and running. Bookings start Memorial Day weekend. Redo everything. And I do mean everything.”

Then he hangs up on me.

I throw the phone across the room and it smacks into the aged brown paneling, leaving a dent.

This is great. Just fucking great. Now I’m stuck in Idaho for who the fuck knows how long. He did this on purpose. I’ve heard of White River. It’s only a couple hours away from the Montana compound. He wants me close.

This isn’t even that unusual. He’s done shit like this before. But it’s when he’s needy. And the way he treated me in Miami, not to mention this letter and phone call, doesn’t conjure up images of neediness.

So what the fuck is he doing now?

The phone buzzes an incoming text across the room. I walk over and pick it up.

It’s eight fifty-five. I’m telling you, she’s a bitch. Do not be late.

I shove the phone into my pocket and grab the keys to the truck—which, now that I look at the keyring, also has another key attached. A key that has ‘A-1’ stamped on it. And when I open the cottage door and look at the outside, it matches.

This shithole room is my new home.

I close the door, lean into the bitter wind, and head towards the office. When I get there, I find a young, blonde woman pacing the disgusting lobby.

“Finally!” She stomps her foot. Actually stomps her fucking foot. Like she’s five years old and doesn’t want to eat her vegetables. “You were expected at seven.”

I close the door behind me to block the weather. “Well, I was told to be here at nine.” I point to an old analog clock hanging on the wall. “And I’m one minute early.”

“Who cares. Here is what I expect and when I expect it.” She hands me a piece of paper with a single-spaced list. Number one is: Remodel my whole apartment. She gives me two weeks to get it done. ‘My apartment’ meaning her apartment, not the shithole room I’m staying in.

She taps the page with a long, purple fingernail. “I need it ready immediately. I’ll be at the hotel on Route 121. But that place is as gross as this one, so two. Weeks.” She snarls this at me, then turns on her heel and heads for the front door.

“I’m sorry.” I block her way with my arm. “Who are you and why are you even here?”

“I’m Isabella. I own this place.”

“No. You don’t. Paul owns this place.”

“Well, he gave it to me.” She tips her chin up and scowls, like she’s daring me to contradict her. “He said it would be mine. And you”—she pokes me in the chest—“are going to fix it up. In two weeks. And the rest of it better be ready by Memorial Day.”

She tries to push past me, but this time I grab her arm. “I’m not gonna ask you again. Who. The fuck. Are you?”

“I’m carrying his baby, OK? That’s who I am.”