Page 88 of Hating the Boss

Being money hungry and conniving was bad, but I wondered if she would go so far as to physically hurt someone. I thought back to the note she had left on my car.

If I can’t have you, no one will.

I shuddered slightly just as my phone rang, the trill sounding through the Bluetooth speakers of my convertible and breaking me from my thoughts.

“Hello?” I answered eagerly, hoping it was Sarah finally getting back to me. I just wanted to know she was safe.

“She’s not here. I’m at the office and there hasn’t been any sign of her,” said Anton on the other line.

I sighed in disappointed frustration. That meant no one had eyes on either Angela or Sarah, and that was making me even more on edge.

“Did you check my office upstairs?”

“Of course. It was the first place I looked, and now I’ve been in the lobby monitoring everyone. I feel like I’m some sort of undercover cop.”

Of course, Anton would make this into some sort of game.

“Okay, okay. Just stay there, just in case. Please,” I added, remembering I was dragging my best friend into this mess.

“Yeah, okay,” he said. I could hear his footsteps and then his voice came through again, lower this time. “Your dad is here. He seems really pissed off, man. He’s pacing the lobby and I’ve never seen his face so red. Well, maybe when we threw that impromptu graduation party at their Saratoga Springs house.”

“I know, I know. Sorry to put you in that position, man.”

“He just has all these questions, and I’m not sure how long I can hold him off with my ambiguous responses and failed attempts at humor.” Anton chuckled nervously.

“Just try,” I said.

“Does he know anything?”

“No. He would just make things worse with his meddling.”

“Or maybe he would help,” offered Anton.

“Doubtful,” I muttered.

“Are you almost there?” he asked hopefully.

“Stuck in traffic,” I told him.

I could hear my father’s voice in the background. “Is that my idiot of a son?”

“Shit. Gotta go,” whispered Anton before I heard the click of the phone.

I checked my GPS to see how many more minutes it would be until I arrived at Sarah’s apartment. With the traffic on the bridge, it said it would be at least twenty minutes. I drummed my fingers against the steering wheel impatiently.

I strained my neck to look up ahead to the right. The bike lane seemed clear and the end of the bridge was so close. Without really thinking, and out of pure desperation, I veered the steering wheel to the right and began driving down the bike lane. Every car I passed slammed on their horn angrily, the sound echoing in my ears as I tried to concentrate on not hitting anyone.

I slammed on my brakes when I saw, up ahead, a man on a bike, unaware of my presence behind him due to the earbuds he had in his ears.

“Come on, come on,” I said under my breath.

I inched closer, trying to make him aware that I was trying to get through. He whipped his head around and his mouth flew open in surprise before he lost his balance and rolled into stopped traffic. He didn’t fall off, but instead threw his fist in the air and yelled vulgarities at me.

“I’m sorry!” I shouted through my rolled down window.

He seemed fine. Just a little shaken up. At least, that was what I told myself to make me feel better for nearly killing the guy.

As I turned off the bridge and into less congested traffic, I breathed a sigh of relief. It was short-lived though because suddenly there were red and blue flashing lights bouncing off my rearview mirror.