Juliette giggles, hiding her face in Tool’s shoulder as he stares at the floor, white as a sheet. “Nope. No, cock. Sorry, Moretti. Juliette is my ol’ lady.”
“Well, we can all suck each other, I don’t mind,” Moretti says just as Tool takes a sip of water, which he promptly spews out in a massive spray
And now Patrick is soaked. “Oh, fuck, Patrick. I’m sorry.”
Patrick takes out a handkerchief and wipes his face clean. Sunnie helps him too, grabbing a napkin from the shutdown bar in the corner of the main room.
I really miss that fucking bar, but I’d miss Patrick more if he weren’t here, and if we had booze lined up everywhere, I don’t think he’d have a chance in hell at making it out alive.
“It’s fine. Just answer the man, okay?” Patrick gives Tool a sly smile, teasing him.
Tool spins on his chair as Moretti waits patiently, unbuttoning the top of his collar. “Sorry, Moretti. Juliette and I only suck each other. I’m flattered, though.”
“It’s okay, I don’t remember liking men too, yet here we are.” He fusses with the collar of his shirt again and curses something in Italian. “Are you sure I wore these? This makes no sense. They are fucking uncomfortable. Who would wear something like this?”
“A rich mafia man,” I say, hoping he understands that the clothes he has on are the clothes that encompassed the reputation he earned.
“Well, that’s not the case anymore, is it?” he says, sadly. “Okay, let’s go get Knives married.” He cocks his head as he studies me.
“No, sorry, Moretti. I don’t either. I’m marrying Mary, remember?”
“None of you are any fun. You’re so boring when it comes to your sex lives,” he huffs. “Can we go? Being in this clubhouse is making me cranky.” Moretti heads out the door, and for some reason, we all follow suit as if he is in charge of getting the show on the road.
When we all walk outside and shut the door, it hits me how serious the moment is. I never thought I’d be here or that I’d get married. I take the first step down the stairs, the first step to start the rest of my life, when my phone rings.
“Don’t answer it,” Slingshot says, launching a skittle at me. “It’s time to marry Mary. See what I did there? Did you?” He laughs at his own joke. “I’m fucking funny.”
“You’re a fucking idiot, is what you are,” Poodle says.
I do what they say. I ignore the call because there is nothing in this world that is going to stop me from enjoying my night unless it is Mary calling to say she doesn’t want to get married. Or what if she doesn’t show, and I’m standing there at the end of the aisle looking like a real bastard?
Shit. This is how people feel when they are in love? I hope the anxiety ends, because my stomach is in knots.
A bunch of the guys hop on their bikes, and my heart twists, reminding me I have to drive a fucking car. I hate driving a car. I’m not the best at it, but I do it if I have to.
My phone rings again as I walk to the Bronco, and when I stop at the driver’s side door, my gut turns, and the hair on the back of my neck stands up. Something isn’t right. I glance around to see what the issue is, but the guys are laughing and having a good time. It’s been too long since we have all gotten together and have had fun. Too much shit has happened. Tonight is the night we deserve for ourselves.
But something is wrong; I feel it. It’s like when you wake up one day, and you have that ache in your gut, the one that tells you not to get out of bed because you know something bad will happen. Then, you chalk it up to it being nothing, just stupid negative thoughts, but you walk out the door, drive to work, and get in a car accident, or you spill hot coffee all over you, or you see something you weren’t supposed to see, and you tell yourself, ‘I should have stayed in bed.’
I feel like we should have never left the clubhouse.
I’m doing my best to chalk it up to nerves and ignore it, but every time someone does that here, bad shit happens.
The sun is setting, the lower temperatures have kicked in, and while the horizon is beautiful on the edge of the desert, the beauty camouflages the ugliness that’s being hidden right now.
I just have no idea what it is.
My phone rings again, vibrating more intensely than the last time, or maybe that’s just how it feels, and I decide to answer it. My limbs are sluggish; my mind is fuzzy. A cold sweat drenches over me. I lean against the truck, staring at the name on my screen.
I know she’s gone when I see Bullseye’s name.
I can’t say how I know, but I feel it, and that’s how I know.
I try my best to answer, I do, but I’m frozen.
“You going to answer that, Knives? It keeps ringing over and over. Is it Seer?” Reaper places a cigarette between his lips and lights it, watching me out of the corner of his eye. When I don’t answer him, he blows out the smoke, and the phone rings once more.
Then someone else’s phone blares.
And someone else’s.
Then Reaper’s.
My new phone flashes Bullseye’s name again, and with a deep, broken intake of air, I slide my finger across the screen and put it on speaker. “She’s gone, isn’t she?” I feel dead inside, like Reaper carved a hole in my chest and fucking ripped my heart out.
“Knives, fucking finally!” Bullseye panics as he speaks. He must be running because there is static in the background as if he is moving. “We don’t know what happened. She walked out of the store. Dress on. We were walking to the car right behind her and climbed inside, and that’s when we realized she wasn’t with us. We checked inside the store again. I’ve run all over, Knives. She isn’t here. She just disappeared. It’s like she vanished. One minute, she’s there, laughing and talking, happy. All she did was talk about the dress, and you know how much she loves you, and then it stopped. Mary isn’t here. She isn’t anywhere. Mary!” he yells out her name and hearing it without her answering kills something inside me.
Reaper rips the phone out of my hand. “No one fucking vanishes, Bullseye! I want everyone to look, except for Sarah. I’ll be there to pick them up. I don’t want you leaving that area until you have talked to everyone. Searched everywhere, even the dumpsters. Fucking look!” Reaper hangs up the phone and lets out a ferocious roar, tossing my new phone across the damn desert.
It can keep it.
“Knives, look at me,” Reaper grabs my shoulders, but I’m limp all over. I can’t seem to think, breathe, or move. “Knives? We will find her. We always find them. Always. She’s going to be okay. Knives,” he snaps his fingers in front of me.
I expect rage. I expect fury to take over, and I go on a warpath, but all I feel is this numbness again. My past is playing on repeat all over again. This is why I didn’t want to get close.
Everyone always leaves.
And I’m always left hurting for everyone.
Reaper slaps me across the face, and all eyes are on me. “Fucking listen to me; you don’t get to call it quits. Not now. Not when she needs you most.” He slaps me again, but his words don’t penetrate.
“Aye, Reaper. That isn’t what he needs,” Skirt says. The brass knuckles glimmer against the sun as he slips them on.