“Thanks, Alesha. I appreciate the help.” Bishop disconnects and lowers the phone. “Now we wait.”
“We wait?” I contemplate reaching over and slamming his head against the window. “Did you have to be so fucking dramatic? You could’ve paved the way for a more amiable introduction. This asshole doesn’t know me.”
“It was a call to action.” He shrugs. “I bet he reaches out in minutes.”
I bet he does, too.
I bet he dials my number with rage in his veins and death on his mind.
Bishop scans the cars around us. “Where are we headed?”
“Centennial Airport. Her brother won’t get a jet near the international tarmac.” I coast us down the inside lane, gliding in and out of traffic.
No call comes through though.
Not in five minutes. Or ten.
I take the turn to Centennial with increasing pessimism, haunted by the last picture I saw of Grace and wondering if it’s already too late to save Layla when my cell vibrates in my jacket. The incoming call connects to the car’s Bluetooth, Private Number flashing across the dash display screen.
“Here goes nothin’.” Bishop sits taller.
I answer the call. “This is Matthew.”
“Is it though?” A superior drawl carries through the speakers. I don’t need to confirm it’s Cole. “I’ve heard you go by another name.”
“Not anymore I don’t. But that’s a conversation for a time when your sister’s life isn’t on the line.” I pull over to concentrate, letting the car idle on a random curb while I fight the need to rub at the pressure building beneath my temples. “I need you to help me find Layla.”
He scoffs a laugh. “You made the wrong choice, getting involved with her.”
“I didn’t know who she was when we first met.”
“But you stuck around to fuck with her once you did.”
I don’t answer. I bite my fucking tongue until I taste blood.
“What was the aim, Matthew Langston?” he asks with censure. “Did you want to get to me through her? To finish what your father started?”
“He hasn’t been my father for a long time, asshole. I want nothing to do with Emmanuel. Or you, for that matter. I don’t know what Layla told you, but I only want to protect her.”
“And are you usually this incompetent at the things you set out to achieve?”
“I’m incompetent?” I seethe. “I’m not the son of a bitch who shot a motherfucking psychopath after two years radio silence, then didn’t tell my goddamn sister about it to ensure her safety. None of this would’ve fucking happened if—”
The line disconnects, the barely heard hum of the radio kicking back in.
What the fuck did I just do? What the absolute fuck?
“Well… that could’ve gone better,” Bishop mutters. “I’m sure he’ll call back.”
I slam my palm against the steering wheel. Over and over. Harder and harder.
That heartless prick won’t call back.
I sure as hell wouldn’t.
He doesn’t know me. Need me. Trust me.
Layla, where the fuck are you?
“Calm your shit, Langston. We’ll figure this out.” Bishop thumps my chest. “Either we find her and everything is apples. Or your brothers do, then De Marco will retrieve her before she gets to Emmanuel. Or fucking Torian will get his ass here and pick her up.”
Maybe.
Or maybe my brothers aren’t the men Abri thinks they are.
Maybe they’ll kill her on sight. Or hand her off to someone who will do it for them.
“Come on.” Bishop taps the dash. “Let’s get to the airport and check the parking lot for the Bentley.”
“And if it’s not there?”
“We hustle and figure out another fucking plan. You can call your snake of a sister and figure out a way to convince her to relay the last known location of her car.” He bangs his fist against the dash this time. “We’ve got options, Langston. But for now you need to fucking move.”
“Since when have you cared so much about Layla?” I pull back into traffic, breaking the speed limit with my acceleration.
“I don’t. Abri made a fool out of me back there. It’s pride I’m fighting for.”
Sure it is.
He gives a shit about Layla. At the very least, he gives a shit about me giving a shit about her.
“Message our pilot.” I focus on the cars ahead. “Make sure we’re refueled and able to take flight at a moment’s notice.”
If Layla’s at Centennial, I’ll make sure we’re in the air within minutes. Willingly or not.
He does as requested, swiping at his device while mine begins to shudder against my chest, the incoming call reconnecting to Bluetooth.
Bishop glances my way. “Want me to talk this time?”
“If you open your mouth, I’ll fucking kill you.” I answer the call. “It took you long enough to wake up to yourself, Torian.”
“I suggest you check the tone and the attitude, you arrogant piece of shit.”
Not Torian.
Not a man at all.
The voice is female. Confident. Merciless.
“Forgive my assumption.” I frown at Bishop. “Who am I speaking to?”
“Keira. Layla’s sister. And I don’t have the patience to deal with self-serving motherfuckers right now, so shut up and listen.”
I raise a brow, grated by the attitude, yet fucking grateful for the contact.
“My sister told me she loved you,” she states simply.
The blindside hits me like a bus, the tension in my ribs exploding.
“She texted me,” she continues. “It was a few simple words, but she’s never sent me anything like that before. Not in reference to her husband. Not when she was dating in high school. Unless she’s talking about her daughter, those words haven’t existed in her vocabulary until a few days ago. So why did I just overhear my brother say you were playing her?”
“I didn’t play her.” My chest takes the onslaught of her accusations, the L-word knocking me down more pegs than I can stand to fall.
“So you didn’t hide your identity? You didn’t pretend to be someone she could trust instead of someone she would despise?”
The car falls silent, my ears ringing with my mistakes.
“I’m waiting,” she snips. “Explain what the hell you were thinking in targeting my sister.”
“I wasn’t,” I admit. “I was spying on Emmanuel the night we met. She was, too. And I wanted to know why. There was no malice or ill intent. I only wanted answers.”
“And?”
“And once I got them, I needed more.”
The line falls quiet, the silence making me focus on the dash display to see if she’s hung up.
“Do you love her?” Her voice softens.
“I’ve told her as much since the day we met.”
It’s a cop-out. My endearments have never been spoken in anything but playful banter. But do I love her?
I’d kill for her.
Die for her.
Keira sighs. “I don’t believe you.”
“Then believe this—the last time I saw her she’d stolen my sister’s car. One that’s sophisticated enough to have GPS tracking. She has no money. No phone. No identification. And your brother doesn’t seem to give a shit.”