What he knew.
What he didn’t know.
All the answers he’d intended to get when he reached the pub. Like who the woman really was—Felicia or someone impersonating her.
Why she’d bolted that first time, and why she’d contacted him again tonight. Twice, for that matter. First on his work phone with a text that simply said, I’m sorry I bailed before. But need to talk. Same place. Please. Urgent.
Straightforward, and he would have gone based on that text alone, if for no other reason than he wanted answers. Including how she’d gotten his direct work number.
But then the second text had come in. The text signed by F. That mentioned a kiss. That said she needed him.
If he hadn’t already been halfway out the door, that one would have pushed him over the threshold.
That one had come to his personal phone, as if she had to make sure he didn’t miss either text. As if—
He froze.
Oh, fuck. His personal phone.
He’d left his phone in the suite.
In the suite. With Jamie.
For a moment he just stood there outside the pub, all of his options running through his head. He had to explain now. Or at least try to.
But dear Christ, what the hell was he going to say?
He didn’t know, but he had to say something.
Before he could change his mind, he pulled out his phone and dialed her number.
Three rings…and then it kicked to voicemail.
He hung up, then tried again, knowing damn well that the call was going through. Even if she’d silenced her phone, it was programmed to always ring if Ryan was calling from the business account. Considering his line of work, he’d insisted on having a way to reach her in an emergency no matter what.
Which meant her obnoxious ring tone was blaring through the suite, and she was ignoring it.
And that meant that she must have picked up his personal phone and seen the message.
Fuck.
This time, when he called again, he waited through her voicemail message. “Kitten, it’s not what you think. I need you to trust me for another hour or so, and I swear I’ll tell you everything. I love you, baby. Just please, wait for me to get back.”
Hardly adequate, but right then it was the best he could do. He was already at the pub, and the sooner he met with Felicia, the sooner he’d have answers and be on his way back to Jamie.
He stepped through the door, looked around, and felt the cold bite of frustration when he didn’t see Felicia anywhere.
Chapter Five
Ryan’s been gone less than five minutes, and already I’ve read the whorish bitch’s text over a dozen times.
I need you again.
Our last kiss
What it meant
The same place
Love, F
The words burn inside my mind, and I want to vomit.
She needs him desperately?
Their last kiss?
And what fucking place?
I’m not sure if none of it makes sense, or if I’m just too numb to process the words. Or to process my thoughts, for that matter.
How can I, when all I feel is dead?
I’ve been pacing the suite, and now I realize that I’ve stopped in front of the open balcony door. I have the phone in my hand, and I’m about to hurl it off into space when I force myself to stop.
For one, I don’t want to give some unsuspecting pedestrian a concussion. For another, I don’t actually want to let it go. It’s the smoking gun. The proof of his lies. His infidelity. And, goddammit, I want to shove it hard up his lying, cheating ass the moment he walks through that door.
Except…
Except maybe I don’t. This is Ryan, after all. My Hunter. Could he have done this to me? To us?
Fuck.
The curse is lame. A whisper in my head. And I wipe away the tears that now cling to my lashes.
With a watery sigh, I move back to the sofa and drop down onto one of the overstuffed cushions. Then I open his phone and read the text one more time.
I’m sorry I ran… need you again… desperately… our last kiss…
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
And you know what else? Fuck all of this. I’m not going to just sit here with a smoking gun and do nothing.
So I tap the number at the top of the screen, put the phone on speaker, and wait for the bitch who’s probably fucking my husband to answer the line.
One ring. Two. Five. Eight.
It never goes to voicemail. Just rings and rings and rings.
I end the call, then stare at the phone as I transfer the whole of the sense of betrayal I’d been feeling about Ryan to this palm-sized collection of plastic and silicon. Without thinking, I hurl it across the room, and it smashes against the wall. I know the things are damn near indestructible, but that at least felt good.
With a little bit of the weight relieved, I snatch my own phone from off the coffee table. I hit the speed dial for Nikki, not even thinking about the time difference. It’s only when the call rolls to voicemail that I wonder if it’s the middle of the night there. But, no, London is ahead of California. It’s almost ten here, which means it’s…lunchtime there?
Maybe. I’m not sure. I can’t do math right now. But if it’s during work hours, she’s probably busy.
I start to leave a whiny message but think better of it. Instead of the rant I want to leave, all I say is, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to call. Hope all is awesome in La-La Land.”
It’s lame, but knowing Nikki, if I’d filled her in, she’d get on one of the Stark jets and actually fly over here to both commiserate with me and to make sure I don’t do anything rash—like whack Ryan’s nuts off—without being absolutely certain he’s cheated.
And if he has, then in true best-friend fashion, she’d help me castrate the motherfucker.
But Hunter? Do we actually believe that?
That little voice is back in my head, but I’m so angry I don’t want to hear it.
I need to talk. Need to get out of my own head. Usually when I’m like this, Nikki is my go-to gal. And Ryan is my go-to guy.
Which leaves me hanging out on a limb with my ass flapping in the wind.
Shit.
I stalk to the far side of the room and retrieve Ryan’s phone. The screen is cracked, but otherwise it seems to be okay. I shove it in the pocket of the spa-style hotel robe I’m wearing. Not as satisfying as burning it, maybe, but probably more practical.
I consider calling Ollie to commiserate with. He’s the third part of my friend trifecta—him, Nikki, me—but he’s got a relatively new job with the FBI and is at some seminar in DC. Plus, this is a crisis that needs a girlfriend. And while I love Ollie to death, dealing with relationships has never been his strong suit.
I could try to get my mind off of this with work. I could try to reach Carson Donnelly. Or I could log on to the server and review some of the edits the team is working on.
But I’d just fuck it up. Because my mind is so not on work.
Once again, I open the text. Because, obviously, I am a complete and total masochist. Except I’m not. On the contrary, I’m a foolish, cockeyed optimist because I’m still harboring the fantasy that this time the note will make sense. This time, I’ll have an aha moment and everything in my universe will right itself.
Like, aha! I’d totally forgotten that he was doing that routine at a comedy club involving a skit about cheating on his wife.