Where are you?
When I don’t get a reply, I reason with myself as best I can as I try to ease my rapidly pounding heart.
Chill, Tobias, she probably went to make a deposit.
She usually does before she comes home, typically carrying a bank bag with a receipt in her apron. I walk into the café to see Marissa at the counter, cleavage on display as she dotes on a customer. She lifts her chin in my direction, her eyes shining in welcome, as the man sitting behind the bar does the same, a distracted smile on his face before his eyes connect with mine.
Mr. Fucking. Handsome.
“Hey, Tobias,” Marissa chimes in nervously, drawing my attention from him. “She just left to make the deposit.”
“Is she coming back?”
“She didn’t say.”
“I’ll wait.”
“Want some coffee?”
“I’m good.”
Glancing down at my phone, I see no message from her and try not to panic. I shoot off a message to my birds, lingering in the doorway as Greg stands and pulls out some bills.
“I’ll get your change,” Marissa drawls out in a tone better suited for the bedroom.
“No need.”
“I’ll be off in a few hours,” she says, and he nods. It’s obvious they’ve got something going. Cecelia’s mentioned seeing Greg a few times back in the café and assured me he no longer had eyes for her. His new prey leans over the counter again just as I lift my gaze back to my phone before shooting off another text to Cecelia.
She’s probably driving, Tobias.
Mr. Handsome leans over in my peripheral, no fucks given and suggestively whispers to Marissa, and I only manage to catch the ass end of it, “—about the company you keep.”
Frowning, I lift my eyes as he drapes his coat over his arm before strolling toward the door, whistling. He stops when he reaches me, giving me a ‘I’ve fucked her wink’ and the dip of his chin. “Tobias.”
Blatantly ignoring him, I look back down at my screen.
“She probably went on home,” Marissa sounds up, “she usually does after she makes the deposit.”
I nod. “Okay, see you later.”
“See you soon,” she beams, her eyes drifting back to Greg, who’s making his way towards his BMW. Marissa begins to wipe the counter, and as the newest member of his fucking fan club, starts whistling his departing tune.
Irritated, my hand on the door, I freeze as an image of a hotel room in Paris shutters in before fully blaring into my headspace. I picture it so clearly, knocking over a half-empty bottle of Bombay on the nightstand as I scramble for the remote. I was ripped from sleep by singing, only pausing when I recognize the woman belting it out as Ann-Margret, the same woman who starred in an Elvis movie that Beau used to watch when we were kids. But the reason that memory stuck with me is because of the song Ann was singing.
“Bye Bye Birdie.”
Bursting through the glass door, I manage to catch sight of Greg just as he pulls out, his window down, his eyes fixed on me, and this time, there’s a dare in them, along with the smug fucking twist of lips. “See you at home, birdie.”
In a second flat, I have my gun trained on him, but he floors his Beamer, and I curse as I’m forced to give chase. Frantically dialing, while I turn the ignition, I get no answer as panic like I’ve never experienced races through me.
Ditching the phone to concentrate, I manage to catch sight of Greg’s tail and downshift, gunning it to give it everything under the hood. It’s when I get stuck behind an old Civic and Greg slips just out of sight that I lose it, veering off the road and honking the horn in warning before tearing through the tread to catch up with him. Scanning mentally through the routes I’ve taken in the past few months, I know there’s no shortcut that will get me there faster. It’s when he makes the few turns towards Cecelia’s house that dread engulfs me fully, and I go full-on road rage. Mr. Handsome will die tonight, this much I know. No matter my fate, he will die.