Hitting a separate text feed on my burner, I see a message from one of the two birds I kicked to the curb after my run in yesterday.
Oz: He’s working alone. He came to report and nothing more.
You’re sure?
Oz: Positive. He showed us his itinerary, and we cross-checked it with every single passenger on the flight and every other within days of his arrival. So far, everything checks out. We’re combing the sidewalks now.
Wait for word from me.
Oz: 10/4
Furious with myself that I let my emotions and nerves get the best of me yesterday to the point I drank myself into a blackout; I switch phones to see the demand for a report on the idiot’s cell. I’m relieved when I see the message was sent only minutes ago. The order short and to the point.
Quelle est la situation?
I mimic the previous text.
Pas de changement. No change.
Anxiety slices through me as I will the fucking phone to go off with a reply. A reply that will ensure me more time for damage control with Cecelia.
Adrenaline spiking, I wait with bated fucking breath and see Antoine’s response time has varied anywhere from one hour to five. It’s too soon to tell if Antoine’s onto me, so I shoot off a text to Tyler.
I want two birds in the air. Now.
His reply is immediate.
Tyler: On it. Need to talk?
I’ll let you know.
Cursing the situation and the fucking disaster I made of date night, I summon Beau back into the house before creeping through the bedroom and softly shut the bathroom door. After a brief inspection with bloodshot eyes, I wash my face, brush my teeth, and rinse my mouth out before swallowing down a couple of Tylenol from her medicine cabinet. The reality of last night slams into me as I take one last look in the mirror. “Run for your life, Trésor.”
Phones cupped in my hands, I quietly open the door and slip them both into my duffle before easing back into bed. Cecelia stirs slightly with the dip of my weight, and I slowly exhale a breath of relief when I fully make it back in without waking her.
She slept in today purposefully. I’m part relieved, part terrified because I can’t remember much past finishing the book and emptying the closest bottle.
Brief images flash through my mind of what happened after that fatal sip and some of the verbal vomit I spewed. I’m positive an apology is in order at the very least.
Did she see the lights? Chances are with Sir Piss-a-lot, she did last night.
Hopefully, it was some consolation for the complete fucking fool I made of myself. But I know her, and I know her heart. What I don’t know is if that heart has any more forgiveness in it for me at this point, especially now. I asked her for a date, and she came home to a fucking shitshow. Covered in it, I gaze down at her before gently pushing the hair away from her face for a better view. No evident tear streaks, no puffy eyes, and for that, I’m thankful. I’m sure I still reek of gin and desperation, but I don’t want to miss her reaction to me when she finally wakes. It will tell me all I need to know. I don’t have to wait long because a minute into caressing her, she smiles at me before her eyes flutter open.
Thank Christ.
“How are you feeling?”
I draw my brows. “Like I ran a marathon while on an IV of gin and wine.”
Her deepening smile erases more of my anxiety. “Pretty much what happened.”
“I’m sorry. I meant to—”
She covers my mouth with her hand. “You apologized a lot. Yelled a lot. Revealed a lot. And unloaded a lot of that baggage. Unfortunately,” she purses her swollen from sleep lips, “you don’t know how to unlock your suitcases.” Brow creasing with worry, she lifts a hand to my pounding head before gently running her fingers through my hair. “Do you remember anything?”