There’s some indiscernible muttering, then he comes back on the line more composed. “Look. If you think you and Little Miss Sunshine have a shot, you’re off your bloody rocker, but I won’t be the one to ruin such a cheery mutual delusion. You can do that yourselves.”
Hope blossoms in my chest. “So you’re saying I should keep seeing her?”
His sigh contains centuries of British contempt for stupidity. “You’re a wanker.”
“Agreed. Before you hang up on me, I need to find someone.”
“Thank Christ, we’re back to the real world. What’s the name?”
“Don’t have a name.”
“Address?”
“Don’t have that either.”
“What’ve you got?”
“Nothing.”
“Perfect. Make my job a little harder, why don’t you?”
“You can manage it.”
“Of course I can. They don’t call me Hound Dog for nothing.”
I chuckle. “It’s hilarious that you think you got that nickname because you’re so good at tracking.”
He sounds offended. “What the hell other bloody reason would there be?”
“A hound dog is slang for a promiscuous man, idiot.”
“Pfft. I’m not promiscuous.”
“How many women have you slept with so far this year?”
After a beat, he says, “Fine. I’m promiscuous. Don’t slut shame me.”
“Nobody’s slut shaming anybody. I’m just pointing out that your nickname has more than one meaning.”
He mutters, “You Americans and your barmy slang. It’s like you’re all dead from the neck up.”
“Our slang is bad? You should listen to yourself some time. Back to the person I’m looking for. She lives in Vegas.”
“Lotta people in Vegas, mate.”
“Yes, but only one of them is Shay’s mother.”
“What’s she got to do with anything?”
“She’s got a boyfriend who needs attention.”
“Ah. So then it is true love with you and the bird.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Haven’t you read any Shakespeare? Nobody unalives their father-in-law unless it’s true love.”
“He’s not my father-in-law. He’s just some scumbag abusive boyfriend.”
“Call it what you want, tosser, if it’s your bird’s mum’s bloke, he’s your father-in-law.”
“Sometimes I have no fucking idea what you’re saying.”
“Now you know how I feel half the time when I’m talking to you. If I’d known when we met all those years ago at boarding school that you’d turn out to be such a stupid sod, I never would’ve saved you from getting your arse beat by those upperclassmen.”
“That’s a nice bit of revisionist history there, but it was me who saved you.”
“Oh, that’s just wonderful. Not only have you lost your mind over this bird of yours, you’ve lost your memory too.”
“Just get me the information, you sarcastic bastard. Shay’s last name is Sanders.”
Muttering an oath, he hangs up on me.
I set the phone on the dresser, take a moment to breathe, then go back into the bedroom and climb into bed.
I fall asleep curled around Shay’s body, debating whether or not I should water the seed of hope that germinated in my chest after my call with Axel or stomp it underfoot.
Shay
I wake up disoriented and sweaty, struggling for breath under a heavy, immoveable weight.
“Cole, wake up. You’re smashing me.”
Lying on top of me as silent and still as a coma patient, he doesn’t respond. I poke him in his ribs, which doesn’t get a response either, so then I try to push him off, which I should’ve known would be a complete failure too, as the man weighs five thousand pounds.
If I can’t get him off me soon, I’ll suffocate.
So I resort to guerilla tactics. At the top of my lungs, I shout, “Fire!”
He jerks and leaps up, then stands naked at the side of the bed, wild-eyed and bristling, his hands in a karate-chop pose I’ve only ever seen characters in bad television dramas do.
“What’s wrong? What’s happening?” He looks around the room as if he’s expecting the walls to start churning out ninjas, then hollers to no one, “I’ll kill you with my bare hands!”
It’s so funny, I start laughing and can’t stop.
He looks over at me convulsing on the bed. “What are you laughing at?”