19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Cassie

Z oey sat across from me at the circular kitchen table in my brother's apartment, having woken so recently that she hadn't even tamed her hair. The short strands were sticking every which way, signifying that she had either had restless sleep, reckless sex, or both…and because I didn't care to vomit first thing in the morning, I assumed the former. Her green eyes were trained on a laptop before her, the screen reflecting through the thick-framed glasses that she always wore when she had yet to put in her contacts. The image was indiscernible in her lenses, but her unbothered expression showed that she was far from worried.

Ready to bustle out the door, Liam strode his way over to her with a large, black mug in hand. He set it to the right of the computer, and Zoey glanced to it, up to him, and back to the mug, stretching her neck to inspect its contents.

Clearly realizing that it was intended for her, she gave him a small smile. "Thank you."

He smiled back. "Mhm."

"You have to go?" she asked.

Liam nodded, taking two steps away from us toward his couch. His over-the-shoulder bag was resting on the floor, packed and ready, and he lugged the strap over his head. It appeared to be heavy, biting into his grey hoodie and bunching the fabric, and I wondered if he had managed to fit in a textbook or two so he could do some last-minute cramming for his exam.

He looked between the two of us with a crease between his thick brows, and he pursed his lips before he hesitantly remarked:

"You two are staying here?"

I spoke to Zoey, "We went over this, yes?"

She glanced to me with the slightest of amusement in her eyes. "That we did."

Liam sighed heavily. "Fuck me for being worried, right?"

Zoey's gaze softened as she took in his obvious concern. "We'll be here. The door will be locked. The chain that we added," she gestured toward the door, which had a shiny, new, gold chain lock affixed, "will be slid closed."

"You have work, right?" he pressed.

Zoey was employed at a local boutique, Zest. Her schedules were irregular, varying in day and time depending on the remainder of the staff, and it never seemed like she minded…she was only thankful for a decently paying job. On top of that, it was located only a short walk down the street, and considering that she no longer owned a car—hers was totaled in a car crash several months back, and she never shopped for a replacement—her lack of a commute most likely far out-weighed the con of an abnormal schedule.

"At noon," she confirmed.

"'Kay." He focused on the ceiling as he mumbled to himself, "Ten o'clock test—an hour…hour and a half for time—fifteen minutes to drive back—"

"Lee," she assuaged, "just go take your test. We'll be fine."

"What if," he replied slowly, "I have the flu."

"Liam."

He held up an index finger. "Hear me out."

"How long are you gonna have the flu for?" she retorted.

"I dunno! A—a few days? A week? "

"And what good will that do?" Zoey questioned, lifting her mug to her mouth.

I replicated her motions, reaching for my own. It was nearly empty by now, as I was the one who made the coffee and I had poured myself a cup the moment it was brewed. I had to tilt it significantly to take a sip.

"I just…" His shoulders sagged as his eyes bounced between us. "I'd feel better if I were here."

The way he said it swung my mind to James, for he had echoed the sentiment to me several times when we addressed going back to reality. Well…truthfully, my mind didn't need to be swung to him—he had been there for a while, and there was no getting him out. Not when all I could imagine was him on his knees. His beard scratching the insides of my thighs. Him holding me upright as I crashed down to Earth. Me drinking in the haze of pleasure on his face while I rode him in his bed.

There were plenty of our sexual encounters that permanently resided in my thoughts, but naturally, it wasn't all that I envisioned when it came to James. I pictured his smile. His genuine care for those he was close with that radiated beyond his sarcasm and sass. Him telling me that I was strong, and the conversation that led to it . The way his hair was just long enough to escape the space behind his ears, how he always tucks away the left side before the right, and the smattering of grey that I've been debating teasing him about. I see his eyelids fluttering shut momentarily whenever I place my hand on his chest, feel his pulse tickle my palm, and recognize that mine replicates it.

My heart flickered as I thought of him, and I pondered the possibility of his doing the same at this exact moment. As if we were tied together. It felt that way, anyway, and there were moments when the tether would tug. It yanked at me now, and instead of resisting the pull, I was leaning into it—seeking out the intimacy between us that I rapidly deemed of paramount importance— happily falling.

I swallowed my coffee, pressed my lips together to hide the inappropriate smile that fought to escape me, set the ceramic to the counter, and pulled myself back to the conversation at hand.

"We're not in…" Zoey considered her words. "In imminent danger or anything here, Lee."

"Sure as hell feels like it," he muttered with his hands on his hips as he looked to the floor.

"I know," she said. "I get it."

"I'd be more comfortable if we knew more," he explained as he glanced to her. "That's all."

"Well, we don't," Zoey replied bluntly, but she softened it with an uncharacteristically gentle tone. "There's nothing on this computer. A few texts from Mister Milkovich asking for rent…some from an unknown contact saying to call them back…" She squinted at the screen as she appeared to scroll downward. "A handful from someone labeled as R who seemed…" she slowly scrolled once more. "Sick of his shit. Lots of stop being stupid and what is wrong with you with vague responses back. Ended up with him just asking where the hell he is once or twice per day, and then the messages stopped." She huffed out a breath. "I'm assuming loads of messages were deleted…I can't follow anything. My eyes are bleeding from staring at this goddamn screen." Zoey touched a dainty finger to the top of the laptop and flicked it shut. "You do realize that this may not be something that's able to be figured out…right? Shit goes unsolved all the time in life. Sometimes things just… happen."

"I don't wanna believe that, Zo'," he muttered in a grave tone. "What about your friend?" he asked me. "Tell her more and get her down here so she can talk to Colt, and we can connect some dots. Let's fuckin' bury this shit—I'm goin' insane here."

My chest twisted at the desperate look on his face.

"That was the plan," I admitted. "Tell her a little more. Tell her we're getting our ducks in a row, and she can talk to the police since she knew the other dancers more than I did. All that. She won't answer her phone. Texts are few and far between. It's—" I paused. "This isn't a conversation I can just shoot over via text. Imagine if, God forbid, her phone gets in the wrong hands. I'm trying. Trust me, I am."

He rubbed at his eyes, groaning, "I know you are."

"You're going to be late," Zoey told him.

"Okay," Liam sighed and looked to me. "If I'm not back by the time Zo' leaves for work, go hang out with Luke and Claire upstairs."

"I know the drill," I replied. "Go."

He nodded, seemingly appeased though still far from thrilled, and walked to stand before Zoey. She angled her head up to him, giving him an altogether casual smile.

"Good luck on your test, Sweets."

The endearment that they used for each other that was so rarely publicly spoken seemed to soften him, if only slightly. Reaching for her face, he gently pushed her glasses to sit atop her head and leaned down to kiss her. Closed-mouthed and sweet, the first was less than brief, and I trained my eyes on my mug in an attempt to offer them a semblance of privacy. Their lips smacked not once—not twice—but three times, and I easily ignored the sounds because they were rather quiet. What I couldn't allow to bypass, however, was my brother's deep, "Mmm."

I felt my mouth contort into a grimace at the noise .

"You're going to be la-ate," Zoey said again, singing the last word softly.

He replied in a husky, "I could be later."

She began to chuckle, and I deadpanned:

"Y'know, this is why I'm staying with Jay rather than you guys, right?"

I looked up once again to see them slowly separating, Zoey with a smile that lacked a granule of regret and Liam with the mildly perturbed look of a man interrupted.

"I thought you said you wanted to make sure you had privacy?" he asked.

"I didn't say there was only one reason I'm staying across the hall," I retorted.

2A also offered freshly cooked meals, plentiful orgasms, and grey eyes that made my brain seize forward motion.

With a heavy roll of his eyes, he grumbled, "Yeah, yeah-yeah." Liam didn't question my reasoning any further. He looked down to Zoey, let the hand that had lingered on the nape of her neck fall away, and murmured, "Later, Sweets."

I watched her watch him leave. Watched her smile softly to herself as the deadbolt locked from the outside. Zoey then took a long sip from her coffee, set it down on the table with care, and looked to be savoring the taste before she grinned at me .

"So," she spoke, "are we gonna talk about it?"

There were several things that I loved about Zoey—one of them was her bluntness.

"Ah. There are several its. Which one are you referring to?" I lightheartedly asked. "My previous employment, the reasoning for my leaving said employment, my brother's reaction to both, or the whole clusterfuck?"

She laughed, her glasses slid down her nose, and she pushed them up with an index finger.

"Well, I figured you've had enough of that," she quipped. "But since you mentioned it, you're… good… right?"

Her brow furrowed as she questioned me, and I saw the concern flaring in her eyes as she waited for my response.

"Good is a weird way to put it," I offhandedly replied.

"You know what I mean," she mumbled, "and you know that I'm never all," Zoey's naturally high voice hitched even higher, "‘Ooo, girlfriend, tell me all the feels.'"

I snorted at the insinuation. Anyone of reasonably sound mind would realize that Zoey was, if anything, quietly empathetic. While it was clear that she felt deeply for the ones she cared for, she wasn't one to scream her feelings from a rooftop…nor was she regularly offering to be a shoulder to cry on. She simply cared—and she only spoke of it when she felt it was needed, which weighted her words all the more.

"I'm well aware of that," I said softly.

She gave me the smallest of smiles. "Just making sure you're not…I don't know…having a silent mental breakdown? This has been really heavy."

I assured her, "I'm alright, Zo'. We don't need to talk about it, really."

Zoey's head bobbed up and down, she hesitated for but a second, and her smile grew into a wry, wide one.

"Are you saying that because of whoever was on the phone earlier? Baby?"

Now, I'm never caught off guard. I swear, I'm not. But her oh-so-casual mention of the term that I've started using for James threw me for a goddamn loop—I had no idea that she would be able to hear me while I spoke with him on the phone earlier, even if she were awake.

I sucked in a sharp breath. Air stung the whites of my eyes. I was entirely unable to pull my gaze from hers as I rapidly inquired:

"Come again?"

Zoey brought her mug to her mouth, her eyes dancing above the lip as she drank, and she was barely able to swallow before she asked:

"Is that what baby tells you to do? Come again? "

Words left me. I could have said anything. Potential answers rushed me in a flurry— yes, no, or it's none of your business seemed too little of a response. I'm abstinent was too much of a lie, and would have caused her to burst into laughter. Uh huh, and it's James' hands, face, and cock that I've come on—repeatedly was just…too much of a slap in the face of unknown information. So, unfortunately, all that I could manage was a near-vibrating:

"Um…"

Zoey gave me a knowing look. "You used to strip, Cassie— this you get flustered over?"

I cleared my throat. "Liam didn't, ah…he didn't hear anything, did he?"

"Oh… no-no, he was asleep," she muttered, clearly thinking that my concern was only regarding my brother overhearing me. "But…for the record, I'm a very good secret keeper." I let out an incredulous laugh, and she retorted, "What? I am. I'm actually the best one in this whole damn town— don't tell your secrets to Claire." She pointed at me with purpose from across the table. "Her and Luke practically share a brain. Love her, but she's a gossip."

It wasn't that I was uncomfortable speaking with Zoey about my romantic life. On the contrary, it would be a sisterly bonding that I believed I would enjoy. The subject of my romantic endeavors, however, caused unease to wriggle under my skin because…well…she had dated him. It was months ago, I wasn't there to witness it, and from what I had heard, it was over quite quickly…but she still had dated James. And fact aside that I knew she was in love with my brother—fact aside that I had never seen her so much as glance in James' direction in a suggestive manner—I still questioned how she would react about us.

"Ah," I hesitated. "It's new."

While true, it didn't feel new. It was unfathomable to me that the first time the energy had significantly shifted between me and James—when I had started to give him a dance at Gas Lamp—was only just over a week ago. Our first kiss was this past Thursday, along with the fighting concepts of forgetting our feelings and irrelevancy. Irrelevancy quickly won. We slept in each other's beds two times each. And, now, it was Monday.

It was a shockingly small amount of time considering the intensity of our relationship. And, sure, James was no stranger to me before. He was far from it, but that didn't mean that what had grown between us hadn't gone off like a goddamn bomb.

"New, huh?" Zoey waggled her perfectly manicured brows, and then dramatically whispered, "Is the sex good?"

It would have been hilarious otherwise. If she weren't unknowingly asking about James, I would have laughed loudly—perhaps I even would have proudly replied yes. But because of the hidden nature of the circumstances, my face went hot, and I found myself tearing my eyes from hers to look at the large clock on my right that hung on the wall. The vintage blue, almost rustic design of the analog had two arms pointing nearly in the same direction—one approaching 9 and the other approaching 10. And I had known that it was around 9:45 in the morning…but there was something about the combination of the visible reminder, Zoey's asking who baby was, and the realization that my phone hadn't made a peep in over two hours that made me question the time.

"Sorry, sorry," Zoey trilled. "I'm a sucker for details…but I will say that you're blushing."

Her mention of my flushed cheeks was barely even heard. My eyes narrowed at the wall as the gears cranked in my mind, and I picked up my phone, which had been purposefully resting face down on the table beside me.

There were no new notifications.

"Which either means yes…or you haven't done it yet." She continued her interrogation. "And you've definitely done it."

I knew what she said— I did— but my brain had yet to register it. I rapidly typed to James:

Cassie 9:42 A.M.: You make it to work? x.

I watched it send, set it down, and then looked back to Zoey. "Huh?"

She squinted, halting only God knows what her next words were, and her tone deepened as she asked, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, I—"

My phone buzzed, and I let out a sigh as I read:

James 9:43 A.M.: Yes.

Blinking several times in succession as foolish relief flooded me, I mumbled to Zoey, "Sorry, one sec," as I messaged back:

Cassie 9:43 A.M.: Did you get a ticket when you got pulled over?

An ellipsis insinuating that he was typing appeared below my message immediately, and it was replaced with:

James 9:43 A.M.: No.

My fingers danced across the screen.

Cassie 9:44 A.M.: Good. Have a good day. x.

Zoey's inquiries from before suddenly came forth in my mind, and with my phone still secured in my hand, I looked back to her and scoffed.

"Wait…were you asking me if I'm currently sexually active?"

Zoey shrugged. "Before you looked like someone kicked your puppy, I was—you good?"

"Fine," I replied. "Was just expecting someone."

"Baby?" she asked with a large smile, and I sucked on the inside of my cheek to withhold my smirk. Her green eyes glowed. "So, it's a secret, then?"

"Maybe."

Zoey chipperly replied, "I won't make ya tell me, I won't… wait, is it Garrett?"

I chortled at her reference to the bartender. "No, it's not Garrett. The poor guy smiles at me one time, and you all think that he's ready to jump my bones. I wasn't into him anyway."

She laughed. "Ah, you were into baby, instead?"

"Something like that," I uttered.

My phone vibrated in my hand, and I looked to it to see the preview of his message:

A single thumbs up emoji.

I unlocked my phone once more to see our text message exchange, and once I truly took in his responses, I felt my insides twist because it just felt…off. I reminded myself that I really didn't know his style of text communication. In fact, it seemed more likely for him to respond to a text message with a quickly returned phone call…and I assumed that this was the case because of how verbose the man is.

Therefore, he could simply be a bad texter.

I won't lie, it was amusing to liken him to an older individual who didn't understand how to appropriately respond to someone via text. Hilarious to place the future joke of me calling him a boomer in my back pocket. However, the more that I read over the messages, the more I felt an intuitive nervousness.

There was no text or call after he was sent on his way by the cop.

No returned x in his replies.

No further explanation.

Just blunt, to-the-point information.

And that was fine. That aside, the urge to confirm what I already knew was biting at my heels.

Cassie 9:46 A.M.: You're leaving work around 5?

I followed it up quickly with:

Cassie 9:46 A.M.: Should I cook for you tonight, instead?

Cassie 9:47 A.M.: I hate to brag, but I'm great at following the instructions to boxed mac and cheese…and there's a brand new box sitting in your pantry.

The ellipsis that I had anticipated was flashing the moment that I had sent the first message, and by the time the last was sent, his responses came through:

James 9:47 A.M.: Have to work late. Sorry.

James 9:48 A.M.: Come over another night.

Come over another night.

Come over another night?

I rotated my shoulders back as my spine straightened, but they did nothing to aid the tension that gathered in my muscles as I read it time and again.

Come. Over. Another. Night.

Not I'll let you know when I'm on my way. Not even a perturbed I'm busy, Cas. See you at home tonight. The message insinuated that we weren't currently sharing a living space…and I can't say why— perhaps it was the strange, instinctual thrum in my veins—but I found myself focusing on the icon of his contact located just above our messages. My attention on the grey circle that had defaulted to his initials, JT, made me think back to James' instructive explanation that he had given me. After tentatively using phrases such as, ‘I have a…request,' along with, ‘I'm not saying I'd like it if you did, but you can say no,' and, ‘This doesn't mean that I don't think you can take care of yourself,' he had asked if I would share my phone's location with him.

His light eyes were pleading, and upon considering the positives that would go along with him being able to see where I was at a moment's notice, I obliged. Because I had never used the feature before, James had happily showed me the process by sharing his own cell's location with me, simpering with a large grin that it was, ‘tit for tat,' and I could now, ‘watch his every move,' if I so desired.

I did the same now as I did then, tapping on the JT. Days ago, I had seen his contact information listed above a map, and the grey icon that signified James himself appeared as a single dot on the picture—exactly where I knew my house was located.

I didn't see that now.

I didn't see a map at all.

The contact information that I had anticipated was shown, but the rest of the page was blank—as if I had never been able to see his location in the first place.

I muttered, "What the fuck?"

"Okay, seriously," Zoey pressed. "What's up? "

My unease rapidly progressed from foolish to anticipatory anxiety, and I assumed that it was audible within my voice as I said:

"I—I'm ignoring you. I know. I'm sorry—just give me a—"

Zoey cut me off, rambling, "Yeah, that's my point. You're not the type to ignore, and not once have I seen you focus more on your phone than the people around you. I'm not offended. You look jittery as fuck, and considering everything, it's making me jittery as fuck." She leaned forward with purpose. "What's up, Cassie?"

I took exactly two cleansing breaths, attempting to mentally assure myself that I was overreacting because…people get distracted. Texts can be misconstrued. Technology can be unreliable—and certainly that was why the little map with a grey JT was no longer appearing. The half of my internal monologue that was demanding me to be reasonable repeated those three sentences over and again.

But the dreadful sensation was nagging at me. The reality that we were living in where we were unsure of our collective safety—where we didn't know answers—where we didn't know who was a potential threat—had already fried my nerves. Anything outside of the usual status quo was beginning to make my hair stand on end. The nape of my neck prickled in such a way that I shivered, and Zoey ushered me:

"Cassie!"

"It's…dumb," I told her. "I'm just on edge."

Her head cocked to the side in confusion. "Is it your friend?"

"Hmm?"

"Skylar?" she clarified.

"Oh," I replied. "No, she said she's still dealing with her family stuff—not even going to work."

My words went quieter as I spoke. Zoey nodded though her concerned, questioning gaze remained, and a jolt ran through me as the mention of Skylar's name reminded me of something I had said mere minutes ago:

Imagine if, God forbid, her phone gets in the wrong hands.

Without a further thought, I quickly refocused on my phone and typed:

Cassie 9:52 A.M.: I'll stay at my place tonight, then?

James' response would be telling. If he were perfectly fine and simply distracted, his typical anxiety would rear its head, and there could only be a few expected replies. One anticipated reaction would be an immediate phone call reminding me to stay at 2B or upstairs with Luke and Claire. The others were a variation of text messages along the lines of:

What? No.

Are you insane?

Stay the fuck put.

His brief aggravation, which always ran parallel with his protectiveness, would calm me. I would explain my last message away with all the honesty I had, saying that his uncharacteristic curtness had made me nervous. That his responses truthfully didn't seem like him. That the wild skyrocketing of my anxiety had caused me to jump to conclusions, and I truthfully considered if it wasn't him on the other end of the line. That I didn't know who that someone would be…and that their reasonings for hiding his location and responding on his behalf were of ill intentions.

James would find my concern endearing, of course. When he would return home tonight, he'd look at me how he always does when I speak or show my affection for him—with hearts in his eyes that made mine skip a beat. That was what I told myself while I was waiting for the message in reply to my testing one, anyway.

The wait had me nearly hovering in my seat, and the moment that I felt the buzz in my hand, I read :

James 9:53 A.M.: Yeah, I'll be beat tonight. I'll hit you up later.

The only thing that came to my mind was the indisputable fact that whoever this was…was not James. And if we were under normal circumstances, the notion wouldn't have caused my skin to crawl, my pulse to rise, and my hand to drop my phone to the table with a dull clatter.

I stood quickly enough for Zoey to alarmingly exclaim, "Whoa!" Her vibrant eyes were on me, wider and more inquisitive than ever, and she shot to her feet with me. She watched as I raced to the left—to the kitchen island. I snagged my keys off the marble, and they clinked together madly as Zoey asked, "What's going on?!"

I rapidly told her, "I'm going for a drive."

If I were being honest, I assumed that she would argue my announcement—that she would try to stop me or demand answers to her questions. My assumption was proved wrong when I looked at her, she saw whatever damning expression was on my face, and she immediately responded in an act of ardent solidarity:

"I'm going with you. Where are we going?"