It's empty.
The bathroom door is ajar. The bedroom door is open. Zeke is pacing back and forth like a caged lion, his hands foldedon his head, squashing down his curls. James is slumped on the end of the bed, his elbows resting on his knees, his head bowed.
Seb is sitting on the floor, leaning against the mattress. His face is… blank. His gaze is locked on the doorframe.
I can't see her.
Why can't I see her?
Cold dread trickles through me. James lifts his head. His expression is grim. Redness rims the edges of his eyes.
Zeke's eyes catch mine. His face hardens. He storms into the bathroom, and emerges, holding something black, and places it on the coffee table in front of me.
Allen's breath pauses at the slight click. I don't want to wake him. I want him to have one more good dream.
Zeke's eyes are… unfathomable. Or maybe I'm afraid to read his expression. My bond with him is silent. It almost feels like it's been switched off.
I ease myself up from Allen's lap and pick it up. It's my phone. I glance up at him, confused. He pulls his own phone from the kitchen bench and sends me a message, glaring at me.
My phone vibrates and chimes. There are four alerts. Three from the Heatseekers app, announcing booking requests from early this morning.
And a message:
Zeke
You forgot to put your phone on silent
5.56am
My insides freeze.
The booking alerts. From Heatseekers. She must have seen them…
The only time they run the morning after when they find out what we do is when they think we're… escorts… And while there is absolutely nothing wrong with being an escort, and sex work is real work, there can be some stereotypes that requiredispelling. I hadn't explained the situation to her yet. But every time they've run out, and we've caught up, it's been the reason why.
Every single time.
… this is my fault. They'll never forgive me.
Chapter 22
Home safe xx
6.10am
I tap out the quick message to Loz on my phone, then turn it off as I climb out of the taxi and drag myself up the chipped concrete stairs to my crappy K-town apartment.
I hardly ever come here these days. Most nights, when I'm not on a shoot with her, I stay at Loz's Hancock Park mansion. Aside from the fact that she has better snacks than me, and more empty bedrooms than some hotels, she tends to get antsy when she's left alone for too long. But, an omega's gotta keep her nest somewhere—but even though I know I can afford somewhere a lot nicer now, given how little time I spend here, it's never quite crappy enough to justify the time and effort it would take to move.
Any other morning after the night before, Lauren and I would debrief over milkshakes masquerading as coffee, and giggle about whatever absurdity one of us—let's be honest, usually her—had encountered the night before. But I can't giggle or squeal about last night.
It was easily the best night of my life. And now, forever the most painful. Not to be melodramatic or anything.
I unlock the door. There's a thin film of dust on the empty coffee table. The worn beige chintz sofa I thriftedyears ago is still draped in the ugly grey polyester blanket I haven't worked up the energy to replace. The aging, yellowing mini-fridge hums grumpily, empty apart from a few half-used condiments. The sagging floral printed twin mattress is still bare on the Spartan steel bedframe from when I took the sheets to the laundromat and didn't have time to remake the bed before I was needed on set to help Loz.
It's like entering a mausoleum. Everything is just as I left it. Not a hair out of place.
I hate it.
