Page 3 of Joey

I couldn’t think straight. Seeing that shit show of Johnny’s kinda fucked me up.

I told Huck and Wald they should stay in Tokyo when Johnny called me home, but they said, “Nah. We are a team. We stick together.” So they came with me.

Which I truly appreciate now. If they weren’t here… fuck. I don’t know what I’d do. Maybe I would’ve went home to Tokyo, got drunk, and put the whole thing out of my mind.

That’s definitely a Joey move if ever there was one.

But I don’t think so. Because last week there was this little voice inside me whispering, It’s time.

Time for what? I’m not really sure. But time for something.

Wald rented this penthouse straight away and Huck just decided he was staying here too. I have a place at the Bossy, but I’m not going back there.

Not ever.

“It’s time to leave,” I whisper back to that voice last week. That’s what time it is. When the voice doesn’t answer back I say, “Time to get the fuck out of here and go home.”

And by home I mean Tokyo.

Because this place… it’s just not home anymore and I don’t want to be a part of whatever creepy shit Johnny’s doing.

Somewhere in the penthouse a phone rings.

My phone, I realize from the ringtone.

I glance around, listening. Trying to figure out where it’s coming from. Then head down the hallway, ear against doors, until I stop in front of yesterday’s jeans and realize it’s in yesterday’s back pocket.

I fish it out and stare at the screen.

Blocked.

Normally I’d never answer this. But it’s like five AM and people don’t call at five AM unless they’ve got something interesting to say. So I tap accept and say, “This is Joey.”

Heavy breathing on the other end of the phone. Not the sexy kind. Is there such a thing as sexy heavy breathing on a phone? I’m doubtful. But it’s not that kind.

It’s the kind when you’re too close to the microphone and it picks up noise it shouldn’t.

“Hello?” I say.

“Hello,” a small, sweet voice says.

“Um…” I don’t know what to say. Because I’m pretty sure this is a kid. But I rally. “I think you have the wrong number.”

“No,” she says. A little kid. Very little. Then she breathes too hard into the phone again. “Is this you?”

My eyebrows go up. “Who’s this?”

“Maisy,” she says.

“OK, Maisy. I think you dialed the wrong number.” But as soon as I say that I realize that’s probably not what happened. Nobody dials numbers any more. You press contacts. So this call came from some phone that has my number in it. “Is your mommy there?” I ask.

“No,” she says.

My heart skips a beat at this. I don’t know why. I don’t even like kids. But the thought of this one being home alone with a phone that has my contact number in it unsettles me.

“Where is she?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” she whines.