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“I did. No answer.”
Acid churns in my stomach, even more seeing Hattie’s concerned face. Hattie doesn’t even know about half the shit that’s been brewing over there, the shit with Lola’s dad and Johnny Vitale.
Fuck fuck fuck.
Maybe I should have come over last night. Checked on her, made sure she really was just tired.
And what, look like some kind of lovesick loser?
Lola has made it clear that she doesn’t necessarily appreciate when I’m overbearing and protective. She’s independent, and so am I. We just sometimes hang out, and there’s no way in hell I’m letting any other man get close to her.
But that urge to take care of her . . . to keep her safe. It pangs.
And the way her face goes slack when I do, in the moments between her being annoyed or angry with me. The split second between when she realizes I care and her deciding she doesn’t need my help and who the fuck am I to give it without her asking.
That’s when I see it. When I know her words about no one ever taking care of her go deeper than just some irritated oldest child bemoaning the fact that they weren’t the center of attention.
In that flash, I always see the real Lola.
It’s the Lola I could fall for if we both just let it happen.
I put plastic wrap on the tattoo then turn to the woman.
“Hey, Jess—Hattie’s gonna settle you on up, okay? It was great hanging out with you. Gotta go check on our neighbor,” I say, walking out of the booth before I can even get a response from her.
Then I’m walking to the break room to grab my phone.
I’ve never regretted not taking my phone with me into the booth, always knowing that my family, the most important people, know the main phone at the shop in case of emergency.
Does Lola?
But when I get to my phone, there’s nothing.
No missed calls.
No SOS messages asking for help.
Nothing.
I scroll through my contacts until I find her, her name displayed with a little cupcake emoji.
I really am fucked, aren’t I?
Panicked when she’s not at work, putting fucking pink cupcakes on her contact.
Shit.
I can’t waste time thinking about that right now.
Instead, I hit send, listening to the rings, counting each as I hear Hattie checking out Jess and scheduling a new appointment in a few weeks.
“Hey, you’ve reached Lola Turner. I can’t come to the phone right now. If you’re calling about Mayor Turner, please reach out to Vanessa Scott, his personal assistant at—” Jesus, she has her fucking father’s info inher voicemail?I didn’t realize how deep this went.
The tone beeps, urging me to leave a message, but I hit end. As I do, Hattie comes back.
“Anything?” She looks as concerned as I feel, more than before.
“No,” I say, grabbing my keys, the ones that hold a silver key with a duplicate to her apartment. “I’m gonna go upstairs to check on her.”
