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I press redial, but she sends me to voicemail.
I clutch my phone, trying to figure out how I’m supposed to find her and fast. Usually, when things like this happened in the past, I had a starting point. But like I mentioned earlier, I don’t know who Payton hangs out with. Maybe Londyn and Bailey do, though.
I’m not thrilled about the idea of bringing them into this, but I might not have another choice.
I send them a group text.
Me: Hey, I don’t want you guys to freak out, but Pay took off and I’m not sure where she went. I talked to her for a minute over the phone, and it sounded like she was at a party, but then she hung up on me and now she’s not answering her phone. Anyone have any ideas of where she might be?
Londyn: I haven’t seen her hanging out with anyone other than us. I’m really worried. She’s been acting so moody the last couple of days.
Bailey: As far as I know, she doesn’t hang out with anyone besides us. And I’m with Londyn on this. We need to find her soon. She’s been acting so distant and is pissed off all the time, and I’m worried what she might do.
Me: We’ll find her. I promise. How about you guys go ask around and see if you can find out if there’s any parties going on? Maybe you can ask that guy you know, Lon?
Londyn: We can do that. But what’re you going to do?
I know exactly what I’m going to do, and I don’t like it. But it’s not about me right now. It’s about finding Payton.
Me: I’m going to talk to the Porterson brothers and see if they know where any parties are. And I’m going to see if any of them, by chance, saw Payton climb out the window.
My gaze strays to their house. The GTO and SUV are parked out front, which means they should be home, so there’s a chance they saw Payton leave. And they seem to know a lot of things about this town and the way it works, so I’m betting they know where some parties are at.
I just hate that I’m asking them for another favor. It’s becoming a habit. A very bad habit that I need to find a way to break.
But not now. Not when it is about finding Payton.
That’s what I continue telling myself as I text Blaise. After a couple of minutes go by without him responding, I leave my house to go next door and see if he’s home.
Clouds are rolling in as I cross the driveway and climb over the fence that divides the Portersons’ property with the house my sisters and I are renting. Or, well, the house we’re living in for now.
Since Blaise’s dad owns the house, there’s a chance our asses could get kicked out. And while he assured me during our agreement that my sisters and I could continue living in the house as long as I’m cooperative, I’m still worried he’ll suddenly take back his word. And then what? We’ll have to live in my car? Wouldn’t be the first time, but it’s definitely not an ideal living situation. Although, at least we’d all be together, and that’s what matters.
Right?
A drop of doubt weighs on my shoulders that I’ll screw this parenting thing up. Sure, I’ve been taking care of my sisters and myself for years, but now that it’s official and I no longer have the option of ever leaving … saying I’m scared shitless is an understatement.
Look at the situation I’m in right now. Payton has taken off for God knows what reason, and Londyn and Bailey are spending their evening tracking her down while I swallow my pride and ask for help from possible mafia offspring. Not that I think Blaise is like his father. Or Rhyland and Jaxon. The three of them seem nice enough. Alex, however, is a different story, and I’m hoping he’s not around.
But I guess I should know better than to hope for things, something I’m reminded of when I knock on the door and Alex answers.
He looks strung out. His eyes are bloodshot and dark circles are underneath them.
Awesome. This is going to go so well.
He’s wearing a pair of torn black jeans and no shirt, and his dark hair is flattened on one side. But I barely notice any of those details, most of my attention zeroing in on the scars covering his chest. They look like burn marks. Branded burn marks that resemble the Porterson’s crest singed on my wrist. His marks are a bit more jagged than mine, though, and sloppy, as if he was putting up a fight when the iron rod was pressed against his flesh.
Jesus, they’re just like Rhyland’s scars.
I wonder if Blaise has any, too?
“What the hell do you want?” Alex asks, rubbing his bloodshot eyes.
I tear my gaze off the scars. “Is Blaise here?”
“Nope. I’m the only one home.” He leans against the doorway with his arms crossed. “Why?”
I take a discreet inhale, steadying my nerves. “I came here to see if any of you guys know of a party going on in town.”
