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And then there’s the fact that he has two phones: a recent model, and a smartphone that looks like it’s a couple of years old. I only ever see him using the updated phone—and while his conversations around me are often short and in code, they’re still super frequent—but he keeps that second phone charged and ready at all times.
I brought it up once. As his wife, I was expected to hand my phone over to his tech guy so that he could put some apps on it. A tracker, Link admits without an ounce of shame, and one that would prevent someone from breaking into it if I ever lost it.
He doesn’t go through my messages—though there haven’t been many since I got whisked away to his world, and most of my teacher friends are too busy on summer break to know that my life has changed so drastically—so I can’t bring myself to go through his, but I’d be lying if I said I was dying to know what the purpose behind having two phones was.
All I get out of Link is that one’s for business, and one’s personal. I can’t imagine how—as far as I can tell, he doesn’thavea personal life apart from our stolen moments in the penthouse—and that tracks since I never see him use that phone.
He keeps it on him anyway, and I let it go.
I let a lot of things go… until I discover a second card tucked in my afternoon bouquet while searching for the wildflower hidden inside.
I know I shouldn’t have opened it. It came in an envelope addressed to Lincoln
“Just a note that we’ve started the process on your second arrangement, as requested.”
Blinking rapidly a few times, I make sure I read that right.
Secondarrangement.
Who else is Link sending flowers to?
* * *
With the notefrom the florist in my pocket, I wait until Bobby hitches up his pants and heads for the bathroom to make my escape.
Bobby is my usual afternoon babysitter; after it all got out that the shaggy-haired Kyle had a bit of a crush on me, Link threatened his nuts if he acted on it, then banished him from the penthouse. I guess, since he’s in a committed relationship with Heidi, Bobby was safe enough to have around me, so he’s usually there.
One good thing about having the same guards over and over again? It’s easy to pick up on their routine. Around this time every day, Bobby takes a twenty-minute shit in the bathroom assigned to the men.
With Mona working on dinner prep, I grab my phone, my license, and my debit card, and slip into the elevator.
After that night at the Playground, Link insisted that I don’t leave without telling him. That way he can arrange for me to have a couple of bodyguards if he’s too busy to accompany me wherever I want to go. I neversaidI would do it; I just did as a courtesy to my husband and his position.
But since I know damn well that Link would stop me, I decide it’s worth a little risk. I won’t be gone for long, and though I could’ve just called Louise’s and asked about the second arrangement, my gut tells me that this is a conversation I want to have in person.
The florist probably won’t tell me anything. With as much money as Link has got to be dropping with them, keeping me in roses, peonies, daisies, and more, it’s a pretty safe bet he’ll have her loyalty. But, you never know. Maybe Louise will take pity on one of her customer’s wives and give something away when I’m actually standing there on the other side of the counter.
My phone starts ringing when I’m halfway across town, riding in the Uber I hired. I had it on my lap, a safety measure in the case my driver was sketchy, and I notice him looking at my funny when it instantly starts ring again once it stops the first time.
Sparing a smile and a half-shrug, I glance at the unfamiliar number—it’s not Link’s, or anyone else I know—and slide it under my jeans to muffle the vibration.
After six calls, it finally stops. I pay my driver, thanking him and declining his offer to stick around. Something about him made me uneasy, and I’d rather walk home than climb back in his car.
I wait for him to leave me on the side of Main, just outside of Louise’s Florals. As soon as he disappears back into city traffic, I slip my phone into the back pocket of my jeans and glance up at the shop.
It’s cute. Its sign looks hand-painted, with the name of it drawn in a pretty sky blue script over a soft pink background. It’s a bright spot in the dingier part of Springfield, and I find myself smiling a little as I push open the door, a gentletingannouncing my entrance.
A curvy brunette is standing behind the counter, head bowed over some kind of ledger. She has a pencil in her hand, tapping it absently against the countertop, humming under her breath as she tucks a strand of her long, way brown hair behind her ear.
As she hears theting, she glances up, revealing a lovely face and warm hazel eyes. “Hey, there. How are you? What can I do for you?”
Apart from the coolers full of flowers, the counter and its old-fashioned register, me and the woman, the shop is empty. Fingers crossed that she’s the owner, then, since I don’t see any other employees.
“Hi,” I say. “I’m actually looking for Louise.”
The brunette purses her lip, an apologetic look flashing across her face. “I’m sorry, but she’s not here. She’s actually on a well-deserved vacation for the next week.”
Damn it. “Oh.”
