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I’m shit at taking compliments.
“I want to worship you,” I tell her, burying my face into her just as my phone vibrates against the wooden nightstand next to the bed. I ignore it, not thinking clearly with Isla’s mouth on me. I hold her head in my hands, guiding her mouth down on my cock when it starts vibrating again.
She pulls her mouth off me and I moan, “Fuck, babe. Don’t stop.”
“I feel like you need to get that,” she says, wiping a thumb across her lips, her chest heaving as she rocks back onto her heels.
I sigh, reaching over just as the phone starts ringing again. “Fuck!” I groan, flipping the phone over in my palms. Flynn’s name flashes across the screen and I mouth, “I’m sorry,” to Isla as I answer, “Flynn.” I clear my throat, pissed that anyone is bothering me right now. I haven’t had Isla for weeks, and when I finally get her again, we’re interrupted. “What’s up, man?”
He doesn’t say anything at first and I think he’s butt dialed me or something, but then I hear him, his voice low on the other end of the phone. “Hey, do you have a second?” he asks, and I immediately know something isn’t right. His voice cracks and it’s almost as if he has to force each word out.
I sit up straight, looking at Isla as I ask him, “What’s wrong, man? Are you okay?” My stomach flips, my instincts kicking in, sending me into overdrive. Something is not right. Time almost feels as if it stands still as I wait for him to reply, my gut telling me that I need to move, I need to go. I need, I need, I need. I just don’t know what.
“Shit, sorry. Are you with Isla? I don’t know why I didn’t think about that. I’m not thinking clearly. Sorry. Let’s talk tomorrow,” Flynn says, but his voice is completely flat. It’s like the other night on the bus, how it just looked like he was existing among us, not really here.
“Nah,” I tell him, trying to make light of it. “What’s going on? You good? I can talk. Where you at? Back on the bus?” I try to figure out where he is because my brain is screaming just under the alarm bells wailing. Something is not right.
Isla scoots up closer to me on the bed, her eyebrows drawing together as she shakes her head, obviously sensing the worry in my voice.
“Relax, B. It’s all good, man,” Flynn slurs. He’s clearly been drinking. “I’m super tired… I’m going to head to bed. Declan says hi. Have fun tonight, man.”
He hangs up and the first thing I do is call Declan.
She answers on the second ring, and I can hear Bob’s Burgers blaring in the background on the bus. “Hey, lover boy!” Declan says, and then I hear Miller make kissing noises as they both laugh.
“Dec, is Flynn in his bed?” I ask, my heart pounding in my temples.
She pauses and all I can hear is Tina’s monotone voice talking on the television show.
“Declan!” I yell, not even meaning to. I can’t control how I’m feeling right now. I don’t know why I’m suddenly so shook up, but I just feel something is so fucking off. My skin feels like it’s on fire.
“No, he isn’t back yet,” Declan says, and my stomach drops.
Something is very, very wrong.
Forty-One
Isla
Abience (n.) the strong urge
to avoid someone or something.
___________
Bordeaux grabs my hand while sending a text in the other and tells me to grab my things from the room.
“What’s going on?” I ask him, unable to shake the horrified look on his face. The usual warmth of his skin is gone, his touch ice, and all color is drained from his face as he rushes around the room. “B?”
He doesn’t say anything but instead packs up his suitcase and yanks on the clothes he was wearing earlier. I do the same as he tries calling someone but gets no answer. I want to press him, to tell him to tell me what’s going on with Flynn, what happened to set all of this into motion. But I don’t; I’ve stopped asking him what’s wrong after the first three times. He’s in this weird zone and I feel like I’m burdening him by continuing to ask him, so I just don’t. I just take his body language and the way his eyes have gone dark as signs that something isn’t right.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re in the same unmarked security car that dropped us off at the hotel earlier, speeding down an Indiana interstate.
“Fuck.” Bordeaux tries calling someone again, hanging up after another failed attempt.
My heart races as I comb over multiple possibilities in my mind. Just as we get to the lot where the buses are parked, I see Declan and Miller running toward our car, both looking disheveled in sweats and band tees. Declan’s hair is pulled away from her face in a half ponytail, the short strands falling around her face unable to stay put, and tears streak down her makeup-free face.
Bordeaux jumps out of the car before it even stops, leaving me in the backseat until his security detail comes to a quick halt, shifting the car into park. I glance at the driver as he shakes his head, no doubt at Bordeaux’s stunt.
