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The swipe of the maintenance card lights a green dot on the keypad, and the elevator whirls to life. It’s completely empty when I step inside, but that doesn’t stop my unease. A thin sheen of sweat slicks my forehead as I count the seconds between one floor and the next.
I just need to get through the lobby and out the front door.
That’s it.
In and out in ten minutes.
My car is waiting for me.
The receptionist is missing from her post when I exit the elevator, so I walk a little faster than normal toward the front entrance. I glance around the lobby, but no one lingers.
My world comes to a sudden stop when I step outside just in time to watch a tow truck pull away from the curb with my car.
That fucking asshole.
The security guard slaps his hand against my chest, passing my hundred-dollar bill back to me with a shit-eating grin on his face.
“Being a rockstar doesn’t give you the right to be an entitled dick or violate our policies. Next time, use the visitor’s lot like the common folk.”
He wanders away to help a middle-aged woman get her luggage and shopping bags out of the trunk of an Uber, and I shove into the backseat. I start to pass him the bill in my hand, but when I look at it, I realize the guard gave me a dollar.
What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?
“Yo. You can’t just climb in,” the college kid behind the wheel tells me. “This isn’t a cab.”
“I’ll pay you three hundred dollars to get me the fuck away from this place,” I murmur, as if I’ve just had my heart broken. “I can’t stand here and wait when I know she’s upstairs getting ready to see her new boyfriend.”
He sighs like I’ve dropped too much bullshit into his lap. “Fine, but I have another customer to pick up in forty-five minutes. So wherever you’re going needs to be quick.”
“I’m going to Scarlett Shore Estates. Or as close as you can get me.”
“About ten minutes away,” he mumbles, glancing at the digital map on his car’s dash.
“That’s good enough. I’ll take it.”
Then I’ll spend the afternoon calling all the tow shops in town to figure out who the fuck took my Aston. The thought of even a scratch marring her paint makes me sick to my stomach.
I should have driven Ezra’s car.
I reach for my pocket to grab my phone so that I can call my brother…
Only it isn’t there.
I furiously pat my pants’ pockets, but it’s not there either. I remember dropping it in the breast pocket on my flannel, and then nothing.
When did I use it?
I’ve been so caught up in getting out without raising suspicion that I didn’t even think—
“Fuck,” I growl, slapping my hand over my face. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
“It’s okay, man.” The driver eyes me from his rearview mirror. “Breakups happen every day.”
“That’s not really helpful right now,” I snap, clenching my fists.
“That’s all I got.” He shrugs. “I’m not a therapist. You got in the wrong car for that.”
I take a deep breath and mentally retrace my steps.
