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“I’m not sure what you mean by that,” I admitted, feeling a delightful warmness bloom across my chest. The Scotch kicking in. Thank God. Because the feeling it was replacing—a sharp, undeniable stabbing sensation—was proving hard to think past.
“Well, is she just a story you want to have in your back pocket? The woman with the funny name who traipsed across the world with you only to sneak out on you without another word? Or is she someone you want to see again?”
“I need to see her again.” If for nothing else than to get an explanation.
“Okay. So, we’ll figure it out.”
“And how do you propose to do that?”
“It’s a long shot, but I have her number. If she is trying to cut ties, I doubt she will answer. She probably already blocked me,” they added, reaching for their phone, scrolling, then putting it on speaker as they dialed.
“Disconnected,” Alvy hissed when the automatic message started playing. “She’s on top of things, I’ll give her that.”
She would be.
If she was going to pull a power move like a genuine ghosting, she would do it in a way that made it impossible for you to get any kind of closure.
Sting once.
And keep on stinging.
That was how she operated.
That was the legacy she wanted to be known for.
“Fuck,” I snapped.
“Well, you know what this is.”
“What?” I asked, mind racing.
“Another international incident, don’t you think?” they asked, eyes bright, smile wry.
“You know what, Alvy, I think you might be right!” I declared, feeling some of the weight lift from my shoulders.
It was never hopeless.
There were always people to pay to fix problems.
In fact, I had an entire team I used to fix all of mine.
“Besides, it has been so long,” I added, warming to the idea. “They surely miss me by now. I want to—”
“I am already getting the yacht lined up to take us back to the jet,” Alvy told me, already clicking away on their phone.
The yacht lined up to take us back to the jet.
I never would have thought twice about that phrase before Wasp, before her eye rolls to the ostentatiousness that had been a normal part of my life.
“No,” I said, shaking my head.
“No?” Alvy asked, brows knitting, looking up at me.
“I don’t want to waste the time. Book us flights back commercial.”
“Commercial”?” Alvy repeated as though the words made no sense, like I’d begun speaking a foreign language.
“First Class. Let’s not get too carried away,” I told them, smirking.
“I, ah, alright then,” Alvy agreed. “How soon do you want to leave?”
“How soon can we get things here wrapped up?”
“If you want, I can hang back here and handle all of this. We have to get the jet back to the States anyway.”
“Of course,” I agreed, realizing just how little I actually thought the practical things through. If it weren’t for Alvy, that jet would have stayed where it was until I realized I needed it again, and it was nowhere to be found. “That will work. As soon as you can get me out of here then. It’s a long flight, if I recall.”
“And you’re going to have to endure it in a seat brushing up against strangers,” Alvy teased.
“A horror I fear I must endure to learn the truth. And quickly.”
With that, Alvy burst into action, getting me a small bag of luggage packed, arranging the flight, getting a car to drive me to the airport.
Then I was off, heading back to Navesink Bank.
Back to Quinton Baird & Associates.
If anyone could find Wasp, it was them.
The team of professional fixers who had gotten me out of every sticky situation I’d ever been in.
They’d never steered me wrong before.
TWELVE
Wasp
“Okay,” Raven said, dropping down on the bed beside my body. “You’ve been curled up in bed for three days. Three. Days,” she repeated, reaching downward, pressing a wrist to my forehead in a move that was so motherly that it was almost funny. Almost. Unfortunately, I found myself short on things like humor. Or smiles. Or anything but this free-fall sensation inside.
“I’m not sick,” I told her, yanking the blanket back up under my chin.
“No?” she asked, her perfectly shaped brow raising. “Because you’re acting exactly like one of the kids when they don’t want to go to school. Lazing about in bed, curled under the covers, overcome with nondescript ailments that don’t add up to anything.”
“I’m not faking being sick either,” I told her, flipping onto my other side. “I just don’t want to get up yet.”
“Yes, well, it’s after one in the afternoon. And you didn’t want to get up yesterday either. Or the day before.”
“I’m an adult. We can dramatically take to bed without all the judgment. It’s one of the perks of not having anyone in control of our lives anymore,” I told her, wishing she and Roman had a smaller guest room. With a twin-sized bed. Because this queen was begging me to notice how empty the other side was.
