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This is our third bar of the night; I have no idea where we are.
“Is everything okay?” I ask since this man called me from Jackson’s phone. “Is Jackson all right?”
“For the moment,” the man says evasively.
My heart jumps to my throat at the implication that he might not be for much longer. “Did Jackson… get into trouble? Are you his friend, or…?”
Or what? Do I really think some bad guy who put him in peril would want to chat with me on the phone?
“We’ll discuss that when you get here,” he tells me, his firm, decisive tone brooking no arguments.
“I’m not sure what I can do to help,” I say, growing more anxious as I near the door. In the texts Jackson sent before this man called, it seemed like he needed to borrow money, but I don’t understand why. Jackson has significantly more money than I have. The only thing I can even rationalize is that for some reason he can’t access his own funds right now, but if he’s out with friends, why can’t one of them help him?
The bouncer looks my way as I burst out of the club. It occurs to me belatedly that maybe I should’ve told someone before I left. I’m not sure I’ll be able to get right back in. There’s a line to get into the club, and I don’t want to have to wait to go back inside.
I look up and tell the man on the other end of the call the name of the club I’m at.
I did it because he told me to and I’m bad at falling short of people’s expectations of me, but as I stand alone on the sidewalk outside the noisy club, it occurs to me… I could be putting myself into danger if I get into this stranger’s car.
I don’t want Jackson to be in trouble, but I don’t want to endanger myself for him, either. If Jackson did something stupid and now he’s in trouble for it, that was his choice. I’m not even his girlfriend anymore; it’s certainly not my job to bail him out.
I don’treallybelieve he would deliberately put me in danger, though. He may have been a crappy boyfriend, but surely he’s not that much of an asshole.
Once I’ve told the man on the phone which club I’m at, I try to go back through the door I exited out of, but it turns out it doesn’t go both ways.
Shit.
I walk over near the bouncer and lean over the rope to get his attention. “Excuse me.” His hard gaze meets mine. “Hi. Um, I was inside with my girlfriends, it’s my best friend’s bachelorette party—I’m the maid of honor. I had to step outside to take a phone call, but now I need to go back in and tell my friend I have to leave. Can I slip back inside real quick?”
He shakes his head. “No can do.”
“But… I’ll only be two minutes. I just need to run in and tell my friend—”
“If you want to get back through this door, you’ll have to wait in line like everybody else.”
Shit.
“All right. Thank you,” I murmur.
I turn around to face the road, sighing into the phone still pressed against my ear.
The line has been silent for so long, I half-expected the man on the other end had hung up and I just hadn’t noticed, so I’m surprised when he suddenly speaks again.
“Do you typically thank people for giving you an answer you don’t like?”
Frowning faintly at his question, I explain, “I was being polite.”
“Was he?”
“He was only doing his job. I’m the one who walked outside without thinking to ask if I’d be allowed back in.”
“So it’s your fault,” he murmurs, sounding more interested than I would expect him to.
“Actually, it’s yours,” I tell him.
He sounds surprised. “Mine?”
I nod, forgetting he can’t see me. “You called me on the phone—who does that but psychopaths? And you sounded so bossy, I was unnerved. Ordinarily, I would’ve asked before I exited if I needed a stamp to get back in the club, but…”
