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“Not a chance,” I say from the back seat of our vehicle. “Keep driving.”
J-Dawg has been suspiciously quiet while Travis and I argued since leaving the venue to search for Val. He must be the smarter of my two trusted bodyguards because he’s figured out that there will be no talking me out of this. Once Paige told me what their parents did to my boyfriend, the war was on. Even Steve stepped up and agreed to cover for me with the tour folks as much as possible.
I’ve sent Val at least a dozen texts, but so far haven’t received a response. My calls are going straight to voicemail. I’m scared, as are my knees that keep bouncing and my teeth that keep chewing on my thumbnail.
“Wait, is that him?!” I cry, pressing my face against the window.
“Where?” Travis asks in an exasperated tone. So what if this is the forty-third time I thought I spotted my missing producer on the crowded streets. Statistically speaking, it’s still the same odds that it’s him as all the other times. I think. I don’t actually know much about statistics stuff.
“There! With the cowboy hat!”
“Have you ever seen him wear a cowboy hat?” Travis asks dryly.
“No, but he’s smart. Maybe he’s disguising himself so we don’t think it’s him.”
The glow of the downtown city lights clearly illuminates the look they exchange.
Fine. I know I’m sounding a tad desperate, but it’s because I am. Val has fought and overcome so much in his life—in these last few days, even. If this latest blow was enough to knock him down, it’s worth being worried.
My phone dings, and my gaze darts to the screen. But it’s Paige, not her brother. Maybe she and Nash are having more luck with their search?
Paige: Nothing yet. You?
Darn.
Me: Nothing. Unless you think he’d wear a cowboy hat as a disguise?
I squint at the guy through my tinted window. Maybe…? I suppose the person is too short, too round, and too nothing like Val to be Val.
Paige: Unlikely.
Darn.
“There!” I cry, lowering my phone. “At the café table!”
“Larinda, please. I know you’re?—”
“Shit, she’s right,” J-Dawg interrupts. “Pull over!”
My heart slams against my ribs as Travis hits the brakes and double-parks beside a red sedan.
“You stay here,” J-Dawg says, then stops when he realizes I’m already climbing out of the car.
“Larinda!” he calls, but I ignore him as I slip between the line of vehicles to reach the curb.
I know I’m getting looks. Not sure if it’s because I’m Larinda Scott or because I’m wearing a sequined bustier with sweatpants (which was as far as I got in my post-show wardrobe change when Nash and Paige called). Either way, none of it matters. All that matters is the guy at an empty café table, his fingers locked in his hair, staring blankly at the rusted metal surface.
“Val?” I say gently as I approach.
His head shoots up in a startled search, and when his broken gaze lands on me, I forget all about our audience. Who cares what they think? This is the only opinion I need right now.
“Larinda?” He pushes to his feet. “What are you?—”
I cut him off as I pull him in for a hug. “Paige told me. I’m so sorry.”
He’s silent as I squeeze tighter.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says quietly.
