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JADE
“Thanks for picking me up,” I say as I slide into Nixon’s car. Turning the phone in my hand, I check for the hundredth time if I have any messages or calls, but still nothing.
Where the hell is he?
I tried texting Prescott numerous times after my class yesterday and this morning, but he hasn’t picked up, and he hasn’t texted me back, so I had to call Nixon instead.
“No problem. What happened to Prescott?”
“I…” The lie is on the tip of my tongue, but I bite it back. “I have no idea. We texted before I went to class yesterday, but he’s been MIA ever since. Have you talked to or seen him? I’m kind of starting to get worried.”
Nixon presses his lips in a tight line, clearly not happy with the revelation. “No, I haven’t talked to him.”
Damn. Where are you, Prescott?
I unlock my phone and start typing again.
Me:
Nixon picked me up. Can you just text me so I know you’re okay?!
Nixon places his hand over my knee, giving it a firm squeeze. “It’s going to be okay.”
I’m not so sure.
The rest of the drive is quiet. I’m too lost in my own head, and I can’t stop worrying about Prescott. Thankfully there isn’t much you have to do when you have chemo dripping into your veins. Still, it feels like forever before I’m done and we can go home.
Just as I’m getting out of Nixon’s car, I see him pull out his phone and frown at whatever message he got.
“Do you have a key?”
I pull my brows together, unsure of where he’s going with this. “A key?”
“Yes, a key. To Prescott’s place.”
Prescott’s place? Why would he need a key to Prescott’s place?
“No, but…” I wrap my arms around myself tighter, unease creeping up my spine. “What’s going on? Where is Prescott?” I glance over his shoulder as if the man in question will suddenly appear behind him.
“Spencer texted me and asked me to check in on Prescott, but he forgot to tell me how I should do that if the dumbass doesn’t actually open the door. So, the key?”
Spencer texted Nixon and not me? Why? What the hell’s going on here?
I nibble at my lower lip, my stomach twisting into knots with every word he says. Or maybe the chemo is starting to do its thing.
“I don’t have it, but…” I weigh my options. I don’t want to betray Prescott’s trust, but then again, Spencer asked Nixon to check in on him, and Prescott’s not answering. What if something’s wrong? “I know where they keep the spare one. In case they forget it or something.”
Nixon runs his fingers through his hair. “Yeah, sure.”
We walk in silence all the way to the building next door and climb to the third floor where Prescott’s apartment is. My muscles are quivering from the climb, a wave of heat going through me, but I force myself to push through. It’s definitely the chemo.
Rising on the tips of my toes, I slide my hand over the edge of the doorway until I find the small indent and slip my finger inside to get out the key. My throat bobs as I slide it into the lock and turn it, unsure of what I’ll find inside.
Nixon places his hands on my shoulders, giving them a firm squeeze. “Maybe you should go back home. You don’t look so good.”
And wonder what the hell’s going on? Screw that.
