Billion Dollar Bad Boy (Big City Billionaires #1)(51)

Where the fuck was she.

WHERE THE FUCK WAS SHE!?

Stalking through my condo, I yanked on a pair of jeans with one hand. The other was busy hitting speed dial on her number for the tenth time. She wasn't picking up, but worse than that?

I had no clue where she could be.

Everything still smelled like her. Waking up to that scent while I twisted in her leftover warmth in the blankets had been exquisite.

Finding her side of the bed empty was torture.

“Pick up!” I growled at my cellphone, instantly tapping the call button again after it hit her voicemail. Had something happened to her? Why else was she not here?

There was a beep, then a mechanical voice telling me that, “The number you have reached...”

I slammed the phone onto my bed. I was lucky it didn't shatter, but fuck it, I could have bought a new one. I could buy anything.

Except for her.

She was gone.

Throwing the curtains open, I lit up the room. Alexis wasn't here, but still I looked. I had to be sure, I was praying I'd somehow missed her.

But I never miss anything.

Gripping my skull, I turned in place. What the hell happened? The night had ended perfectly—my cock buried up to its base in her sweet cunt, her mouth bruised from my kisses.

Relax. Maybe she went out to get coffee. I eyeballed the condo with a new purpose. Yes, her sweater is gone. So are her shoes. She'd walked out of here, that was clear. Was I over reacting?

No.

Pet's gone. I can't touch her.

I can't kiss her or feel her or SEE her.

I was reacting exactly like I should be.

Tugging on a shirt and my jacket, I stormed out the front door. Unless I was crazy, even the elevator smelled like her.

Pushing out into the open air, I scanned both ways while standing on the sidewalk. The Starbucks called to me, the air bitter with roasted beans. If she'd gone to get coffee, it would have been here.

Before I even got through the doors, something caught my eye. There was a greyish item on the ground, a puddle shining as it absorbed into the street. With my heart racing, I knelt by the mess. One paper cup was still in the tray, the other was open on its side.

I wasn't a bloodhound, but unquestionably, this was a sign.

My legs cut over the ground and into the shop. The woman behind the counter saw me coming, her eyes widening like I was death on a damn pale horse.

Maybe I was.

It depended on what she was about to tell me.

“I'm looking for someone,” I said, cutting to the chase. “About your height, sharp green eyes, long dark hair. Probably wearing a pink sweatshirt.”

She balked, chewing her bottom lip. “Oh, uh. Was it one of those “I heart” or “I love” or something LA shirts?”

Choking on bile, I crushed my nails into my palms. “What happened to her?”

She darted a look around, as if I was about to announce I was pranking her and this was a TV show. But my intensity was nothing to laugh at. “I don't really know, honestly. She was here maybe fifteen minutes ago, maybe half an hour? She ordered some drinks, then she just ran off. She looked really scared, man.”

Scared.

My head was swimming, tipping like I could reveal the answer if I just swung my brain around hard enough. “What way did she go?”

“Up ninth,” she said. I was already moving, so her next words were louder. “Should I call the cops? Was she like, your girlfriend or something?”

Yes. I thought, but I didn't speak.

I needed all my energy to run.





- Chapter Twenty-one -


Alexis

Rubbing the inside of my ear, I worked my jaw. I wasn't much of a flier, yet I'd been on two different planes in just two days. While it was exciting to be in the sky, I could live without the crunching crackle of my ears popping.

I could have also gone for the roomier seats of a certain fancy jet. Being squished against the window wasn't as glamorous as the recliners had been. But so what? I asked myself grimly. I'd ride a rabid donkey before I'd sit next to him ever again.

Hours after learning that Silver was the man from my past, I was still just as angry. My phone battery had died from how many times I'd replayed the video during the flight. That was for the best, since I wasn't doing a good job controlling the compulsive need to torture myself.

However, the downside was that—since I'd been forced to fly with multiple layovers—I had nothing to take my mind off of things. Each flight, I'd sit and browse the same magazine the airline stuck in the back-seat fold. In each airport, I'd wander around aimlessly, wishing I had a charger for my phone.

When we finally touched down in Portland, it was dark outside.

Climbing into a taxi, I slumped in the backseat and, except when the driver asked where I lived, didn't speak the whole ride. It should have felt good to be home. It only made me feel worse.