Page 103 of Sweet Shots

I jog down the hall until I reach our room and hold my breath as I tap the key card and swing open the door. It feels empty. It’s too quiet. But maybe he’s sleeping.

“Mikah?” I call out, stepping inside and tossing our jackets onto the couch in the small living room. I move into the bedroom in the back. Empty. Kitchen is empty. Living room, empty. Bathroom empty. Everything is fucking empty. He isn’t here.

I call him again. This time when the voicemail picks up, I leave him a message.

“Hey, it’s me. I’m worried. Can you please call me back?”

The last place I want to lose someone is in Vegas. Especially when they’re drunk. This is one of those places people get fucking kidnapped from and sold for sex trafficking and shit. And if someone recognized him, they’d want him. Even if they didn’t, he’s a target. I shouldn’t have fucking left him alone. Fuck, I’m so stupid.

The anxiety coursing through me has me shaking. I sit down on the couch and stare at my phone, hoping he’s going to call me back and tell me he’s lost. We’ll laugh about it. I’ll go find himand bring him back here. We’ll wake up tomorrow, fuck, and then go home because screw the expo. I just want to go home with him. But after staring at my phone for nearly ten minutes, it doesn’t ring. So I call the only person I can somewhat rely on.

“Hello?” Emmet answers, his voice full of sleep.

“I need your help.”

“What is it?” he asks, sounding more alert.

“I’m in Vegas for the awards. Mikah is missing.”

“Missing how?”

I get to my feet and pace. “We were in the club. I went to get our jackets. When I went back to get him, he was gone. He’s trashed. We were drinking all night.”

“Have you gone to the police?”

I pause, blinking. “Can I do that?”

“Of course you can.”

“It hasn’t been twenty-four hours.”

“That’s all bullshit. You can still file a report.”

“But what if he’s just… I don’t know, roaming around drunk?”

“Then at least the cops will know and can let you know if they find him.”

“Yeah, okay. Good point. Thanks. And, uh, sorry to wake you.”

“It’s never a problem. You know that. Call me back when you get this figured out.”

I tell him I will, and then I end the call.

Heading down to the front desk, I ask them where the police station is and the quickest way to get there. They, of course, ask if everything is okay. I tell them what’s going on and they give me a number to call, letting me know I don’t have to go to the station. I guess that makes sense, since so many people go missing here. Which isn’t a relief at all.

Exhausted, both physically and mentally, I make my way back up to my room and call the number. The man on the other endsounds like he couldn’t care less about my situation, but I hear him typing away on the computer when I give him info, so at least he’s doing what he says.

“We’ll call you if we get any info,” he tells me. Just like that. As if sitting here and waiting won’t be an issue. Well, it won’t be his issue, so what does he care?

I spend the next hour pacing the room, staring out the window, sitting, standing back up. My eyes feel like they’re full of sand and my head is swimming.

Moving back to the floor to ceiling windows, I look over Vegas as the sun begins to rise.

“Mikah, where the fuck are you?”

Four days.

I spend four days in Vegas before I decide it’s time to go home. Well, I don’t decide; Emmet convinces me I need to. I begged him to go by Mikah’s house, and he told me he wasn’t there. Didn’t look like anyone had been. I feel like I need to stay here, that leaving is the worst thing to do, but there is nothing I can do here. If he shows up somewhere, I can fly back to get him. Or maybe he’ll end up back home.

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