Page 25 of Wounded Wing

It’s been the same routine for just about a week now. From sundown to sunup, this piece of shit pocket-computer is useless to me.

My hands drag over my crusted eyes as I blow out the air trapped in my chest.

Shit.

I’m on edge and my bullshit meter is close to breaking. After things went down with Ren at the club, he promised that he would help.

Since then, the days have blended into weeks. I even picked up praying to any God who would listen, for someone,anyone, to come for me. Sickness riots in the pit of my stomach as I recall how easily I let myself be used. At least, from what I gathered through the few calls I eavesdropped on, Ren and Atticus were still in negotiations over the club.

Karma is a real bitch.

Kicking off the outrageously high thread-count sheet from my feet, the nippy air of the AC sends goosebumps dancing across my legs. I shift my feet off the bed, the cool marble tiles offering me a grounding point.

Remnants of my dream-now-turned-nightmare filter through my mind as I lift my ragged body. I only dream of Danny when I’m closeto the edge, an unconscious reminder of why I’ve let myself fall this low. It seems even my soul is tired these days. I suppose that’s to be expected when you let hope course through your veins. The crash is inevitable and leaves you free-falling until you hit rock bottom.

Tip-toeing through the bedroom like some kind of ninja, I sign a cross over me, hoping to hell that Atticus isn’t in the penthouse. The last thing I want is to deal with his interrogation about who is calling me at whatever unholy hour it is. Thanking whichever God that has taken mercy on me, I realize the penthouse is silent while my pocket-sized torture device continues to vibrate against my death grip. Frowning, I check the screen as it flashesRestricted Number,now in place of the previousUnknown Caller.

Here goes nothin’.

“Hello? Who is this?” I ask as my voice cracks from lack of use. Hopefully whoever is on the other end doesn’t point it out. I’d rather not explain to a stranger that I’ve turned into a ‘Yes Dear’ housewife who quite literally only speaks when spoken to.

Keys clicking on a keyboard fill the silence. Opening my mouth to question the mystery caller again, a feminine voice takes me by surprise,

“Sup, bud? You’re a difficult human to reach. Ya know that?” she quips.

Glancing at my phone curiously, I blow out a tired breath. I don't know who this woman is and from the sounds of it, she has been calling the wrong number in an effort to reach a friend.

“Listen, lady. You’ve got the wrong number. Stop cal–”

“Nope, I’m speaking to one Mae Lennon, maiden name Broussard, born July 4, 1993. Your childhood sweetheart Daniel died on your 17thbirthday. Damn, that’s rough.”

The sound of rustling bags and a tab from a carbonated beverage opening has me grinding my teeth in frustration. “Got yourself married to Atticus Lennon, founder and current owner of a gentleman’s club, Le Papillon…”

I know most of this information is public record, but how does she know about Daniel? The way this woman recites information so casually,too casually,is alarming.

“Ya still with me?” Her voice now gentle, coaxing me back to reality like she knew I was heading for panic.

My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth as I try to formulate some response. Hope was doing that funny thing where it tries to find its way back into my heart.

Too bad I closed that bitch off for goodafter weeks of radio silence from Ren.

Swallowing the intense urge to vomit, I exhale on a shaky breath and ask, “Who are you and why are you calling me?”

Time seems to slow unnaturally before her voice crackles through the speaker.

“The name’s Agent Mitchell, but you can call me Lai.”

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