Page 101 of Cruel Debts
Hawke got halfway through pulling steaks from the fridge, when his eyes finally fell on my phone on the counter, right next to his cutting board. "Hey, twat waffle. You gonna check those missed calls?"
Who cared about some missed calls? "If you're so damn curious, you check them." He knew the password. If it was important, if it pertained to a client or a contract, then he'd need to know as well. And if it was a telemarketer, let him sit through their bullshit messages.
"Smile for the camera, you ugly fuck," he said cheerfully, holding the face recognition up to my profile. I scowled, and the phone unlocked with ease, just going further to prove howirritating life was for me on a regular basis. If even my phone thought my resting bitch face was standard operating procedure, then clearly I needed a vacation from this shit?—
"It's Trinity's number."
Why would Trinity be calling me from the next room? "Are you sure?"
"Unless you saved someone else as 'the bratty McCoy', then yeah, I'm pretty sure."
He clicked on the voicemail icon and set the phone down on the counter, putting it on speaker for us to hear as a group just in time for Asher to pull out a bottle of beer and pop the cap.
I didn't miss the way Hawke's eyes cut to the offending drink, and then rolled. He made it perfectly clear what he thought about alcohol, and usually, we didn't drink it around him.
Asher must be more affected by what I'd said to him than I thought.
The first voicemail was short and very weird. It was nothing but panting, raspy breaths, someone clearly running, and the sound of someone shouting in the distance.
"What the fuck?" Asher frowned, leaning in over the phone like he expected to see footage of a video with the weird audio.
"Maybe it's an old one," I muttered, "I don't check them as often as I should."
We skipped to the next one, and the second Trinity's voice came on the recording, I knew something was very, very wrong.
"Oh my god, Liam, dammit, I know you're mad at me, but pick up the phone! I'm—I fucked up, I—they're following me, I—haaa, fuck, I really should have done more cardio—Liam, please—shit?—"
Silence.
The phone cycled to the next and final voicemail, and we stared at each other, worry and confusion creeping in.
"I don't know what's about to happen, Liam, but I'm being followed. I—fuck, I snuck out, okay, to make you mad. It was stupid. I'm at the club—or I was. There's something going on, and they're following me—shit, shit shit shit?—"
The phone fell away from her, the audio distorted as I heard Trinity on the other end, screaming and shouting at someone who clearly meant her harm. Words here and there got through as she fought her assailants, and I stayed riveted to the seat as Asher busted her door in, swearing at what he found inside.
"The Gunners—they're going to find you—let me go!---you'll regret this—don't you dare fucking touch me you creep!" More fighting, and then a moan that sounded like Trinity in pain, followed by a much more subdued "Help me, Liam, I'm sorry?—"
And then someone else clearly picked up the phone, because the voice that echoed over the line wasn't a language I was fluent in. But the second he switched to English, I placed the accent.
"Don't waste your time."
Russian. Just like the assholes we were investigating for the trafficking ring.
My heart sank through my stomach, and suddenly, all the eyes were on me.
Asher leaned across the counter and damn near strangled me by my collar. We were so close, I could feel flecks of spit flying from his mouth as he snapped his teeth and snarled at me.
"What thefuckdid youdo,you prick?"
Our third was too busy rushing around to pay us any attention. It was like someone had cut Hawke's head off and pulled a rip cord out of his back, sending him careening into chaos. I'd never seen him so stressed in the years since we joined the Guild. Talk about unnerving.
I glanced over at Trinity's room and sighed, a cold sweat trickling down my spine, breaking out on my brow. "I?—"
I couldn't tell him what I'd said. I'd never again be able to face him—or her.
"I might've said a few things I shouldn't."
That was as close to the truth as I was going to get. There were no details needed. The fact that I'd screwed up was enough.
