Page 4 of On the Run
“Alright? Does that mean you’ll do it?” He sounded relieved. “Good, ’cause BlazeNewz said they’d give me an extra five large if I got you to come forward, so I gave them your phone number. I’ll split it with you.”
BlazeNewz? Literally the only scammy tabloid that was scammier and tabloid-ier than HiWire?
“Youwhat?” I screeched, drawing the ire of Bathilda Blue Visor, who turned around and gave me a gimlet glare.
“You could step out of line to take your call, you know.” She pursed her lips. “It’s extremely annoying.”
I pressed the phone to my chest. “Excuse you, I am having acrisishere,” I informed her. “I am surrounded by liars and betrayers, my very best friend is not answering my calls, my entire life is about to be ruined, and I really need a rental car, so if you wouldn’t mind?” I flipped a hand in the air to indicate an open spot at the rental desk, and as she flounced away, I seethed into the phone, “There is no way, in this reality or any other, that I will take their call, Aron.”
“Fine, fine,” Aron relented. “It was five thousand apiece—”
“Oh, well, that’s a whole different ball game. For an extra five thousand, I’d be happy to sell off the last vestiges of my soul and harm an innocent man irreparably! Why didn’t you say so?” I scoffed.
“Wait, really?”
“No, you piece of… toast.” I smiled hard at one of the blond snot monsters standing near my elbow watching me steadily. “Of course not really. I said no, and I meant no.”
Aron heaved a put-upon sigh. “They’re gonna find you, Tommy. You either tell the story or youarethe story. You can’t just wait around to see what happens, you’ve gotta—wait, what’s that noise?”
That noise was the combined sound of the whiny floor Zamboni and the arguably whinier sound of the rugrats busting out a mother-freakin’ hymn right there in the rental car line.
“That’s ‘Jesus Loves Me’ in three-part harmony. You see, Aron, this whole business has caused me to rethink my life and repent my club-hopping ways. I’m joining a convent. I’ve taken vows of poverty and chastity. Please don’t attempt to look for me. Goodbye.”
I jabbed Disconnect, then tapped the phone against my lip and tried to quell the dread gripping my chest.
I needed Mason. I needed someone who was coolheaded in a crisis. Mason would know what to do, I was almost positive. And even if he didn’t, he’d still hide me in his brand-new house tucked away on a little island off the Gulf Coast, and I could stay there until a hot new story came along or Jayd finally made a statement and the media speculation evaporated.
I’d be golden. As soon as Mase answered his damn phone.
I could admit I’d been a less than stellar friend for the last couple months since Mase moved to Florida and, yes, especially in the last eight weeks or so, since he and the love of his life had discovered a motherfucking, yo-ho-ho, coins-in-the-ground treasure whilst cavorting on some rainy evening adventure. It was possible that I was being slightly immature and feeling left out of his shiny new life. It was possible I’d missed a call or six. It was possible that Aunt Hagatha would tell me to get over myself, and that she might even be right.
But we’d been friends for seventeen years, so he wouldn’t stage a friendship breakup over something that minor, right?
The fates wouldn’t be cruel enough to heap yet more tragedies upon me.
“Oh, Jebediah, no!” the woman behind me yelled. The singing broke off abruptly, and I turned to see what the ruckus was about… just in time for the screaming baby to projectile vomit all over my shoe.
My open-toed Armani shoe.
I was wrong. The fates might, indeed, be that cruel. I needed to get out of this airport immediately.
“Oh, goodness gracious!” the mother cried, scrambling through her purse. “Oh, sir, let me get you a baby wipe! Let me—”
“Next!” the woman at the rental counter called.
“No worries,” I told the mother tightly. “Baby vomit is good luck.”
“I think that’s bird poo,” one of the many other ragamuffins piped up.
I nodded once. “Same thing.”
“Next!” the woman at the counter yelled again. “Sir?”
I threw my head back with all the dignity I possessed—which, legit, was like, alotof dignity—and squelched my way over to the counter.
“Good evening. Reservation for Elford. I requested—” I removed my credit card from my Ferragamo crossbody and set it on the counter with a click “—a convertible. Something red if you have it, white if not.”
The woman—Sofi, per her name badge—did not bat an eyelash nor touch a key. “We don’t have one.”
