Page 15 of Chasing Wildflowers
My phone rings as I throw my Bronco into park and kill the engine.
Unknown number.
Fuck.
I hesitate, thumb hovering over the screen before finally answering. “Hello?”
“Have you found her?” my client demands, voice clipped, skipping pleasantries.
Asshole.
He called our office six months ago from a blocked number and offered us half a million dollars, ten grand up front, to find Ceciley Knox. Miles and I were apprehensive, but turning down half a mil is a lot harder than one might think.
“Not yet,” I lie, my fingers tightening on the wheel. “But we are getting closer.”
“With the amount of money I’m paying you, Mr. Crowe, I expected better. It’s been six months.”
My jaw flexes. “Do you have any idea how many towns there are in Western Pennsylvania? It’s like searching for a needle in a haystack.”
Finding her with the limited information he provided was pure fucking luck. If Lane is Ceciley, she did a damn good job hiding herself.
He ignores me, his voice flat. “The person who recommended you said you were the best at finding people. Perhaps they were wrong.”
Jesus fucking christ. The nerve of this guy.
“We told you, when you first called, that it could take us a year or more. We are well within that time frame.”
“You have six months.” His tone drops, cold as steel. “I suggest you find her within that time frame. Don’t disappoint me, Mr. Crowe. You don’t want me as an enemy.”
Click.
The line goes dead.
Even after six months, we still have no fucking clue who he is. Miles has tried tracking him but came up empty. He’s smart enough to call from a different burner phone each time and destroys it after each call. We’ve looked into Byron’s family, but came up empty. His father was the first person we looked into, but he died a few years back. Same with any friends he had.
I drop my head back and pinch the bridge of my nose. I should go back to the motel. Hell, I should drive back to New York until we get the results.
Instead, I step out of my Bronco and stalk toward the door. The smell of spilled beer and cigarette smoke fills my nose as I step inside.
My boots thud against the worn, slightly sticky carpet with every step. A few heads turn, sizing me up before returning to their drinks.
My eyes scan the bar. Seven people are sitting at the bar, four in the back playing pool, and another three at one of the tables in the back. The same one I sat at with Lane and Kam last night.
Behind the bar, Lane is mixing drinks with her back to me. Her hair is pinned back, loose strands curling at her neck.
“I’ll be right with you,” she calls without looking, her hips shimmying to the Carrie Underwood song flowing from the Jukebox.
I slide onto a stool, my eyes glued to her, watching for her reaction. “Take your time, Wildflower.”
Her shoulders stiffen, and she turns her head, green eyes meeting mine. A flicker of surprise followed by something darker, hungrier flashes through them. It’s not the apprehension I saw last night or even this morning. No, it’s something else. Something deeper. She recovers quickly and turns to finish making the drinks.
She drops them off and walks toward me, an easy smile stretched across her lips. “Do you give nicknames to all your bartenders?”
“Yes. I call my bartender back home, sweetcheeks. He blushes every time.” I give her an exaggerated wink.
She chuckles and playfully shakes her head. “What can I get you?”
“Whiskey.” I nod toward a bottle on the top shelf, which in this town seems to beJack Daniels, watching as she pours.
