Page 158 of Shared By the Highest Bidder

Ford’s phone rings, and he exhales, seeing the screen. “Ford Montgomery. Yes, Mr. Lester...” His conversation drowns into a blur as he walks away.

Not without a peck on my lips first.

I wander around more and push away the regret of leaving my designs here, even if Michael planned to steal them anyway.

“Nothing in the bedroom,” Nick says, adjusting his gloves.

“That was quick.”

“Not my first rodeo. I know these apartments and where shit can be hidden. Nothing. I checked all his drawers and behind them, under them, looking for something taped. Just found more weed,” he laughs, pocketing the stash. “Cops missed it.”

“I don’t care about that.”

“Office?”

“Through there.” I point to the alcove behind the kitchen.

I fall into a trance, remembering my first time in this apartment, thinking Michelwashot shit. It’s a nice place, but compared to Ford’s, it’s laughable.

Ford comes back, typing on his phone. “Anything?”

“No.” It’s getting more and more real.

I may never see my portfolio again.

“Nothing.” Nick comes out of the office. “Honestly, if it’s not in the bedroom or the office, it’s not here. I know guys like this. They’re not that creative when it comes to hiding things.”

Considering how many of them have mistresses and use their phones for texting, I tend to agree.

“We’re just eliminating locations, sugar.” Ford holds me again.

“I bet his parents have it,” I say, thinking out loud.

“He was taken from here to Rikers, right?” Nick looks around.

“Yeah,” I answer, remembering the mixed feeling of both joy and fear seeing him in cuffs.

“Sounds like he didn’t have time to hand it off,” Ford says.

“Unless they came here.” Nick crouches down to pull out drawers from the television stand.

“The porter said the rent hasn’t been paid. I doubt they’d come here for just a key and leave his televisions and expensive watches.” I sit on the couch and start to rock.

Michael’s world turned upside down, too. He didn’t expect to be in jail. He wasn’t thinking. Let alone planning on hiding a key. It has to be here.

I pull the sofa cushions away, tears coming on hard.

“You asshole!”

“Thanks, Nick,” Ford says. “You can take off.” When the apartment door closes, he holds me against his chest. “Sugar, stop, don’t do this to yourself.”

“I worked so hard.” I break free and stomp into the bedroom to start opening the drawers that Nick said he checked.

I don’t worry about my prints because I lived here. I pull them all out and leave everything on the floor.

All the tension rushes to the surface of my skin and weakens me. Dropping to the carpet, I cry even harder.

Ford lifts me up and sits me on his lap while he plants his ass at the foot of the bed. “Let it go, sugar.”

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