“EXPLAIN.” I DON’T ask the other questions, the ones that are shooting from all directions out of my mind. How much does he know about Jeremy? What kind of tabs is he keeping on my life? How does he know he’s missing? Have I given him too much access? Is there any way to take it back? Jeremy is missing? What have I done? I say nothing, back off the accelerator, move FtypeBaby into the slow lane and listen to him speak.
“I don’t know for sure that he’s missing, but I’ve dug a bit. Things are coming back to me… things I said to the guy who was here. I was playing back our conversation, trying to think if there was anything you might want to know—just in case…”
“Skip to the fucking point.”
“You can’t be pissed at me anymore. I put your money back and was tortured trying to protect you. Let’s not forget that.”
His response is tinted with fear and that worries me. Mike has never, in all the emotions I have pulled out of him, sounded scared. And most definitely not scared of me. Aroused by, amused by, smart-assed by, but not scared by. And now he sounds scared and nervous, neither of which I like. “Shut up about the money, tell me about Jeremy. Quickly.”
“He hasn’t made a phone call since five o’clock yesterday. Or logged onto his computer, or used his cell phone’s data—that’d include playing a game or checking his e-mail or sending a text—in at least fourteen, maybe fifteen hours. I called his cell, it went straight to voice mail.”
I breathe. Not that bad. Missing is a strong fucking word for Mike to be throwing around. “Maybe his battery died during the night.”
“He stopped using his phone that early in the day? Plus, he’s at home all evening and he doesn’t bother to plug it in?”
“What else?”
“Well Marcus found out about him. Knew his address.” Any fear in his voice is now at maximum height. This is why he is worried.
“Found out what about Jeremy?” I try, and fail, to keep my voice level.
I did this.
I pissed off Marcus.
I blocked him.
I pushed every button he had and did it with glee.
I put Mike in this position.
I put Jeremy on this prick’s radar.
“I didn’t volunteer anything. He saw a photo of him… wanted to know more. His name. Address. I told him I didn’t know who he was—if he was a brother or your boyfriend.”
“How interested did he seem?”
“Interested enough to write down the info.”
I speed up, eyeing the center median and wondering if the car has the grit to make it over and through. Probably not. I head for the next exit, needing to end this joyride, turn the hell around, and head back to town. “What else do you know?”
Mike perks up a bit, speaking quickly. “I got into OnStar. His truck is pretty new, and he subscribes to the service. It shows his truck at his house, but I can’t tell how long its been there. There’s been no activity on his credit cards or bank account since last night.”
“So… you think he’s missing because his cell phone hasn’t had any activity and his truck is at his house.” I slow FtypeBaby’s roll down a bit, my breath moving at a more normal pace in and out of my chest. I spy an exit sign and prepare to depart.
“Yeah. It’s not much. But… I don’t know. When it came to me—that I had told him that—I just wanted to check. The cell phone activity is odd. Even a dead phone I should be able to follow. This thing just disappeared, like someone took out the SIM card or dropped it into the toilet. This guy. He’s not fucking sane. If he thought you had cared about me, he probably would have brought me with him to use as an intimidation tool.”
Something in his voice catches me. Something I have never heard. A vulnerability there. “I care about you, Mike.”
He laughs, the sound hollow in tone. “You care about what I do for you.”
“I’m not gonna massage your back and gush out compliments. You don’t want to believe it, don’t believe it.”
“I don’t need the compliments. Just check on your boyfriend, okay?” He hangs up the phone before I can ask for Jeremy’s address, an embarrassing request. Something a real girlfriend should know. A text from Mike, thirty seconds later, provides it without my needing to ask. I send a silent bit of thank-you karma his way and plug the address into my GPS. Eight miles, fourteen minutes away. I’ll get there in half that, providing I don’t get pulled over on the way. I slow down a bit, just to behave.
I’m coming, baby. I cross my fingers and hope he is fine, asleep on the couch, his sexy ass stretched out, pillow marks deep on his face. I don’t stop myself when the speedometer inches higher.