Noon.
Hi, this is Ivy. I can’t come to the phone right now, but if you leave your name, number, and a message, I’ll call you back.
Beep.
“Ivy, I know why you can’t come to Chicago. We can work it out. Call me.”
Three p.m. and fourteen calls later.
Hi, this is Ivy. I can’t come to the phone right now, but if you leave your name, number, and a message, I’ll call you back.
Beep.
“Angel, I need you to call me back. I promise we can fix this. I’ve worked it out with Smoke. We’ll smuggle you on the jet—”
If you’re satisfied with your message, hang up, or press one to re-record it.
“Shit!” I huff through gritted teeth and press one.
Beep.
“Baby, please. I need you. Just call me back.”
Nine p.m. and twenty-three calls later.
Hi, this is Ivy. I can’t come to the phone right now, but if you leave your name, number, and a message, I’ll call you back.
Beep.
“Goddamnit Ivy—call me,” I demand.
By the thirtieth attempt, or thirty-sixth because I’m not really counting, my phone lands in a spectacular crash against the far wall. I rub a hand through my hair. If I could just talk with her, I can fix this. I just need her to pick up the goddamned phone.
I blow out a breath and pace the room. The phone is surprisingly intact…except for the face. The glass is cracked like a spider web but functional. So, I posture my finger to dial again.
I’ve tried sweet Leo, stern Leo, cheerful Leo, pissed as hell Leo. I flip a coin to see if I’m going for domineering Alpha Leo this time, or at-the-end-of-my-rope, begging Leo. I opt for the latter and press to connect.
But it only rings once, and I deflate with a sigh. “An eye for an eye,” I mutter bitterly.
She blocked me.