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10
Annie
The next week was like a waking dream. Or a waking nightmare. I woke every morning with a sick stomach, pounding headache and anxiety crawling through my veins. Wake up, get up, throw up, shoot up.
Then I went looking. I scoured the internet. I made phone calls. I called in every favor from every perp I’d ever let walk in case I needed an informant. Because they all have friends. I could cover multiple cities that way and still there was nothing.
Not quite. There were reports of Cole missing events he was supposed to be part of and sending proxies to board meetings and blowout extravaganzas alike. Wherever he was, social media and mainstream media had no idea.
When you're a billionaire, you can get away with shit like that.
Negative news didn't help me. No outlet seemed to want to figure out if he was in Southern Nevada or Timbuktu. More than once I caught myself before slamming my fist into the hotel room walls. More than once I did slam my fists into the bed, making it rock.
I didn't go back to the dungeon. I was afraid to. Afraid I'd never leave the area if I did. My life would dwindle down to drugs and sex or drugs and whatever it was because I hadn't seen any actual sex, come to think of it.
For me, I thought I'd want it. I thought that's part of what made Cole laugh behind his eyes when he told me I didn't have to sleep with him.
I wondered if he knew this about me.
The desire for sex was high and hot. The actual attempts at even self satisfaction were completely pointless. My drive was tamped down. So apparently my head wanted sex. My body just wanted China white.
After the internet searches, after the phone calls, after shooting up, I'd go for a run. Through the insane hills of San Francisco I'd run for hours, not stopping for food or water, not stopping when it felt like my heart was going to explode. I ran through hills above the bay and I ran through the city and I ran through good parts and bad. When I was ready to drop, dripping sweat and coughing, gagging as I sucked in air, I'd head to the gym and lift as heavy as I could, as many sets and reps as I could until the gym swam around me and until sometimes the manager came over and threw me out. Once he tried feeding me but I threw up and after that he just set a timer and when it went off, two guys bigger than me – bigger than The Rock, bigger than anybody – came over and escorted me to the door.
Then I'd go home and sleep and try to eat and lie on the stupid hotel room couch until the nausea won or until I needed more of the drug. At least I had plenty. But I was using more.
I told myself that by searching for Cole I was taking active steps to solve this problem but underneath I knew that was bullshit.
At night I lay dry-eyed on the couch and watched the television or searched listlessly for any signs of Cole, or lay in the bed, scratching at my arms, thin tears falling into my ears.
Until one morning I woke and ran a hand through my matted, filthy hair. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I realized I had no idea what month it was. At some point I'd called PD and been put through to a counselor. After an hour on the phone with her, she came back and said I was approved for another six weeks. PD isn't great about recognizing attachments to known dealers but Jesse's death was traumatic for me. Maybe no one was going to admit they knew I was fucking him, but reality was, deep cover is deep cover. They knew.
With another six weeks tacked on to my rapidly dwindling original four, I was good to go until –
I scrubbed my hand over my face. I didn't know. I didn't know. I didn't know how much time I'd spent or how much time I had left on leave. I didn't know how long I'd been in the hotel, only that it was a far cry from the one I'd initially checked into.
I thought there were calls I'd missed and some I'd made. I'd talked to my father. His voice had been warm and scared at the same time.
I pulled my phone out and looked at it. Things were both better and worse than I thought. I was only three days into the additional six weeks. It was bad because I needed the structure of the job. And good, because I had time yet to pull myself together and not lose everything.
"You tell yourself that every day," I said aloud and even though it was just me talking to me, it felt like a revelation. I stood up, stumbled into the bathroom and looked into the age-spotted mirror.
Then I put my fist through it.
One pot of coffee. Most of that vomited back up. Dry toast. More dry toast. Damn, it tasted good, getting the stale taste of the coffee out of my mouth. Scrambled eggs. And then I tried the coffee again and this time it hit me like liquid orgasms.
Shower. A trip to the laundromat, wearing my dirtiest clothes. Then back to the horrible hotel room and another shower, scalding hot, and dressing in clean clothes. I threw away the dirty ones.
I packed everything into the car. From the locked drawer under the seat I pulled my gun, my shoulder holster, my badge. I was out of state, but so what? Most people just react to the badge and the gun.
I drove to the clubs, the dungeons, and I asked this time. With a cropped photo of Cole taken from the internet.
He wasn't here. I didn't think anyone was lying.
So fine. I'd drive to Vegas. First a trip to the rental agency to see if I could take the car there or needed to fly. I'd rather drive.
I needed the time to clear my head.
I ignored the fact that the little glassine envelopes were still in my luggage.
