Page 5 of Emily's Escape

Trying to tamp down my growing worry, I text Em again. And again.

Then I call her three more times.

Nothing.

My pulse skitters as panic edges in.

Maybe she lost her phone,the logical side of me reasons. She’s searching for it, and that’s why she’s not back yet. Soon she’ll arrive, flustered but safe, and I’ll help her find her phone or buy her another one.

Or something’s really wrong,my gut interjects.Really wrong. And Em needs my help.

As I stand beside the food truck, instinct and logic battle.

Assume she’s fine and just stay here, waiting for her to return?

Or follow my gut and do something?

While I stare at my phone, willing it to ring, another thing Indy said comes back to me.“You had Bea’s six,”he told me solemnly.“You protected her. Which means if you ever need anything, just tell me. Anything. Just call.”

Coming from someone else, it wouldn’t mean as much. But Indy works for Blade and Arrow Security, a nationally-renownedcompany that specializes in protective and investigative services. A company that can find out anything.

Like where Em is.

If she’s okay.

Or if she’s in trouble, like my gut is insisting.

So, after staring at the last unanswered text I sent Em for another moment, I make a decision.

And this time, I call a different number.

After one ring, Indy answers. “Derek. What’s up?”

My jaw clenches. “It’s Em. I think she might be in trouble. And I’m hoping you can help.”

CHAPTER 2

EMILY

Why didn’t I say yes when Derek offered to come with me?

If only I had, I might not be here.

But it seemed silly to make him leave the line just to accompany me to the restroom, especially when he was in the middle of a conversation with his friend.

Honestly, I thought it might be nice to give the two of them some time alone. Time to shoot the shit, as my brother likes to say. Not have to filter their words, like I know they would have done if I were standing there. Or at least, Derek would have, because he’s the kind of man who believes in speaking politely in front of a woman.

IthoughtI could make a quick trip to the row of porta-potties at the edge of the lot, find the least offensive of them, and hopefully freshen up a little before rejoining Derek in line. Fix my ponytail, which was springing flyaways everywhere, give myself a quick wipe-down with one of the cleansing cloths I tucked in my waist pack, and top it off with a swipe of lip gloss that promised to make my lips look extra kissable.

Did I have to make the extra effort? Was Derek expecting it? No and no. After living together for the last two months, we’ve moved past thehaving to look perfect all the timestage and into thecuddle on the couch in our worn, holey sweatsone. Derek’s seen me at my worst, like when I was sick with a stomach bug and hadn’t showered in three days. I’ve faced him in the morning with a makeup-free face and stinky breath.

Still, that doesn’t mean I don’twantto look nice for him.

But crap. If I hadn’t been thinking of my flyaways and worrying about body odor, I’d be with Derek right now, instead of the mess I’m in.

“What a fucking shitshow!”

The exclamation is punctuated by a hand slamming on the steering wheel. The horn lets out a short, indignant beep, and the car jerks slightly to the right.