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“How bad is ‘worse’?” I ask, dreading the answer.
“He’s got guys here every night of the week, and rumor has it some of what he was selling was… questionable. I finally put my foot down. Not inside. Not on my property.”
“I don’t want to look up and see that shit either.”
Maybe I’m feeling extra sensitive after seeing Maxx spun out at Wild Fest and after the condition I found Ash in this week.
“Ivanov’s started pressuring clubs to sell. Says if they don’t, his people will tip off law enforcement that owners like me are allowing this to go down on their watch. I’ll lose everything. This way, at least I have money to start over.”
“You can’t offer to help the police?”
Fear fills his face. “You can’t stop this. You’ll only be hurt trying.”
On my way back to the hotel in the car, I turn it over. Worrying about who controls what drugs in Ibiza is above my pay grade. Except it’s in my face every night and it’ll only get harder to ignore.
I want a long-ass bath and maybe one of my anxiety pills. But when I open the door to the suite, I know immediately something’s wrong.
“Ash?” I step inside, hitting the lights.
Nothing is amiss in the living room. The same stock magazines are on the coffee table.
Except…
I could have sworn I left a sweater on the couch.
There’s no way. My stomach knots in disbelief.
I stalk down the hall to Ash’s room. His bed is made, his suitcase missing from the stand it occupied since we arrived.
I make my way to my room, my hand shaking as I hit the light.
There’s nothing. My belongings are gone.
