Rundown (Curveball Book 2) (17 page)

I
think I’m going to be sick.  This must be why he didn’t call
me last night.

The
article is short and to the point, and the picture it paints is
painfully clear.  Not even two days after proclaiming his love
for me publicly, he can’t help but be swayed by his playboy
tendencies.  How could he do this?

“
Excuse
me, Vivian.  I’ve lost my appetite.  I need to go.”

It's
All a Blur

Rolling
to my side, I force myself to sit up, my hand automatically shooting
to my neck.  Fuck, it hurts…in fact, my whole body hurts.  
Why
does it feel like I’ve been hit by a train?
 It takes
several seconds of blinking once I’ve opened my eyes to alleviate
the blurriness, though even when my sight is clear, nothing about my
surroundings is familiar.

Where
am I?

Missing
pieces of plastic from the vertical blinds allow too much sunlight
in, illuminating the room.  Squinting, the hair on my neck
stands on end as it becomes obvious that I’m not in a good place.
 An aged and stained flowery comforter covers the twin-sized bed
that I’m perched on.  Pale walls that at one time must have
been some shade of yellow, are now water damaged and smeared with
either shit, blood, or both, boxing me into this 10’ x 10’
nightmare.  A television circa 1980 with a shattered screen is
front and center on a dresser with no drawers, and if I’m not
mistaken there is a hand, which may or may not be attached to a body,
dangling at the edge of the bed.  Without looking out the window
for confirmation, and never having been to a place like this before,
I know for certain that I’m in some seedy motel in the bad part of
town.  

But
the town I’m in and how I got here are unknown.

Ignoring
the pain radiating out of every muscle in my body, I steadily make my
way to the end of the bed, unsure of who or what I might find.  I
slowly peer over the edge and find Everett’s limp body folded in an
unnatural way.  Putting my discomfort aside, I push off the bed
and kneel next to him.

“
Everett.
 Everett.”  I straighten him out and slowly lie him down,
calling to him repeatedly as I shake him by his shoulders. “Everett.”

Damn
it, why won’t you respond?

I
check his pulse and am relieved when I feel it thudding against my
fingers.

“
Wake
up Everett.  I need you to get up.”  

I
shove my hands into my back pockets in search of my phone.  Coming
up empty handed, I stand and look around the room and check my front
pockets.  Jagged edges of something that’s both metal and hard
plastic scrapes my hand.  It catches on the inside of my pocket
as I’m trying to remove it, so I yank harder, dislodging it from
both my clothing and my grasp.  Before I have a chance to see
what it is, it bounces under the bed and at the moment I’m too
disgusted by what else could be under there to bother looking.
It
wasn’t a phone so it can’t be that important.

There’s
no bedside table, and apart from the TV, nothing occupies the
dresser.  I return to Everett and search his pockets, finding
nothing on him either.  
Great
.  Neither of us have a
phone or our wallets.  Clenching my fists at my side, I drop my
head back and groan.  
Were we mugged?
 The last
thing I remember was leaving the photo shoot.

Everett
moans and slowly rises to a sitting position, though his head remains
slumped.  Without warning his body begins convulsing and he
vomits.  Luckily, I step back just in time and narrowly escape
being hit.  

“
Water,”
Everett grumbles.

I
hold my breath while helping him get on the bed, and then walk to the
bathroom where I find a dirty cup.  I turn the faucet on and
cringe as brown liquid sputters out.
We need to get out of here,
fast.
 

“
They’re
all out.  Do you have any idea where we are or how we ended up
here?”

He
shakes his head and I realize that our crew is one man short.

“
Where’s
O’Conner?” I question, getting no response.

Twenty-some
minutes and an awkward confrontation with a group of hookers later,
we at least learn our location.  Tenderloin—aka, not the best
area to wake up in without a phone or car.  We find what’s
quite possibly the last phone booth in all of society and actually
place a collect call to Brett’s hotel room.  

“
Where
the hell have you been, man?” Brett yells after accepting the call.
 The shouting is doing nothing to alleviate my headache.

“
Good
question.  Listen, I need you to come get us.”

“
Why
are you calling collect?  And what were you thinking?” he
shouts, forcing me to hold the phone a few inches from my ear until
there’s silence.

“
Our
phones are missing, and since I have no idea what you’re pissed
about, I can’t answer you.  Just come pick us up and make it
quick. This is a rough area.”

We
give Brett our location and wait.  Leaning against the phone
booth it occurs to me that while I feel like I’ve been in a brawl,
Everett actually looks like it.  His left eye is bruised and
swollen and he has a gash on his forearm.  I grab his arm and
take a better look at it.  It has a shiny, glue-like texture
over the cut that I immediately recognize as liquid
stitches.  
Muggers patched us up?
 

“
How
did you get this?” I ask.

Everett
looks at his arm and runs his fingers over the wound.  “No
clue.  It doesn’t hurt either.”

An
eternity later Brett rolls up in a chauffeured, pimped out Escalade.
 

“
What’s
with the driver?”

“
You
said it was a rough area. I thought it’d be a good idea to have
someone who knew the area bring me so we can quickly get back to the
hotel without another incident.”

Everett
piles in behind me and shuts the door.

“
Where’s
O’Conner?” Brett asks.  

“
Not
a fucking clue.  Do me a favor and call his cell.”

Brett
takes out his cellphone and calls O’Conner.  After several
seconds Brett shakes his head and ends the call.  I grab his
phone and call him again.  When he doesn’t answer I leave a
message telling him to call us as soon as he gets this.  

“
Should
we drive around and look for him?” I ask Everett.

“
No.
 I need your phone,” he tells Brett, who quickly hands it
over.  “When was the last time you saw us?” Everett asks.

Brett’s
eyebrows furrow as his gaze travels between the two of us.  “You
seriously don’t remember?”

We
both shake our heads.

“
After
the photo shoot you dropped me off at the hotel and went to Alexis’s
house to pack.”

I
slump further down into the seat.  
Why can’t I remember?  

“
Were
you jumped?” he asks looking us over.

“
The
last thing I remember is being at the photo shoot.”  I turn to
look at Everett.  “What about you?”

“
I
guess I remember being there, but even that’s a blur.”

“
Were
you roofied at The Make-Out Room?” Brett questions, and he’s dead
serious.  

“
The
what?”

“
The
bar you were at last night?”  

I’m
vaguely aware of Everett talking with someone about O’Conner in the
background, though I try to block it out.  I’m too busy trying
to make sense of what Brett has said.

“
Why
do you think I was at a bar?”

“
It
was in the paper, man.  What are you going to tell Breanne?”

“
What
was in the paper?” I ask sitting forward, unsure if I really want
to know.

“
You
and two chicks outside the bar, presumably leaving to go do god knows
what.  Tell me you didn’t do what I’m sure Breanne and
everyone else thinks you’ve done.”

“
You
can’t be fucking serious.”  Brett tilts his head to the
side, probably wondering if I’m putting on a show for his benefit.
 Everett ends his call and tosses the phone back to Brett.
 “Pull the picture up on your phone,” I command.

He
does as I’ve requested and sure enough, he’s telling the truth.
 You can’t see my face but it definitely appears to be me,
wasted with my arms draped over two women that I’d argue looked
paid for.

“
Fuck.”
 I look at the photo again, hoping it’ll trigger a memory.
 “That might be me, but I didn’t do anything.  I
wouldn’t.  There’s no way.  I love Breanne; you both
know that.  I’d never risk losing her.  I don’t even
know who those women are.”

“
Good
luck with that conversation,” Brett mutters.  “You seriously
don’t remember what you did after the photo shoot?”

“
No!”
I shout.  

Disgusted
by the picture, I minimize the screen and begin scanning Brett’s
contact list.

“
Please
tell me you have her number?”

“
Why
would I have Breanne’s number?”

“
Aren’t
you the one who spoke to her on the phone and told her I’d be at
the airport a few weeks ago?” I yell.  
Can’t anything go
right?
 

“
She
called from Agent Jackson’s phone,” he retorts. “And before you
ask, no I didn’t save it.”

I
close out his contacts and open his call history, searching for a
time and date that corresponds, but the list doesn’t go back that
far.  

“
It’s
3pm,” I say out loud for my own benefit.  That means it’s
6pm in Boston.  Breanne’s no doubt seen the picture and she
can’t get ahold of me.  That or she doesn’t want to speak to
me.