Western Waves (Compass 3)

“Yeah, okay, but see”—I placed my hands around my stomach, feeling out of breath— “my grandmother is in the ICU, and I am supposed to be on strict bed rest, but I cannot get ahold of my husband, and my husband isn’t one to ever go missing, so my head is spinning, and I am panicked and scared and—”

Tears streamed down my cheeks as the receptionist reached across to me and placed her hand on top of mine. Her eyes were filled with care. “What’s his name, sweetheart?”

“Damian.” I swallowed, wiping at my eyes. “Damian Blackstone.”

She began typing on her computer and frowned. “He’s not here.”

Then where are you, Damian?

“Thank you.”

I went back to the waiting room and sat down with shaky legs and swollen ankles.

Hours passed, and Grams was still unconscious. They wouldn’t tell me anything because she wasn’t my grandmother by blood, and sometimes, family by heart wasn’t enough to pass. The next day during a break from waiting at the hospital, I headed to Damian’s work office to see if he was in. I’d never been there and didn’t know the receptionist, but when I walked in, he smiled largely.

“Hi there. You’re Stella, right?” he asked, looking up toward me.

“Yes. I’m sorry. How did you know…?”

“Oh, sorry. I’m Peter. We haven’t met, but Damian has talked a lot about you. Your artwork is amazing.”

“My artwork? You’ve seen it?”

“Yeah, every day. It’s all over Damian’s office.”

“What? Can I see it?”

“Of course. I doubt he’d mind. Follow me.” Peter stood from his desk and led me to Damian’s office. When I walked inside, I gasped, seeing five pieces of my artwork hanging on Damian’s walls from my gallery night months before. On his desk sat business cards for me, too, that he had made up to give out to clients who came into his office.

I was starting to think I knew exactly where all of my commission projects came from.

“You’re outstanding. You’re working on a piece for me currently. I’m Peter Simmons. We’ve been emailing back and forth for a while,” he said. “That was Damian’s Christmas gift to all of his employees—custom pieces from you.”

“How many people work for Damian?”

“Just five of us.”

Five. As in the five commission pieces I’d received in one day months ago.

Damian, where are you?

“Oh, my goodness, yes. I’m sorry about the delay—things have become a bit tricky in my life.”

“It’s okay. I’m patient. Besides, great art takes time, right?”

I smiled, still feeling overwhelmingly uneasy. “I’m sorry, is Damian not here? Has he been in yet? I haven’t been able to get in touch with him for a while now.”

Peter’s brows knitted. “That’s so strange. Normally, he’s here before me, but I haven’t seen him yet. I can ask around and let you know when he makes it in.”

If he makes it in.

My mind was going to the worst places, and I couldn’t stop it from happening.

I grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled down my information. I held it out to Peter, and he once again told me he’d reach out as soon as he heard anything.

I headed back to my car to drive back to the hospital to wait on information on Grams. As I sat in my car, trying my best not to fall completely apart, I began texting Damian.

Stella: Where are you?

Stella: Grams is in the ICU. She’s unconscious.

Stella: I’m freaking out. Are you okay? Please call me. Or text. Anything.

Stella: Please, Damian, I need you. I can’t do this alone.

Stella: Call me.

Stella: I love you. Please call.

37

Damian

* * *

“Will you check that for me?” I asked Catherine, speaking about my unattended cell phone.

I’d already spent one too many seconds with Rosalina, and now it was my time to have a whirl with Catherine. They’d been feeding me and giving me water as if I was a toddler unable to eat on my own. What was even worse was the piss bucket they’d made me use. Lucky for them, I had not had to shit yet, but when I did, I had visions of rubbing their faces in it.

“Why?” she responded, flipping through her own phone. Probably staring at photographs of herself in a vain fashion. Never in my life had I seen someone so obsessed with their own reflection. “You know it’s just messages from needy Stella.”

“She’s not needy, bitch,” I snipped at her.

She glanced my way with a wicked grin. “For someone who wants something from me, you sure have quite an unkind approach to getting my help.”

“Excuse me for not being polite when I’m tied to a chair due to a group of psychopaths.”

“Sociopaths are more likely. At least for Denise.”

“Is this funny to you? Is this shit really getting you off?”

She shrugged. “Kind of, actually. You don’t understand. The one man I loved left me—twice—because of that bitch of a wife of yours. Stella ruins everything. Kevin never had a shot at happiness because of that brat. And I’m sure you don’t either, if you stay around her.”