Nothing.
I send another one: "This isn't funny. Can U at least let me know U R breathing?"
He still doesn't respond, and from what I can tell, the messages are delivered, but not read.
It's uncharacteristic of him. What did I do to deserve this?
One minute, things are going great, and the next … they aren't going at all.
I decide to call.
I find him in my contacts and press the call button.
It rings, and rings, and rings some more before finally going to voice mail. But there's still no Mason.
It's what I expected.
Fuck. I really need to speak to him, but given that he won't text or call me, and I can't find him at work, or even at his apartment, it's proving difficult to do.
I've spent the last 48 hours researching Red Lion Aviation, and I'm finding more holes in the company than I've found in the slice of Swiss cheese on my sandwhich today. I need to run a few things by Mason. I honestly have so many questions, and he's the only person who can help me answer them.
I decide to call his secretary.
"You've reached the desk of Mason Kane, how can I help you?"
"Hi, it's Becca."
"Oh Becca! Hi! It's been a while," she says. "It's always good to hear from you. Where have you been? I've haven't seen you on our floor."
"I've been around," I say. "Just busy. Listen, I've been looking for Mason. Is he in the office today?"
She thinks for a moment and then responds. “He isn't taking calls. Can I take a message?"
"No, that's okay," I say, slightly pissed off that he’s not taking calls from me. Whatever list he made of people he’d take calls from I guess I didn’t make it. "Do you expect him back in the office today?"
"He asked me to re-schedule all of his meetings today, so I figure he isn't planning on returning today," she says.
"I see, do you have any idea where he might be right now then?”
She contemplates for a moment whether or not she should give me this information and then relents. "Between you and I, he's at the Four Seasons."
"The Four Seasons on 57th?" I ask.
"Yes, that's the one."
Thank you!" I shout. I hang up the phone and can barely contain myself. I need to catch Mason before he leaves. I need to leave now myself. I grab my purse and keys and throw on my coat. I run outside and hail a cab. I can feel the minutes ticking away. If I don't catch Mason at the Four Seasons, I may not have the opportunity again for a while. Especially with the way he's been playing hard to get.
A cab pulls up in front of me and I hop in, directing the driver to the hotel.
"As fast as you can, please," I tell the driver, and he listens because I hear the squeal of our tires against the asphalt.
Within minutes I'm at the Four Seasons. I pay the fare and run toward the hotel, which is situated in an ideal spot in the city—minutes from Central Park and the Museum of Modern Art. But I don't have any time to gawk and take in my surroundings. Instead, I run into the lobby.
I realize I didn't think to ask his secretary what he was doing here. Is he renting a room? Is he in the middle of a conference? Or?
I decide to walk up to the front desk.
There's a middle-aged woman in dark-rimmed glasses staring at me.