“Simon, listen to the fucking names. You owe me for the fucking shipping container.”
“Give me two of them.”
“Elizabeth Norton… and Lindsey Hawthorne. I recognize the Hawthorne last—”
“I’ll be there in nineteen minutes, don’t touch a thing. In fact, drop the purses where you stand.”
Hmph, now he listens to me. The fucking asshole. Who the fuck did I just name off?
“What the hell?” I ask as I look down at Beth’s ID.
Her long, red hair in the picture is flowing down past her shoulders, her smile is so awkward. It’s her bedroom eyes though, those damn eyes. The ones that can break a man’s will in an instant.
“Do as I say! Now!” The line disconnects and I’m left standing there in my parking lot with a small circle of people forming around the scene.
Looking around me, I raise my voice. “Back into the bar or leave, those are your two fucking options!”
Dropping Lindsey’s purse after I shove the ID back into it, I don’t know why, but I can’t seem to let go of Beth’s. It’s not that I want to hold onto her stuff like a fucking teddy bear, but just being able to look down into her eyes brings me a sense of calm. A sense of calm before the fucking hurricane that is about to take over my little piece of the world.
I can sense it coming, with Simon at the fucking wheel.
The parking lot is dark by design. I don’t like assholes thinking this place is inviting. I left the one street light alone, and it’s cost four fucking girls something.
Their lives? Maybe. Fuck.
Waiting like this is going to fucking kill me. I don’t even know why I should fucking care beyond someone doing it on my property, but the thought of Beth being taken makes my heart turn cold and angry.
Someone took something from me.
I watch as a large black Escalade pulls into my parking lot, and I want to shake off the skin-crawling sensation I get knowing Simon is here.
The vehicle stops next to where I am standing, and it’s not long before I hear the high pitched whine of a BMW racing down the main road, towards my bar.
Simon hasn’t gotten out of his vehicle yet, so I can only assume he’s putting on the human mask he wears to fool everyone into thinking he’s not a fucking robot, or some ancient spider, biding his time until he takes over the world.
The black BMW with blacked out windows skids to a stop and parks besides Simon in his own blacked out vehicle.
I watch James climb out of the car with a look of annoyance as he scowls at the Escalade.
Coming over to stand by me, he mutters, “I was on a fucking date tonight, asshole. You two better have a good fucking reason…”
He stares at the situation in front of us then looks down to the phone in his hand. Dialing some number, he puts the phone up to his head. “Yeah, babe, it ain’t going to work tonight. I’ll call ya later.”
Growling, he looks over the scene while Simon finally makes an appearance. “Gentlemen.”
I can just feel the scowl on my face when Simon says that. He’s so fucking aristocratic… not to mention a fucking germaphobe from hell.
“You want to come into the bar for a drink?” I ask with a laugh.
“I’d rather spend my night getting deloused,” Simon says as he walks around the car.
Looking to where I dropped the purses, he squats down by an oily smear on the ground and turns his head to the side. “Someone tried using mace.”
Standing up, he walks over to me and opens his hand. “Give me the purse and ID.”
Grudgingly, I hand over the purse and ID, but I make sure to take one last look. “I don’t have any CCTV footage of this spot, Simon. It’s an oversight I’ll be looking into. But I want to know everything you can get on these girls and whoever the fuck took them.”
Turning from me, he walks over to the other purses, making sure to take a wide step around the various puddles of water and puke.
Picking each one of them up, he says, “I know what you want, Johnathan, and I’ve already informed Lucifer of the issues at hand.”
“Why the fuck did you do that? This was an IOU you owe me from the fucking container ship babysitting project,” I growl as I take two large steps forward.
I can sense James matching my steps just before he grabs onto my arm.
“Back down, John,” James says quietly.
“What the fuck for?” I ask.
“Because your boss has taken offense and issue with whatever happened to these girls. Lindsey Hawthorne, daughter of realty mogul Michael Hawthorne.”
Now I know why her named seemed so familiar.
Bending down, he picks up a purse. Pulling the ID, he says, “Sophia Cronin… Well, I hope it isn’t Police Chief Cronin’s very daughter, but I don’t doubt it.”