And five airports.
All with the exact same phone script: “Hello, I’m enquiring about a tour/flight/cruise/adventure that includes the destination Goddess Isles. It’s located an hour or so helicopter flight from Jakarta.”
“Hello, ma’am. I will see if we have such a tour/flight/cruise/adventure that includes Goddess Isles, please hold.”
A requisite hold period where my heart would rabbit and stupid, idiotic hope would rise. Only for disappointment to crush me deeper and deeper into despair as they returned. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. We do not have anything suitable.”
“Have you heard of Goddess Isles?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Do you know of the proprietor, Sullivan Sinclair? He’s an American who has chosen Java as his home.”
“No, ma’am.”
“Can you suggest someone who might be able to charter/guide/find Goddess Isles?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Do you have anyone else I can call? A sister agency/airline/company?”
“No, ma’am. Thank you for your call, ma’am. Good day.”
Argh!!!!
I dug my elbows into the desk and dropped my face into my palms.
Sully!
I swear if I wasn’t so fucking worried about him, I would be fuming wild!
How dare he agree to temporary?
How dare he fall in love with me?
How dare he pretend to trust me, all while knowing that I was powerless to return to him!
Three days!
Three fucking days!
Anything could’ve happened.
He could be dead and in pieces on the ocean floor by now. He could be wounded and dying without me by his side. He could be held prisoner by his brother.
Or…
And this was the worst part.
The sickening nerves and self-pity that kept me up at night, ensuring I hadn’t rested properly since sleeping in Sully’s arms with Nirvana splashing outside his bedroom.
He could have killed Drake.
He could’ve won the war.
He could be back to drugging goddesses and entertaining his smarmy guests.
He could have returned to his world…without me.
He could look at his credit card statement and see I’d spent an exorbitant sum on three nights in a five-star hotel instead of flying home like his staff had told me.
He could be laughing at me because I’d chosen to stay.
He could be pitying me because I couldn’t damn well fly away without ensuring he was okay.
Even a cell phone number would be fine.
An email.
A PO Box, for God’s sake.
Anything so I could contact him and find out if he was still alive.
I needed to hear his voice.
I needed to hug him and convince myself that the nightmares that found me when I couldn’t stay awake weren’t real.
That the images of him shot and injured weren’t real.
That the fears of him bleeding out and dying on his beach weren’t real.
That the terrors of Skittles and Pika being killed and plucked and roasted on a skewer weren’t real!
Dammit!
I stood in a rush, and the chair that I’d sat on for the past seventy-two hours and called every tourism and travel firm I could find in Indonesia, shot backward on its wheels.
I’d exhausted my online searches.
I’d spoken to every single person who could possibly, maybe, slimly help me.
I’d even rang two police stations, enquiring if they knew of Sully Sinclair.
And I’d run into dead end after dead end.
I was in a maze with no way out. No clues. No hope.
Sully was hidden, and no matter how hard I tried…he remained unreachable.
Fine!
Sweeping from the office space, I ran to the bathroom. I was done being a hermit in my hotel room. I’d shower, withdraw some cash, and swap online hunting for physical.
I would door knock every damn backpacker, dive bar, and local transport.
I would bribe every bus, taxi, and motorbike driver if they’d ever heard of Goddess Isles. I would march into every pet store and request if they’d made bulk sales to an island called Serigala. I’d talk to veterinary clinics for medicine deliveries. I’d track down supermarkets and wholesalers about large quantities of goods sent to an island in the middle of nowhere.
I would do whatever it damn well took to find him.
I’d chosen to be loyal.
I’d chosen him as my future.
No way was I walking away just because he’d sent me away and slammed the door in my face.
It’s not permanent, Sully.
I’ll find a way…you’ll see.
And then, you and me? We’re having a serious chat about commitment.
* * * * *
“Sorry, ma’am. We don’t fly there.”
“Sorry, ma’am. We don’t sail there.”
“Sorry, ma’am. There is no island by that name.”
“Sorry, ma’am. We have never heard of Sullivan Sinclair or Goddess Isles.”
“Sorry, ma’am. We did not make bulk pet food deliveries to a place called Serigala.”
“Sorry, ma’am. We do not have vets who treat rescue animals in the Javanese Sea.”
“Sorry, ma’am. We do not have records of sending non-perishable food to Sullivan Sinclair.”
“Sorry, ma’am.”
“Sorry, ma’am.”
“Sorry.”
Sorry!
Don’t tell me fucking sorry.
Tell me something!
Exhausted tears ran down my face as I stumbled from the tenth market that dealt in spices and sweets. I’d had to return to ATMs four times to withdraw money for bribes. I’d wafted hundred-dollar bills beneath the noses of tour operators, greengrocers, and vets.