Contingency Plan (Blackbridge Security 3)

“I’m fine.”

He huffs a humorless laugh. “Been there, done that, man. You can’t fool me.”

“Not trying to, but I wish everyone would stay out of my personal life.”

“You got in my personal life months ago,” he reminds me.

“I was held captive,” I say, recalling the time I was stuck in his truck while he all but stalked his now wife, Anna.

His relationship and the way it came about gave me hope after Remington ripped me open and walked away. They came together in the end, and now they’re having a baby and are so in love it’s almost sickening to watch them when they’re within a hundred yards of each other.

But there’s been no news, no contact, nothing. Wren refuses to help me find her, and I’m pretty sure this tough love, asshole act is his way of punishing me for walking away from her in the first place. He won’t even tell me if she left St. Louis. All I got out of him was that her phone—the one with the number I forced myself to block before I got on the plane that day in New York—had been disconnected by her parents, so texting and calling her wasn’t an option.

“It’s going to work out,” he says as he looks down at his watch. “I’m giving this asshole three more minutes, and then we’re gone.”

I’ve been working behind the scenes for a while, uninterested in facing anyone besides the guys at the office. Deacon didn’t have a problem with it, probably because I spend two-thirds of the day at work, getting shit done. I can’t sleep, and I have to stay busy. The company has been benefiting from my misery, that’s for sure.

Today, however was different. He insisted I come along with him, and I know it has everything to do with Anna taking a weekend trip with her mother, and nothing to do with his desire to try to force me out from under the black cloud that settled over my entire life the minute Remington walked away from me.

My ego, that hint of narcissism every man has, whispered in my ear those first couple of days, assuring me that she’d come back. Remington Blair looked at me, stars in her eyes, completely in awe when my hands were on her, when I’d smile at her.

My ego lied. I haven’t seen a whisper of her, and as time drags by, the seconds literally tripling in length, things get harder.

It’s no longer about my heart or what my body feels for her—those things may never dissipate. It’s fear for her safety that sours my gut and keeps me from closing my eyes at night. She’s impulsive. She does things to get attention, things that put her in danger like going to a bar and letting her drink get drugged without her even noticing.

Those fears are making me insane, crazier than she made me when she was within arm’s reach.

The ulcer I’m sure I have now is in thanks to that worry, to thinking the worst and scouring nationwide databases for Jane Does washing up on shore or being discovered on running trails. I have multiple subscriptions, both online and in print, for those shitty magazines that were hellbent on ruining her life, never giving her a moment to breathe or make a mistake without it being front-page gossip. I spend hours toiling away on the internet for her name to pop, even have alerts sent to my phone so I won’t miss it the second a new article comes out that mentions her.

There’s been nothing for weeks, literal silence on all fronts, and considering some of the morbid places I check, that’s not exactly a bad thing.

My friend at the FBI shut me down when I asked for help, and I have a sneaking suspicion that Wren somehow managed to get to him before I could.

“Business stuff I can justify because a lot of times our help also benefits the Bureau,” he argued when I asked and made sure he knew it was for personal reasons, thinking it would light a fire under his ass. “Digging into the life of celebrities isn’t something I can explain to my superiors. Hope you understand. Hit me up the next time you’re in Virginia, and we’ll do lunch.”

Do lunch? The next time I see him, I’m going to punch him in the throat.

“Flynn,” Deacon snaps, and when I look up, I find him standing several feet away. “Let’s go. I’m tired of wasting our time.”

“I can stick around,” I tell him, more willing to face a new client who doesn’t value my time than be stuck in traffic with Deacon and his stay-positive attitude.

“We’re in your truck,” he reminds me before pulling his phone out of his pocket. “You need to call Wren back so he’ll stop blowing up my phone.”