There is some good new though. Alina gave me a bottle of stinky skin softener and swore it would get the Soccer Mom sticker off the Camaro’s bumper. And damn if she wasn’t right! The stuff gets the bumper clean but leaves me smelling like a whorehouse. It takes two showers before the scent leaves my skin.
I’m trying to keep myself occupied, but all I really want to do is find a nice, high place on a building and take a few potshots. When Alina is around, she keeps me busy with making a thousand changes to the apartment to make it homier. I told her she could do whatever she wants, but she insists on my opinion about everything. Currently, she’s off running some errands while I play with the dog to keep my mind off everything else.
“What? You need some kind of reward just to bring me something?”
Maisy tilts her head at me, and the expression on her face as she cocks her ear makes me chuckle. I hold up the treat, and she sits down, staring at me intently. I’m determined to teach her to fetch, but nothing seems to work. I’m used to dogs who are natural retrievers, and this ball of fluff just isn’t.
“Get it!” I toss the little rubber ball again, and it stops just a few inches from her feet. She sniffs at it, and I give her a treat. “Good girl!”
I do this a couple more times until she finally picks the ball up. I rub her, give her more treats, and generally fawn over her until she’s ready to try again. It takes several tries, but eventually she’s at least going and getting the ball. She won’t bring it back or give it to me afterward though. Instead, she tries to bark with the ball in her mouth, and I have to laugh at the effort.
I hear a text come through on my phone, but it’s out of my reach. Maisy’s got the ball, and as she comes up for her treat, she drops the ball at my feet. I give her a bunch more praise, the phone forgotten, and do it all over again.
My phone dings again, but I don’t want to stop the game. She’s finally starting to get the hang of it. She’s dropped the ball twice now for treats. I just need to get her to actually bring it closer to me. By the time the phone goes off for the third time, she’s actually managed to bring the ball back to me twice.
“All right,” I tell her. “Break time.”
She stays right at my feet, ball in her mouth, and stares up at me as I walk over to the kitchen island to retrieve my phone. The texts are from Alina.
Need to talk NOW
Don’t want this in text—must talk
Trying to get where I can call you. Are you there?
Scowling at the phone, I type back a quick message.
I’m here. What’s going on?
I stare at the phone, willing a response. There’s a tickling feeling on the back of my neck, and I don’t like it. Allina hasn’t proven herself to be much of a texting person—she usually just calls—and the tone of the messages has me concerned. When I don’t get a response within a couple of minutes, I call.
No answer. I go back to texting.
Answer the damn phone now!
Still no answer. I call again and again.
Nothing.
My skin goes cold, and I quickly dial another number.
“What’s up LT?”
“Trace Alina’s phone now. I need to know where she is.”
“Alina?”
I realize I haven’t said anything at all to Eddie-boy about Alina, and he has no idea who I’m talking about.
“My girlfriend!” I yell into the phone. I rattle off her number and her carrier and tell him to get on it as I run for the door. I call Jonathan on my way down to the parking garage.
“I think Alina’s in trouble,” I say as I jump into the car. I take off down Michigan
“That’s your hooker?”
“Yeah. She was texting me, but now she isn’t answering.”
“Maybe she’s taking a shower or something.”