The Stopover (The Miles High Club 1)

“Tristan,” the girl behind the counter calls. He stands and gets his coffee and slaps me on the back. “You staying here, being a miserable prick?”

“Fuck off,” I grunt. He smiles and leaves without another word.

I exhale heavily and stare back down at my coffee. I get a vision of the hurt on Emily’s face last night, and my chest constricts. I keep going over and over it in my mind, and I just want to know that she’s all right. Maybe then I can forgive myself and stop thinking about her every mi

nute of every day. I take out my phone. I’ll call her.

No, she will only hang up. I’ll text . . . what will I write?

Good morning.

Murder any roses today?

I hit send and wait. I drink my coffee and stare at my phone as I wait for her to reply . . . she doesn’t.

Twenty minutes later, I text her again.

Please talk to me.

I order another coffee as I wait. It’s 8:15 a.m., and I know she hasn’t started work yet. I also know that she would have her phone on her and is purposely ignoring my texts.

Fuck this. I dial her number, and it rings . . . I close my eyes as I wait.

It rings and then declines.

Fuck. She hit reject.

I text her.

Answer your phone or I’m coming over there.

My text doesn’t go through . . . huh? I call again, and the call won’t connect. What’s going on? I try again . . . nothing. For ten minutes, I continue to try to get through. I can’t. What’s going on?

I type into Google, “Why can’t I text or call someone?” The answer bounces back that cuts to the bone.

“You’ve been blocked.”

She blocked my number? What the fuck?

Anger surges through me; nobody has ever blocked me before. Not in business or personal . . . and never a woman.

She really doesn’t want to be friends with me . . . in any shape or form.

My heart sinks. How the hell did I fuck this up so badly?

I stare at the Miles Media building through the window, and the thought of going there today and playing the facade that everything’s okay is just too much.

I text Tristan.

I’m taking the day off.

See you tomorrow.

I sit and finish my coffee, and a song comes on—“Bad Liar” by Imagine Dragons.

I listen . . . Tristan just called me a bad liar, and ironically, the lyrics ring true. With a sad damnation to hell, I drag myself out of the café and into a cab.

“Where to?” the cab driver asks.