Wildcard: Volume Three

Shards of glass fly everywhere. I toss the rock aside and carefully lean through to unlock the door. My arm comes out, streaked with blood. Not careful enough.

I open the door and walk inside. I’m standing in the kitchen. Grabbing a dishcloth, I wrap it around my arm and apply pressure to the wound. It’s throbbing, but it’s the furthest thing from my mind.

This is the first time I’ve been inside her place. I walk through the rooms, a shiver racing down my spine. It’s like a window into her life: the smallest little details tell me things I never knew—like the bananas sitting in the bowl on the table, or the coloured lists that are stuck to the door of the fridge, each outlining different aspects of Jake's treatment.

I'm surprised at how clean her place is—or maybe it just magnifies what a mess mine is. You’d think living out of a hotel for half the year would make it easy to keep things clean. Not me. I see it as a challenge. That, and I have this thing about hotel staff rifling through my possessions. Call me crazy, but you'd be surprised at how much a pair of my briefs would go for on eBay—especially a well-worn pair.

I walk through to the lounge room. It’s small, but cosy. I like that it feels comfortable. The furnishings are modest: an old brown vinyl couch, partially covered with a shaggy gray rug, and a flat-screen TV. I spy a laptop sitting on the coffee table. I sit down on the couch and lift her computer onto my lap.

Please don’t be password protected.

I sigh with relief when it isn’t.

This isn’t snooping. I’m just looking for clues as to where she might be.

I laugh, because even I’m not stupid enough to believe that. This is as much about figuring out what he has on her as it is about finding her.

Does that make me a bad person, or simply human?

Either way it doesn’t matter. Her computer tells me fuck-all.

I find nothing on there that someone might want to conceal—not even porn—and I’m no closer to finding any of her friends or her work details. I move the laptop aside and pull out my phone.

Maybe her Facebook will tell me something. I click on her profile, and then her friends list. She doesn’t have many—forty-five—and apart from the odd update, there is nothing there that is even remotely helpful.

“Ryder?”

Holy shit-fucking-bricks.

My heart pounds as I jump up and spin around to see Scarlett standing there.

Her eyes are red from crying, and her brow is furrowed in confusion—no doubt she’s trying to figure out what the fuck I’m doing. How do I explain this? I’ve essentially committed a crime: breaking and entering.

“I, uh, couldn’t get onto you,” I say. I swallow, my face flushing because I know that it’s a weak-arse excuse.

“So, you thought you’d break in and go through my things?” She walks over and snatches up her laptop, her eyes showing the hurt she’s feeling. Fuck.

When she puts it like that, it sounds really bad.

“I’m sorry. I was worried that Tony might’ve been hassling you,” I mutter. “Was he?”

Her puffy eyes bring me back to the present. Something—besides me—is bothering her. So help me God, if that fucker has been hassling her, I’ll hunt him down and slice his balls off.

“No.” She shakes her head. “My phone is dead, and the charger’s at the hotel . . . Jake’s in the hospital.”

“Is he okay?” I step forward and wrap my arms around her.

She falls into my embrace, sobbing.

“Scar, what’s wrong? Is Jake okay?” I lift her chin, forcing her to look at me.

Her green eyes are glassy as tears spill from them. “He’s got an infection. It’s serious. They think he might need a transplant.”

“Fuck,” I mutter. I hold her close and let her cry. “He’ll be okay. He’s a strong kid.”

“I’ve got to get back to him. I just came home for some of his things. He was asking for his bear.” She breaks down, sobbing in my arms. “He’s had that bear since he was a baby. He pretends he’s too old for it, but he always wants it when he’s scared.”