Because the baby was my only reminder of my lover, and despite everything, I missed Robert terribly. I missed his laugh, the gleam in his eyes, the way those broad shoulders took up all the space in the room. I missed his intellect, how he worked furiously at his novels, seeing nothing but the words on the page. I missed my captor … and even now, on the other side of the country, my heart beat only for him.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Robert
Life has been fucking terrible. Anna disappeared without a trace. I had a PI put on her trail, but we couldn’t find her. It was like she disappeared into thin air, sending me into a rage.
“What the fuck? One tiny girl and you can’t find her? What the fuck kind of PI are you?”
Knuckles had gone sheet white under the fluorescent light. The dude was already pale and flabby, but my anger drained him of all color.
“She ain’t used her credit cards,” he stammered, almost drooling with fear. “She ain’t used her ID, she ain’t been sighted. It’s all I can say.”
I grunted rudely but it wasn’t that weird actually. Because for a month, I’d kept the redhead hostage in my cabin where no one could find her. Was it so odd that she’d disappeared successfully? After all, I’d taken her off the grid, so Anna knew all the tricks of the trade already. The female’s intelligent, astute, and savvy, and I was impressed by her ability to vanish.
But still, when I don’t get what I want I’m pissed, so I stomped back to my office in a foul mood. Smoke practically rose from my ears. Where the fuck was the little filly? Ann-Marie was out of the way now, I’d kicked her to the curb. My brother Chance was safely unengaged, he’d finally seen through that treacherous girl’s fake smile. But what about me? I’d met a woman who was beautiful, loyal and smart, and now I was the one up shit creek. I was the one with my balls tied in a knot, biting my tail like a lunatic dog. Fuck!
But there was nothing to be done. So I worked like a maniac, throwing myself into my writing while trying to put her out of my mind, but she never went away. Anna, Anna, Anna, her name rang in the back of my mind. Baby girl. Sweet thing.
I managed while the sun was out, typing like a mofo, but nights were pure torture. Darkness would descend only to be filled with visions of the curvy redhead again, that sweet smile, generous hips and big ass. Oh god, how I longed to lower her on my pole once more, pussy spreading wetly around the thick man meat. How I wanted to fuck that butt again, shuddering as those tight, hot cheeks clamped around my shaft.
But it was all wet dreams because we never found her. It’s been six months now and my book’s fucking climbed to the top of the NYT charts, and yet I feel as hollow as a bell. It’s a fucking farce, I don’t give a shit how many copies it sells when the girl who helped me, who deserves half the credit, isn’t here.
“Mr. James, what was your inspiration? What makes Michael Phoenix who he is? Do you see traces of yourself in your main character?” chirped a reporter.
The questions drove me insane because the answer was always Anna. Anna, my sweet assistant. My copy editor, my beta reader, my lover. It was her, always, and yet I couldn’t say. So I’d choke out some bullshit reply before ending the interview abruptly, going home to drink until I blacked out. Better unconsciousness than missing her.
But per my contract with that fucking publishing house, I had to go on tour to promote the book, and grudgingly, I packed my bags. Shit, they’d sell fewer copies after readers met me, not more, but what the hell, it was their dime. And one rainy Sunday, we flew into some city in Washington State, I have no idea which.
At the book store, I took a swig from my flask back stage. The whiskey burned mightily, but what the hell, I’m always better at these fucking readings when I’m a soused. So putting a fake grin on my face, I walked out at the sound of applause, adjusting the microphone so it didn’t make a high-pitched whine.
“Welcome Mr. James,” simpered the female moderator, some blonde hipster wearing heavy-framed glasses. “Tortoise Bookstore is entranced to have you here. Entranced!” she fluttered.
Holy shit, this was unreal. The moderator was gonna have a heart attack right here on the floor. But the woman continued.
“Mr. James is here to read from his newest release, His Captive, the latest Michael Phoenix thriller. Please join me in welcoming this esteemed author!” she squealed, clapping her hands together enthusiastically. I smacked a fake smile on my face, already dying for another sip of whiskey when suddenly I saw her. Anna. She was here, in this fucking bookstore, looking at me with those beautiful caramel eyes.