Worth Any Risk

Ch. 22 Like Hell

*Cole

I'm keeping the panic at bay, but barely. Jordan is running hours late getting home and hasn't answered my calls all day. I'm getting seriously nervous. I pace the porch, bugs chirring and whizzing by my head in the deepening darkness. I try to check with her friend at the bar, but she isn't at work, and no one will give me her number. I understand, but I'm desperate. I look up the restaurant on-line, find her last name (she looks exactly like the owner, who must be her dad) and track down her home phone-number.

From under Jordan's porchlight, I hit the call button on my phone, but almost instantly another call is coming through to me.

"Thank god," I mutter and swipe to answer. "Jordan, where are you?"

"I'm at the hospital, Cole. Don't worry, I'm all right."

"On my way. What happened?" I jog for my car and am tearing down her drive before she can finish explaining it was a stupid accident, but no one else was hurt.

"And you? Are you hurt? What happened to you?" I'm going crazy trying to figure out if she's hiding something big or not.

"Bruises and banged up. Nothing serious. They wanted to keep me for some tests and I had a panic attack. I'm fine. You don't have to come."

"Like hell, of course I'm coming."

"No, Cole, I mean you don't have to come. I need to talk to you, but not here. I'll be home later."

My mouth runs dry at her words and a buzzing fills my ears. She doesn't want me to come to the hospital. She doesn't want to see me.

Then again, she needs to talk to me. Fuck. "Listen, I'll come to drive you home, you shouldn't be behind a wheel. We can talk whenever you want."

"I've called a friend who drive me. Please, Cole, I'll see you at the house."

She hangs up and I swear, there's a drill bit gouging a hole in my chest. I knead the steering wheel, telling myself to focus on the road. The last thing I need is a car accident—Jordan told me how fast one can happen.

So, what do I do? Obey and slink off to her house or the hotel and wait for her to summon me to talk?

Because there's only one thing she wants to talk about if she says it like that, and I won't accept a break-up without trying to win her back. Go home, or do what my heart says, and go find her?

I spent the whole day anxious to see her and talk to her. I called, a dozen times. After that thing with Brandon this morning...

I could have killed him. I almost did. I can see myself, holding his neck and head and studied the brick wall, calculating how hard and how many time I would have to hit him against it to kill him. I am ashamed.

Of all the crimes and stupid things I've done in my life, I've never been that close to becoming a murderer—because of what he did to Jordan. He hit her. He went to her house and attacked the woman I love, hurting her and scaring her. He taunted her about how he would never help her find her missing daughter. Brandon is a sick fuck, and I know deep inside the world will never miss him. In the end, though, the thing that stopped me was a question. What would Uncle Pete do? I paused. I breathed.

Brandon started crying. He was wheezing for air and begging me not to hurt him. He said he was sorry, so sorry, but he would make it up to me.

That asswipe didn't even know why I was mad. He thought he had done something to me.

"What about Jordan?" I asked. "How are you planning on making it up to her?"

"Jordan? Wha—" Brandon's voice stopped as he remembered, and began blubbering. "I'm sorry. I got so angry, you know how it is."

I raised my fist. Uncle Pete would approve. No man hits a woman, for any reason.

"I'm sorry!" he cried. "I'll make it up to her. I can make it up to her!"

"How?"

"I can help her find her daughter."

"You lying sack of shit. If you could do that, you would have told the police where Trey is long ago and collected the sixty-five-thousand-dollar reward."

He sputtered, spraying spit on the asphalt and weeds in the alley. "I don't have the information now. I can get it. I can get it, I swear."

At those words a memory came back, something that was buried in the mess of my petty, teenage crimes. The man with the four aces tattoo on his wrist. Allen. His name comes back to me, along with a rush of memories. I met right before moving into Uncle Pete's—he did forgeries. Small stuff. Signatures, out-of-state licenses for underage kids, letters, and for some reason taxidermy. The first time I walked into his cave under his mother's house, the dead squirrels hanging in the corners and leaping off the walls scared the shit out of me.

Brandon had been there at the same time as I was once, but we weren't together. He was already there and as I went to the bright desk where Allen worked, Brandon was repeating, I can get it. I can get it for you, I swear.

Word at the time was Brandon always managed to get what he promised. Everyone hated him, he was like a snake, popping up underfoot and constantly grating on people's nerves with his whiny voice and backstabbing. But if he owed you money, he found it. If he told you he could sell a stolen item, he sold it. When he said he could find you a part, hook you up with a person, or get you a drug, he came through.

I unclenched my fist and let go of his shirt. He stood, shifty-eyed and sweating. He was blotchy and had his arm up as if to karate block another punch.

I had to coordinate my next move with Jordan. Emma was her daughter, and she would know what was best. I had to get ahold of her. If there was a chance Brandon could find out where Trey was, she had to know.

"Get the fuck out of here. I'll be in touch. And don't forget what you've promised, plus," I said, dropping my voice lower. Brandon shrank visibly. "If you ever get close to her again, or even think about hurting her in any way, I'll pull out your lungs with my fist."

"Shit, Cole, no need for that. It was a mistake, I won't do it again. I'll be on my way, right?"

A thousand thoughts ran through my head, but I settled on one—save my rage for later after Jordan weighed in on what she wanted me to do.

On the winding road to town, I run my hand through my hair and fist the wheel. My headlights blaze white trails on the black pavement, as the darkness of the forest tries to close in on me.

A hollow pit opens in my stomach. Memories take ahold of my mind. When I walked in the room, all those years ago, to talk to Allen, Brandon was there, but he turned to go. Allen rolled a cigarette, not bothering to look at me. His words were clear: I heard you are looking to pick up some work. Brandon snickered behind me. He was still there for the next words.

Any step closer to getting Emma back through Brandon's help is a step closer to jail for me. Brandon knows what work I got that night.

Do I go find her now and tell her about this morning, or do as she asks and go home? My body answers the question of whether or not to go to the hospital to find her. I couldn't turn this car around if there was a mushroom cloud down the road.

I press the accelerator.

*** Thank you for reading!!! Lots of love to all of you <3 ***