Devoid [Bruno Mars]

Chapter thirty-three

Chapter thirty-three

I left a note on the nightstand.

Be back soon.

Adrian wasn't even asleep. I got the feeling she hadn't slept at all last night. She was across the hall, painting. With the door left ajar I couldn't see what she created as she balanced on a stool, reaching high to paint the top of the wall, my T-shirt sliding past her waist, showing the skin that my fingers itched to skim.

Being a musician, I loved loud things. Loud crowds, loud bands. But there was something about Adrian's silence that was just as magnetic.

My hold tensed around my luggage bag as I thumped my head against the door frame. My mouth formed a soundless version of her name, and every muscle in my body wished for her to hear, to turn around and catch me. . .

My phone vibrated. I stared at Adrian one more long, lingering moment before quietly walking away, answering it. “Jamie. . . I'm on the way.”

*

Bruno Mars rumored to have been fighting at a local bar in downtown Los Angeles on Thursday. . .

That was the last sighting of him, according to Google.

Some fans were saying he would never do such a thing. Others were hoping it was true, calling it sexy. A handful fought to not believe rumors until they were proved true.

If only they knew, I thought.

Days one and two of Bruno's disappearance passed by in blurs of shock, worry, waiting, and not one, but two little helpers for sleeping.

*

It was the third day.

“He's taking it really hard. I haven't seen him in three days.”

I placed my phone on the wooden table, double-checking that the ringer was at its max volume. Joseph was seated across from me, leaning casually back into his chair. He found me here, at a downtown coffee shop. Joseph claimed since we were on some level bound, he had an internal compass always pointed my way. He merely followed instinct, and it led him here, directly to me. He needed to speak with me, he said, but asked how I was doing first, then asked about Bruno which made me swallow hard and reluctantly answer.

“Do you know where he is?” Joseph had ordered a water, earning an odd look from the barista. No one comes to a coffee shop and orders only a water. I suspected Joseph was still a health Nazi, eating like a caveman.

“I don't know. Is this what you wanted to talk to me about?” I sipped my coffee, cringing at the bitterness. Grimacing, I remembered I forgot to ask for sugar, cream.

“Actually,” he spoke, voice low, “you want me. There is a question eating you on the inside and it's for me. What is it?”

I nearly choked on my coffee. Setting it down, I cleared my throat, coughing a little. “You can feel that?”

“I can feel a lot of things you feel, especially when you are close to me,” he said.

My hand flew up to my forehead, the spot where Joseph kissed it earlier when he surprised me by being here. “I'd rather not say.”

“You keep a lot of things to yourself, Adrian.”

My fingers messaged the spot. “I have a right to.”