Page 76 of The Pucking Grump

A smiling housekeeper opens the door. “Please come in. Mr. Strummer is expecting you.”

Of course, I think bitterly. Half a mile ago, when we pulled up at the gates to the house, the security guards had to call in for us to even be permitted entry.

Opulence assaults the senses from every corner of the lavish interior. Marble floors gleam brilliant enough to admire one’s reflection. Pristine white leather couches adorn the space like stoic sentries. Atop every surface, ornate 16th century vases flaunt their priceless antiquity. On the wall opposite the TV, there’s a family portrait of Mr. Strummer, his wife, and a girl who looks to be Faye’s stepsister.

It’s ironic, I think as I exchange glances with Britney. Faye’s money paid for this fucking monstrosity, and she’s not even in the family portrait.

Faye’s dad is on one of the white leather chairs. A balding man with graying hair and a beard, he’s wearing a black T-shirt and a pair of jeans. He gives off what someone else might term a genuine smile, but I can’t help recalling several kid shows’ TV villains.

“Please sit down,” he says genially, swinging one leg over the other. “Marie will bring whatever you want. Nice to meet you, Blake. Unfortunately, I don’t know either of you.” He nods at Alex and Brit.

I shove my trembling fists into my pockets. Hearing him speak like we’re old buddies does not help my anger in the slightest. Seeing him look this calm when the whole world knows his daughter has gone missing again isn’t great, either. Every passing moment I don’t know where Faye went is one moment closer to the mental breakdown boiling inside me.

The first couple of days were kind of fine. I left Alex’s place in a haze, managing to give a couple of lame excuses, and texted Faye on the way back home, asking her to meet me. It was a half-hearted message because I was dying to not see her at that point. Seeing her meant having to talk to her about what happened, and I knew I couldn’t handle potentially ending things for good when all I still wanted to do was be inside her.

But I hadn’t needed to make that decision. Faye never replied. Hell, the text never delivered. After a couple more days of checking my phone every other minute, I finally gave up and phoned Kevin.

“You just missed her.” His tone was almost gleeful, as if he was happy about my misfortune. “She was staying here until yesterday, but then she decided she needed some solitude and went off. Don’t even know where to, she wouldn’t tell. Maybe back to Brooklyn? We had creative differences, and she didn’t want me to stop her.”

That started my descent into chaos. Kevin was the only person who knew where Faye was during her first time being a runaway. If he doesn’t know now, no one does.

Unless she started to shack up with one of her fans, maybe someone who appreciated her more than I ever did and started to bed her the same night she arrived in his home.

Thinking about her in another man’s arms fueled my insanity further. Finally, on day five, when I absolutely could not take it anymore, I phoned Brit.

“I expected your call sooner.” Thankfully, she sounded more sympathetic than Kevin did. I admitted that she was right. Five days later, even the internet moved on from wondering where Faye went and started to talk about other matters.

“I can’t sleep,” was my reply. I hadn’t meant to get so personal, but it was the absolute truth. I spent two whole nights awake, staring at my ceiling, both missing Faye and hating her for depriving me of her presence.

Brit, true to form, didn’t wait a single minute to reassure me. “We’ll find her,” she promised. “We’ll track her down.”

Yesterday, we began the search, starting at the cabin, of course. Nothing. I wasn’t really expecting to see her, but we had to tick that box off. I searched around town and went back to the motel where she first lodged at. Once we ruled the town out, I started to get angsty.

The possibility that she isn’t with another man was getting slimmer by the second. I thought of how badly I treated her for the first few days, how I kept backing off even when it was clear that she wanted me. No other man on this Earth would be that foolish. Hell, he’s probably dicked her down so many times by now she’s started to write songs about him.

It was then that I started to hate myself.

Brit called me this morning with another idea. “I know it might be a long shot, but we should try her father.”

“No.” Thinking of how horrible he was to her made me certain I’d punch him if I ever got close enough. Going to jail would not be a fun way to end my hockey career. “She wouldn’t go there.”

“Come on, Blake. No one knows where she is, not even Kevin. You said he threatened her a while ago. Maybe he called her again, and she answered, maybe told him where she was headed? He could know, especially if they are already working out a deal to buy his silence. Because she might have to get him to shut up after all.”

She left the rest unsaid, that the reason Faye might have to buy her father’s silence is that our PR relationship fell apart, and her father could now use that to ruin her career.

And now, here we are. Staring at David Strummer’s smug face and refusing his refreshments. Is he this calm because he knows where she is? A man in danger of losing everything, including this trashy house, would look a lot more worried, wouldn’t he?

“I’m Britney, Blake’s sister. This is my husband, Alex.” Brit takes the lead. “We won’t be staying for long, really.” She waves at the housekeeper, dismissing her. “We just wanted to ask about Faye. If you’ve seen her recently or heard from her.”

My throat tightens. We’re taking a giant risk here. The bastard is smug enough to possibly be recording this conversation.

But I’m that desperate.

His eyes glitter. “Yeah, I thought you’d show up sooner.” He looks at me. “It’s harder to maintain a fake relationship than you’d think, right?”

Growling, I take a step toward him. Alex hastily positions himself in front of me.

“Their relationship wasn’t fake,” Brit says, casting an anxious side-eye in my direction. “We just . . .”

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