Page 145 of Chemistry: The Chemist

I redialed his number.

“Wake up, baby. Please.”

Chem was a man who hardly slept, so it was hard to believe he was still asleep. However, it was the only possibility that kept my sanity intact.

Pick up.

Please.

Chem.

When the voicemail came on again, I sprang into action. Panic-stricken, I pulled on a pair of sweats as quickly as possible and paired them with shades to conceal the tears still running from my eyes. The T-shirt I’d worn to bed was freshly washed. There was no need to change it.

With only one shoe on my foot, I bolted out the door. Continuously, I called Chem, hoping he’d answer. He’d never ignore the barrage of calls I’d placed, so the chance that I was too late was heavy on my mind. Persistence pushed me further faster, it didn’t matter if the chances were slim, I didn’t let it stop me from eagerly shuffling my way through the hallway and trying my hardest to make it to him before my team did.

Baby.

Pick up.

“Please, baby. Pick up for me.”

I had already made it to the expressway before I realized I didn’t have a clue where I was going. Each time I’d been to Chem’s home, my vision was obstructed, his head was between my legs, or mine was between his. However, there were very distinctive characteristics I remembered with each trip.

The voicemail came on again. Finally, I concluded I wouldn’t be getting an answer. It was time to focus on the task ahead.

Fuck.

I swerved into the line beside the one I was in. A loud horn startled me as I tried merging into the next one.

“Oh shit.”

I waited until it passed to make the switch. From there, I accessed the second and then last lane. The obnoxious sound that erupted upon entry into the emergency lane made every inch of my flesh crawl.

“Think, Egypt. Think. Think.”

Closing my eyes, I jogged my memory.

Expressway.

Northbound.

Twenty-four.

No.

No.

Twenty-two, maybe.

Yes.

Twenty-two.

No, maybe twenty-five minutes.

Oh God. I can’t fucking remember.

Twenty–

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