Page 82 of Bidding War

“They closed up?”

I shake my head, trying my best to look pitiful. “There’s a guy back there who wouldn’t leave me alone.”

She tips her head in sympathy. “Oh, that sucks.” The doors open. “Ride up with me. I won’t tell if you don’t.”

“Oh my gosh, thank you.” I follow her in. “I thought I’d be sleeping in the lobby all night.”

“We can’t have that.” She presses the button for the third floor. Okay, she is not his secret girlfriend. “Which floor?”

“Five, please.”

After she presses the button, the doors slide open for the third floor. “Have a nice night.”

“You, too.” It’s not much longer before the doors open again for Anderson’s floor. His apartment is 522. I know this because I memorized it when I saw his license. An old bartender habit. Best to know where your customers come from. Direct those with a better address to the expensive stuff and those with a normal address to the cheaper stuff. Both get you better tips.

A minute later, I find his apartment door. It feels like a big gray blank. I have no clue what or who sits on the other side of it. But I’m going to find out.

I ring the bell and wait. But no one comes. So, I switch to knocking. Still, no answer.

Either no one is home, or no one is going to answer the door. I text him one more time, “No more hiding, Anderson. Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

But I get nothing in return.

-

44

ANDERSON

The hospital’s breakfast is far better than any hospital breakfast I had expected. But given the location of my injury, I have to be careful. A bullet fragment nicked the exterior of my stomach, so I’m on liquids for a while. Thankfully, today’s was a meaty-tasting broth and a strawberry-flavored collagen yogurt smoothie, both designed to aid in speedier healing. Whatever the reason for the food, I like it. They warn me I’ll be on something like it when I go home tomorrow.

God, I miss my fucking apartment. Almost as much as I miss June.

I hate not being able to contact her, but Dad had the phone removed from my room, and my phone has been suspiciously absent since I woke up. No doubt Dad is keeping it from me to keep us apart. I am sure he knows we have been seeing each other. There’s no way he doesn’t know about that. And now, he has total control over my ability to contact her, so he’s going to exert it.

I’ve already tried to ask the staff for a phone, but according to them, Elliot West has told them no phones for me so I can focus on recovery. One doctor actually cooed, “What a good dad,” when she explained that detail.

I wanted to break something.

All of this means she has no clue where I am or what’s happened. It must be driving her to the brink. If she vanished on me like this, I would lose my fucking mind.

When the door opens again, I’m expecting my parents or another hot nurse. They must hire for both skill and sexiness because each one of them looks like a fantasy made of tattoos, mayhem, and a pinup model.

My breath catches in my throat when I see Moss blocking most of the doorframe. He closes it softly behind himself before he joins me at my bedside. The rigid lines on his face go slack. He is relieved to see me.

Today is a day for his Boston-blended Italian accent to be thick, apparently. “It is good to see you, boss.”

“Good to be seen.” Especially after I assumed he was going to let me die.

He gives a wan smile. “How you feel?”

“Somewhat better, thanks. I didn’t get a chance to ask—what with nearly dying and all that—how did things go after I went down?”

His shoulders stiffen. “Edgar Jones has been taken care of.”

“Yeah, I saw the bullet hole in his forehead.” With that memory comes my breakfast, trying to launch out of my mouth. But I squash it back down. Vomiting after being shot in the stomach is, evidently, discouraged, per the doctors. But even the antiemetic they gave to counter the morphine is no match for the mental image of an accountant with a fresh hole in his face. “What happened before that?”

“Ah. After he shot you, he was less of a man. He dropped the gun. I stepped over you, then did what I do all over him.” He stretches his hands out, and the knuckles are bruised to shit. “I fear it was not enough, but we had limited time for vengeance. Had I more time, I would have made the bastard suffer. But with you bleeding out, I could not take it. I plugged him, then took you from the office building. After, I called your father and told him I was on the way here. The doctors here are?—"

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