Page 59 of Take Me, Sir

Dean

In the past few hours, I'd explored more parts of LA than I had in the previous six months I'd been here, and I still hadn't found Kyndall. I'd checked out all of the cafés, restaurants, and clubs that'd been open on a Sunday afternoon, then started on the stores. I hadn't really had a pattern or any real plan for searching, but as the day had worn on, I'd been forced to admit that I wouldn't find her this way. As much as I believed I knew her, when it came to deciphering where she would go to avoid someone, I didn't have the first clue.

Which meant the person with whom I needed to speak was the last person I wanted to talk to.

Dalton.

Still, I started back to Kyndall's apartment. I was hoping that, this time, when I knocked, she'd answer, that she'd simply been hiding there the whole time. Knowing that I'd been all over searching for her while she hadn't gone anywhere at all would be frustrating, but it was better than the alternative – that she was gone and I couldn't find her. If the latter was the case, however, I would swallow my pride and speak with Dalton and Juliette. Better to suffer through the embarrassment and other possible repercussions of getting them involved than continuing a fruitless search.

When I arrived at the apartment, however, all of that disappeared behind the knowledge that something had gone completely and horribly wrong.

Half a dozen marked police cars and plain cars with dash lights were parked around the building, and at least eight or nine uniformed officers were keeping a fair-sized crowd back. Two ambulances were up on the sidewalk, lights flashing, but sirens off.

“Drop me off here.” I tossed some cash at the cabbie, telling him to keep the change even as I was climbing out of the car.

While still in college, I created my own online company, and I'd taken on the responsibility of being the public face for it as well. As a twenty-year-old, I'd spent time meeting with investors and other businessmen who were always quite a bit older than me, and as a result, I'd quickly learned that the best way to convince someone that I did indeed know what I was talking about wasn't necessarily to explain things. People responded almost instinctually when it came to falling in line behind a person who exuded confidence.

I'd been introduced to the BDSM scene my freshman year of college, and it hadn't taken me long to understand the Dominant personality traits inside me. Using some of those same characteristics in my business practices had simply made sense, and once I'd put them into practice, I'd seen how well it'd gone, and continued to do it even now. Some businessmen were like sharks: if they smelled blood, they attacked. Concealing any doubts and vulnerabilities had become second nature.

Kyndall was one of the few who'd ever gotten to see behind that persona, and I was thinking of her as I started to push my way through the crowd. I didn't apologize, didn't ask for permission. I walked with purpose, as if I expected people to move out of my way, and they did. Once I reached the police line, however, I knew I had to be careful. I had duel citizenship, but any sort of legal trouble could make it difficult for me to maintain my presence in America.

I glanced at the people on either side of me. To the right, I had an older gentleman with a bad combover and a pair of plaid pants that looked like something from a vintage porno. Based on the half-buttoned shirt, exposed chest hair, and thick gold chain, he'd probably directed and produced all sorts of b-movies, including those of the adult variety.

To my left was a middle-aged woman in a tiny, tight tiger-striped dress and heels that made her at least my height. She had thick makeup, teased hair, and a cigarette of which she occasionally took a drag. Her expression claimed she was utterly bored by everything unfolding in front of her, but the glint in her eyes said otherwise.

Neither one seemed liked someone with whom I wanted to have a conversation, but I needed to know what was happening. Instead of choosing one, however, I decided to put the question out there and let them decide whether or not to answer.

“What's going on?”

“You'd think, with all that money, the place would be a little more secure,” the woman said.

“I heard it didn't happen in the building,” the man joined in. “I heard a van pulled up, guys with masks, guns...the whole Tarantino playbook.”

The woman glanced across me to the man, and then looked up at me. “I didn't know Tarantino did kidnapping flicks.”

I started to smile, then froze as the words sunk in.

Kidnapping.

My stomach churned, and my hands curled into fists. I forced a slow inhale, then exhale, but it did little to calm the anxiety that was rapidly building inside me. Just because I hadn't been able to find Kyndall, and now there were cops around her place. Cops who, according to my neighbors here, were investigating a kidnapping.

The woman was shaking her head now. “I couldn't imagine being those poor parents.”

Parents? A sick feeling washed over me.

“No.” I shook my head as I reached for my phone. “No, no, no...”

“What's wrong, man?” the guy asked.

Thoughts of Kyndall disappeared as I pulled up Dalton's number and dialed.

“Is Kyndall with you?”

The desperation in his voice told me that my secondary suspicion was right, and the nausea in my stomach grew.

“No. I haven't seen her all day.”

“Fuck,” Dalton muttered. “Where are you?”

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