Page 43 of Mountain Man Bad Boy

“A lot,” I exhaled. “I’m crazy about her.”

“You wouldn’t consider asking her to leave?” He was playing devil’s advocate, just touching on my options. “In case the brother does come, you wouldn’t be caught in the crossfire.”

I shook my head slowly. “I don’t know.”

“You gotta figure it out, man.” Mike drained his beverage and crushed the can. “If you have real feelings for her, you have to protect her. If you don’t, then you’ll have to cut her loose.”

I nodded, seeing the wisdom in his ultimatum. Did I love Gina? It seemed like I hardly knew her, and yet at the same time, it seemed as if we had always known each other. We hadn’t defined our relationship, but I didn’t want it to end. She was the one person in the world who could understand me, and I was the only one who understood her. Shouldn’t that count for something?

The rest of the day, I wrestled with the question. Sliding boards in and out of pickup trucks, into bins, and even while cutting lumber, I thought about it. I really couldn’t picture my life without her. We had grown so close in a matter of weeks; I hated the thought of sending her packing. She might not be my wife or my girlfriend, but I cared about what happened to her, and I didn’t want to see her hurt.

I resolved to confront her when I got home, to do my best to explain the danger I thought she was in. Short of calling the police or staying with her 24/7, I wasn’t sure exactly what I could do. But I wouldn’t turn tail and run. She was too important to me. I was going to be there for her, whether that meant giving her a place to hide out or checking in on her as often as I could in Nashville.

Throughout the day, I vacillated. Maybe I was making too much out of this. Maybe her brother still retained the humanity that I and thousands of other addicts lost. Maybe he would take her advice and stop calling. Maybe he wasn’t in as deep as I suspected. I comforted myself with these thoughts as I drove home.

Gina’s car wasn’t in the parking lot, but I didn’t think too much of it. I went inside, took a quick shower, changed my clothes, and texted her. She didn’t text back. When five minutes went by, I put my phone down and picked up my book. After fifteen minutes, I texted back: Just want to make sure you’re ok. When she didn’t respond to that, I began to get nervous.

I paced the room for a few minutes, trying to convince myself she had been in the shower or that she had taken a nap. A quick trip to the hotel would verify whether she was still there. Feeling half like a stalker, half like a worried husband, I locked my door, jogged down the stairs, and hopped in my truck.

All the way to the hotel, I kept running scenarios in my head. Gina was alright. I would find her car in the hotel lot, and she would explain she had just turned the ringer off. Or she would tell me she was rethinking our clandestine relationship and that it was too much for her too soon. Either way, she would be safe, and everything would be fine.

I pulled into the hotel parking lot and scanned the handful of vehicles. There was no sign of Gina’s. I parked, racking my brain for my next move. Maybe she had decided to go back to Nashville without telling me. There was nothing about last night that would lead me to believe she would run away without saying goodbye, but it was a possibility. If she had gone home, then logic dictated that she would have checked out of the hotel. I could verify her intention without being intrusive, just by asking at the front desk. I got out of the truck and went inside.

“Excuse me,” I said, “There was a young woman staying here, and I have something to deliver to her.” I figured a bit of subterfuge would get me more cooperation than the truth. “Can you tell me if she’s checked out? I think I might have missed her.”

“What was her name?” the desk clerk asked.

“Gina Matthews,” I answered.

The clerk checked the computer and came back with the worst possible reply. “She’s still here. Would you like to leave your item at the front desk?”

“No,” I said, my mouth dry. “I’ll bring it by later.”

Out in the parking lot, warning lights were flashing in my head. She wasn’t at my place, she wasn’t at the hotel, her car was missing, and she hadn’t checked out. Where else could she possibly be? I did a slow drive down Main Street, scoping out the diner and the library for Gina’s car. No luck. Now I was close to panic.

No amount of convincing was going to get me to believe that Gina would just disappear on her own without saying a word to me. Even if she was going to break it off after the night we shared, she would have at least sent a text. Something else was going on, something bad. I had to think; I had to come up with a plan that would help her out, but my recently sober mind wasn’t up to the task.

The first thought was to go score something. That wouldn’t help Gina, but it would help me relieve the stress and anxiety I was feeling. I tabled that thought as soon as it came. There would be time to wrestle with my demons after I found Gina. Right now, I needed to do everything I could to save her. With no idea how to proceed, and at a loss for options, I turned to the one person who had always been there for me.

I drove up to Mike’s place and found him in the middle of a barbeque. All of his friends were there: Macy and Dillon, Jason and Lindsey, and all of their kids. It was exactly the situation I had balked at earlier that week and exactly what I needed right now. I hopped out of the truck and, despite my desperation, had the foresight to pull Mike aside. Dillon and Jason looked up, and I motioned them over as well. We all hid in the driveway, out of hearing from Tammy and the kids.

Elizabeth saw me and pointed, jumping up and down. “Porter!” She came around to find us, weaving between our legs.

“Go back to Mommy, honey,” Mike said gently.

Elizabeth frowned.

“The daddies have to talk,” Jason said.

Elizabeth put her hands on her hips and stalked away like the diva she was becoming.

“Gina’s missing,” I blurted out.

“Who’s Gina?” Dillon asked.

“Porter’s girlfriend,” Mike answered.

“She’s not my—” I stopped myself. Why was I arguing semantics when the love of my life was missing? “She’s not at my place, and she’s not at the hotel. I drove through town, and I didn’t see her car at any of the usual spots.”

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