Page 12 of The Cartographer

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Aweek isnot what I’d call soon. Even in my incontestable patience, a week is too damn long. I could’ve sworn Allie would call, and I’ve been irritated he hasn’t. More irritated with myself for leaving him in that alleyway when I could’ve given us both satisfaction and maybe have him tethered in my playroom right now. Instead, I’m bidding Matthew a good night as he steals out of my bedroom and shuts off the light.

Darling boy hasn’t even mentioned how irritable I’ve been this week. He’s doubtless noticed, though I don’t know anyone else would. Maybe India. If she were paying attention. Speaking of, I should call her. I check the time on my clock. If she’s in Kona, it’s not too late to call, and if she’s in San Diego, she won’t mind. She’s set her cell to silence everything but phone calls from me and Cris after she’s gone to bed, so if I text first, it won’t wake her.

When I pick up the phone, though, it rings. Nothing more than a coincidence, but it’s still unnerving. Not a familiar number, either. Not that I’ve got people’s names programmed into my cell because if it got lost or stolen… The idea makes me distinctly uncomfortable. It would be a career-ender. Or, at least, incredibly awkward.

I do, however, enter initials or nicknames, enough to let me identify the caller. This… There’s no identifier at all, just a number. It’s tempting to toss it to the side and go to sleep. Matthew gave me a lovely massage, and my muscles are all relaxed, my breathing toned down for sleep. But my father’s voice echoes in my head:They need you. Helping people is the best and most important thing you can do.

So I answer the damn phone.

“This is Rey.”

There’s pounding music and the loudness of a crowd on the other end. A club, maybe a bar, or a rave. I sit up, because chances are better than even that whatever this is is going to require me getting dressed and jumping in my car. Possibly on a plane. So much for all of Matthew’s hard work.

There’s no answer. It wouldn’t be the first time one of my clients butt-dialed me. If it were one of mine, though…

I try again. “Hello?”

Nothing but some breathing barely audible over the loud background noise.

“I’m hanging up now,” I say, employing a practiced, bored tone in case someone’s toying with me. That isn’t something I tolerate.

“No, don’t.”

The voice pings something at the back of my brain, a recent memory, and a craving seizes my chest. I want to make sure before I get my hopes up.

“S’Allie.”

A pretty drunk Allie if the slur in his voice is any indication.

“Are you okay?”

“Why’sat the first thing you ask? You didn’t seem to care if I was okay lasstime I saw you.”

“I was testing you.” I’m up and out of my bed now because if I can get his location out of him, I’m going to go get him. I don’t doubt he can more than take care of himself when he’s sober, but he’s wasted.

“Testing? Well that’s…rude.”

I hold back my laughter because drunks do not like being laughed at, but his righteous indignation over being left horny in an alley is entertaining.

“Maybe so. Though I did make you a deal and you haven’t seen fit to cash it in. Would you like to now?” I wouldn’t touch him when he’s blitzed, but he doesn’t need to know that. I head to the closet and pull out a form-fitting black T-shirt and jeans, something that won’t get me looked at twice in a club.

“What makes you think I’m not getting sucked off right now?”

Oh, drunk Allie, you’re a treasure.“Because you’ve got better manners than me, and there’s no way you’d be on the phone while someone was blowing you.”

There’s a pause, and I can only tell by the background noise he hasn’t hung up on me in disgust.

“True,” he mutters, sounding at once muddled and dismayed.

“So how about you sit tight and I’ll come pay you back. With interest. Tell me where you are.”

I hold the phone to my ear with my shoulder as I pull on socks and black boots. It’s difficult to do and I almost drop the damn thing more than once.

There’s the heave of a sigh into the phone, and I hold my breath, waiting for what comes next. He’s either going to hang up on me or tell me where he is. I hope it’s the latter because otherwise I’m going to spend the night agonizing over where he is, who he’s with, what he’s doing. If he’s dead set on getting off, I don’t have any doubts he’ll be able to find a more-than-willing partner, but drunk sex is frequently unsafe sex and… “Come on, Hart. Where are you?”

He laughs. “Oh, all eager for my dick now, huh?”

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