Page 64 of Smooth Sailing
He wanted to laugh, but his sense of humor was buried under his stress. “Do you even know me?”
She smiled. “Whatever’s going on, you’ll figure it out. You always do.” Opening her tablet, she asked, “Now, shall we tackle these reports?”
He nodded, forcing himself to compartmentalize. “Let’s get started,” he said.
The meeting stretched on, each topic bleeding into the next. His eyes grew heavy, his responses becoming more automatic as fatigue set in. By the time Grace gathered her things to leave, they were the only two left. Even the cleaning person had come and gone, the lemon-scented disinfectant hanging in the air.
Grace paused at the door. “Text me when you get home? You look exhausted.”
He managed a tired smile. “Yes, Mom.”
But she wasn’t wrong, and with leaden feet, he made his way through the now-quiet office. In the break room, the coffee maker sputtered to life, filling the air with the aroma of fresh brew. He leaned against the counter and waited for his much-needed caffeine fix. His mind was a fog of exhaustion and unresolved worries about the impending conversation.
Coffee in hand, he shuffled toward the exit. In the parking lot, his footsteps dragged in the broken concrete. Sliding into the driver’s seat of his truck, he took a long slug from his to-go mug, wincing at the scalding heat.
The gentle hum of the truck’s engine and the passing landscape, shrouded in darkness, did little to keep his attention. He drifted to the Thompsons, their cleverness in extracting information, and the complications this could cause him and Paloma.
His body ached from the long hours and stress of the past few days. His eyelids grew heavier with each passing mile, exhaustion pressing down on him. The road ahead blurred slightly, and he blinked hard, clearing his vision.
He shook his head like a wet dog, attempting to jolt himself awake. He cranked up the radio volume, letting the pulsing beat of the music fill the cab. But even as the chorus reached its peak, his focus slipped again.
He needed a better distraction and told the car’s Bluetooth, “Call Jackson.”
The phone rang once, twice, three times. His fingers drummed on the steering wheel. After the fourth ring, Jackson’s voicemail picked up. He disconnected the call.
He considered ringing Asher or Wyatt, but he was less than ten minutes from Paloma’s house. He could power through the last little bit.
The road stretched before him, a dark ribbon cutting through the night. Streetlights flashed by in a hypnotic rhythm, their glow blurring into streaks of amber. His eyelids grew heavier, each blink lasting a fraction longer than the last.
He shook his head again, trying to clear the fog that seemed to be settling over his mind. The radio continued to play, but the music had become a distant, muffled sound as if coming from underwater. He rolled down the window, cold air cutting through the muddle.
Images flashed through his mind—the Thompsons’ knowing smiles, Paloma’s voice laced with tension. Each thought pulled at him, dragging him further into a fog of worry and fatigue.
His chin dipped toward his chest. He jerked upright, his heart racing, and forced his heavy eyelids open. The road swam before him, yellow lines twisting like snakes. He blinked hard, but his eyelids were weighted, and each lift was a monumental effort.
Paloma’s house was right around the corner. Five minutes away, tops. He could make it. He had to make it.
His eyes slid shut, the darkness a welcome respite. Just for a moment, he thought. Just one more blink.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
November 6th, 11:47 p.m.
Paloma’s gaze darted to her phone resting on her dresser. She tapped the screen for what felt like the thousandth time. The harsh glow mocked her with each passing minute. She paced the length of her bedroom, her bare feet alternating between the cool hardwood and the textured loops of the braided rug.
She snatched her cell, thumb hovering over Max’s contact. Her chest tightened as she calculated the hours—no, lifetimes—since he should have arrived. The knot of irritation growing in her stomach twisted into something darker, colder.
Sinking onto the edge of her bed, a silk blouse she’d carefully chosen hours ago slithered to the floor, a pool of midnight blue at her feet. She bent to retrieve it, her other hand still clutching the phone. Muscle memory took over as she hit redial, pressing the device to her ear. Each unanswered ring tightened the knot in her stomach.
“Hel-lo?” Max’s voice crackled through the speaker, unusually slow and slightly slurred.
“Max!” She said in a breathless rush, pressing the phone closer, straining to hear. Beeps and mumbles filled this silence of his reply. “Where are you? What’s happening?” she asked.
“I’m . . . I’m in the hospital,” he mumbled, his words barely audible over the din of bustling activity in the background.
“Hospital?” She shot up from the bed, stepping toward her door, her foot catching on the forgotten blouse. “What happened?”
A muffled voice in the background cut through: “Mr. London, we need to check your pupils again.”
