Page 62 of Vital Signs
My thumb hovered over his contact. No, Misha would be back any minute. He promised.
Another spasm twisted my leg, muscle fibers contracting without my permission. I bit through my lip to keep from screaming. The taste of copper filled my mouth, warm and metallic.
Panic became fury.
Misha, if you're ignoring me, just say so.
I can't do this much longer.
Just tell me you're not coming back.
Just fucking tell me.
My phone buzzed again.
Jimmy
You coming or not?
I squeezed my eyes shut. Forced myself to breathe through another spasm that felt like electricity shooting through my bones. The pain wasn't getting worse; it had maxed out hours ago. But my ability to endure it was fading with each passing minute.
Three hours. Nobody takes three hours at Walmart at 4:30 in the morning.
My stomach turned to concrete. Bile crawled up my throat. He wasn't coming back. He'd promised, looked me in the eye, placed those keys in my palm like they meant something, and then he'd walked out that door and kept walking.
Just like everyone else.
"Fuck," I snarled, anger cutting through the fog of misery. The rage felt cleaner than the pain, sharper, something I could use. "FUCK!"
I hurled the phone against the van wall. It bounced off and landed face down on the floor. I didn't even get the satisfaction of seeing it break.
I found myself on the floor, crawling toward where my phone had landed.
7:41 AM. Jimmy would be gone soon. His morning deliveries always wrapped up by 8:00.
I opened his contact information. Stared at the number. Closed it.
Opened it again.
Fuck.
Closed it.
Misha might still come back. Something might have happened. He could be hurt. In trouble. Arrested.
Or he could be gone, like they all were. Everyone always left.
I scrolled to Trent's number.
Later, after what felt like hours more of suffering, I finally typed:
Hey it's Hunter. You holding?
The reply came back almost immediately.
Trent
Got u. When?
