Page 5 of Love Bleeds Red
He hands me my phone with a grin. Something about it makes my skin crawl, but I’ve been taught to be well-mannered. “Thanks.”
I turn back to the shelf, searching for the meds I need so I can get out of here. A few seconds later, his friend appears—tall, dark-haired, not bad looking but way older than me, and dressed in a suit. “You find the Benadryl yet?”
The light-haired man with the accent says something under his breath, but I can’t hear thanks to the PA system’s static-filled announcement about a sale in aisle three. Thankfully, they move to the other end of the aisle. I take a breath, and grab the ibuprofen.
Time to find Layne and get out of here.
As I pass by the two men, a security mirror mounted near the ceiling shows my reflection and theirs, watching me from the end of the aisle.
Why are men so damn creepy?
“Have a good night,” the first man says.
I offer a polite smile and nod before upping my pace toward the check out counter.
“What do you think of these lip colors?” Layne sticks out her forearm where lines of different lipstick shades paint her arm like stripes. “I can’t decide on dusty rose or mauve dreams. They say your perfect shade should match your nipples. I should check my phone, there’s definitely pics.”
“Uh huh,” I say, glancing over my shoulder at the two men who just joined the line.
“I guess I’ll buy both. Might as well. I have Clay’s card on my Apple Pay.” Layne chats away beside me while I grab a water from the check out fridge and pay. I barely take in what she says, between the pounding behind my eyes, the whoosh of the automatic doors bringing in cool damp air against my bare legs,and the leering gaze of the light-haired man. I’m too distracted. I’d give anything to be back in my cozy bed.
A black SUV idles outside in the parking lot while we wait for our Uber. Its windshield wipers are squealing louder than Layne’s chatter. Through the tinted windows, I swear I can make out a pair of dark eyes watching us. I’ve never been happier to get into an Uber by the time ours arrives ten minutes later.
Even so, the entire drive to Heat, I can’t shake that sketched out feeling. Before the night gets away from me, I text Leon back. He always makes me feel better.
Me: Grabbing a drink with Layne… wish me luck!
CHAPTER TWO
LEON - PRESENT DAY
Being backin London feels exactly how I thought it would—like a heaviness settled on top of my chest and won’t let up. My body felt the shift before I stepped foot off the plane. I guess it’s true what they say about muscle memory. The irony of this being where Bailey is, isn’t lost on me. My personal hell becoming hers. It’ll only fuel me to find her as fast as possible.
My feet pound against the gleaming tiles of Heathrow as I search for a restroom before picking up my luggage and hailing a cab to Mum’s. Travelers weave through the crowd. Business people dressed in smart suits clutching briefcases, exhausted families pushing trolleys piled with luggage, tourists meandering around shops selling overpriced shirts and tacky souvenirs. The familiar London bustle, indifferent and relentless. Someone knocks into my shoulder, almost pulling my carry-on backpack off, without an apology or even a backward glance.
That’s when I notice a man pulling a young woman along, his fingers wrapped around her arm like a vise. I keep my eyes on them. There’s something about her gait that seems off. Heproceeds to knock into a tourist in his hurry, yanking the poor thing’s arm hard enough for me to notice from several feet away. Is she... pulling back? Resisting?
I don’t think on it for another second before I follow them.
My jaw clenches as the details around me seem to blur into blackness, a one-way tunnel leading me straight to them. The noisy airport fading to no more than a hum in my ears.
They stop in front of the restrooms and I linger around the corner, straining to listen.
“You have two minutes to do your business,” he says, grasping her shoulders with enough pressure to make her recoil. “Do you understand me?”
She speaks so low, I can’t hear her words, but I can tell by the pleading look in her eyes that she’s scared. She can’t be more than twenty—pale and thin with hollow eyes, wearing loose clothes.
My fists clench and it takes every ounce of resolve I possess to not intervene immediately. Instead, I watch as she walks into the women’s restroom, and the man, who looks to be older than me, dressed in jeans and a jacket, carrying only a small overnight bag, positions himself against the wall, checking his phone with jerky fingers.
Beside me, an older woman stops to fiddle in her purse and I see my opportunity. I tap her on the shoulder. Her kind eyes greet me as she asks, “Can I help you, dear?”
“I’m sorry to bother you,” I whisper, leaning close to her, “but I’m concerned about a young woman who just went into the ladies room. She seems to be in trouble. Would you mind checking on her?” I give her a description of the girl, adding, “If she seems frightened, could you ask if she needs help?”
The woman’s expression shifts from confusion to understanding and her eyes dart briefly to the man by therestroom door. She nods firmly. “No problem at all, love. I was heading in there anyway.”
As she walks away, I sigh in relief.
Now to take care of him.
