Page 116 of Wicked Beautiful (Wicked Games 1)
And I’m obsessed with finding Victoria. Obsessed. To the point of insanity.
Because I know she isn’t dead.
Unfortunately, locating her is proving extremely difficult.
So today I’m meeting with the only two people who might be able to give me a clue as to her whereabouts.
Connor and I barge through the elegant glass doors of the lobby of Victoria’s condo building. As soon as we’re inside, the clamor falls silent; the press can’t follow us onto private property. I resist the urge to turn and flip them off—I know they’re out there, swarming all over the doors like flies—and instead introduce myself to the young man at the front desk, who shows Connor and me to the bank of elevators.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he says in a muted voice, eyes lowered.
I want to strangle him.
Connor drags me into the elevator, jabs his finger on the penthouse button and, when the doors slide shut, drawls, “Maybe you should let me do the talking. You don’t seem like you’re in the right mood.”
“You want mood? I’ll give you fucking mood,” I growl, raking a hand through my hair. “I’ll give you so much mood you’ll think I’m a lava lamp.”
Connor sighs, rolls his eyes, and crosses his arms over his chest. “Man, a word of advice? Chill the fuck out, or these broads aren’t gonna tell you anything.”
He’s right, I know he’s right—but there’s no way I can chill out.
Not when Victoria has slipped through my fingers. Not when my goddamn heart is dying, just when it was lea
rning how to live again.
When the doors open, I burst from the elevator as if I’ve been coughed out. I’m pounding on Victoria’s closed front door before Connor has a chance to catch up to me.
“Tabby!” I shout, alternating pounding on the door with stabbing my finger repeatedly on the doorbell. “Open the goddamn door!”
“Yeah, a lava lamp you’re not,” Connor mutters.
Victoria’s assistant, Tabby, yanks open the door. She stands there red-faced with clenched fists and crazy eyes, in an outfit I can only describe as call-girl-meets-cartoon-character, and snarls, “You motherfucker!”
She takes a step forward and punches me in the face.
“Whoa!” shouts Connor. He gets in front of me and pushes Tabby back into the condo by her shoulders. As she stumbles back, she keeps her furious gaze glued to mine.
I work my jaw, rubbing it where she hit me. I thought Victoria had a pretty good swing, but her assistant has her beat by a mile. For such a small thing, she’s got an arm like Babe Ruth.
“It’s nice to see you, too, Tabby.” I step inside the condo and slam the door behind me.
“Get your hands off me, you ape!” Tabby snaps at Connor, slapping at his hands.
He releases her, his expression hard, but I see the amusement shining in the depths of his obsidian eyes. He thinks it’s funny that the little badger just clocked me.
I swear I need new friends.
From around the corner of the living room, Darcy LaFontaine appears with a jumbo-size bag of Cool Ranch Doritos in hand, looking distraught. Her obvious trauma almost distracts from her incredibly tight low-cut pantsuit, the color of an overripe banana.
“You better start talking, white boy, before I stress-eat this entire bag of chips.” She stuffs a handful into her mouth and says through it, “I already plowed through half the fridge, and I haven’t even been here ten minutes.”
At least she doesn’t seem inclined to beat me. It’s a step in the right direction.
I say what I didn’t want to say over the phone when I arranged this meeting, and declare, “Victoria isn’t dead!”
Tabby’s rolled eyes and sarcastic “No shit, Sherlock” aren’t quite what I was expecting.
Number one: nobody knows about the second note Victoria left but me and Connor. Number two: I know for a fact that she hasn’t accessed any of her bank accounts, used her credit cards, or made phone contact with either Tabby or Darcy, because Connor has been on top of everything. Victoria left her cell at my house—along with her handbag, wallet, everything—but all the calls coming in to her home landline and Tabby and Darcy’s phones since Victoria disappeared have been traceable. No mysterious numbers from the Caribbean, no random pay phones, no nothing. So unless Victoria sent a letter or a carrier pigeon, they should be in the dark.
