Evan: Ignored Texts
1533 Words
My phone vibrates in my pocket, the shake penetrating my skin.
Dipping my hand into my pocket, I pull the phone out, hoping for good news.
Anything. Progress. A lead. Just anything.
Upon seeing the name displayed on the screen, I roll my eyes.
___
Kim
—'Where are you at, baby?'
—'I miss your big cock.' [cute eyes emoji]
___
Minimizing the screen, I go back to my gallery app. A full-screen selfie of her face greets me, soothing my eyes right after that visual abuse.
It was our wedding day. Someone had called me, and I somehow left my phone with her, so she took the picture.
Just a simple image of her c*****g her head slightly and pouting her lips, her green eyes sparkling with expectations.
Expectations that were crumpled without mercy.
My phone buzzes again.
___
Kim
—'You’re really not going to talk to me?'
___
"Mr. Vanhook," Sawyer's voice draws my attention from the phone. "Welcome."
"Manager." I extend my hand for a shake.
The phone buzzes again, but I ignore it, pushing it deep into my pocket.
"Thank you for honouring the invitation. We've been looking forward to this," he says with a pretentious grin.
I nod, my face vapid.
"This way." He leads the way, and I follow silently.
The phone buzzes again, and again, and again, then again.
I swear to f**k! I'd throw that s**t out if it continues.
Since Dess left, Kim has been a constant pain in the ass, and the only reason I haven’t changed my number is because I hope that Dess would contact me. But nothing.
My eyes casually sweep the place—then I see her.
She's walking in the opposite direction, about to go through the security checkpoint.
Her red flowing hair and her small frame. Her beautiful presence.
Everything is unmistakable.
But she's not alone.
Clinging to her hand is a little blonde—just the shade a Vanhook would have—girl.
Without thinking, I cut through my security details, running after her, panting.
"Mr. Vanhook!" I hear Jared shout my name, but I’m too far gone to turn back.
You won't slip from my hands this time, Dess.
I won't allow it.
Oblivious to the man—me—chasing her, she signs in with the security and walks past the sliding threshold, the little girl walking fast on her tiny legs.
"Hold up—"
I jump over the glass threshold, ignoring the guard. I can’t afford to waste time.
"Get him!" the man shouts orders, but they don’t come after me.
I'm assuming Jar got to them before they could start on my tail.
She's in front of me now.
Just an arm’s length away.
Her perfume is a bit different, but of course, she can’t remain the same after three f*****g years!
Reaching out, I grab her shoulder, spinning her around.
"Woah!" Her blue eyes dilate, looking at me in shock.
My shoulders drop.
Those are not the eyes I wanted to see.
Heck! That's not the face I thought of when I chased this useless redhead.
Fuck!
"Excuse me?" She leans closer to me, brushing a strand of her dyed hair from her face.
It should be a criminal offense to dye ones hair—even if that gets me on a wanted poster.
"Daddy?" the little girl whispers.
Chuckling, the mom kneels close to her daughter. "That's not Daddy, Louisa."
Stumbling back, my hands fall limp by my side.
It's not her. It's not my wife!
"Sir!" Jar finally catches up with me.
Doubling over by my side, he pants, struggling to catch his breath.
"Can I help you, sir?"
The woman probes, obviously trying to get my attention.
Ignoring her, I turn around, walking back to meet Sawyer and the rest of my security team.
"Sorry, he mistook you for someone..." Jar—the good man he is—takes the initiative to enlighten the woman so she isn’t abandoned in a den of confusion.
"...this conclusion would be beneficial for both parties. A 50/50 multimillion-dollar deal, closed without stress. This would increase your assets beyond measure, Vanhook." Sawyer leans closer to me, his circle glasses almost falling off his nose.
"Hm." I push myself off the swivel. "Thank you, Sawyer, the presentation was lovely"—lies!—"so? Where do I sign?"
Sawyer laughs hysterically, elated by our newfound partnership.
He brings the file, placing it on the table in front of me.
Swapping the pages open, I skim through the contents, making sure it's safe for signing—just like my father taught me.
Then, amongst the jumble of words, something catches my attention.
Phew.
I drop the document flat on the table, leaning back on the swivel.
The deal is high stakes.
Throwing my head over the headrest, I roar in laughter, my body shaking to its effect.
"W-wh-what is wrong?" Sawyer’s worried voice questions.
The ruffling of papers tells me that someone’s grabbed the files from the desk, flipping through them.
"f**k!" Sawyer swears on realising his mistake.
He continues to mutter other vile words under his breath, panting like some over worked dog.
Heaving, I get on my feet, signaling my men to pack up. "I guess that’s that for that."
"What if she's reported dead?"
My jaw tightens.
"Is this how you would continue to allow profitable contracts slip through your hands because of some missing ex-wife?"
My hand finds Sawyer’s collar, tightening around the rich white fabric and pushing him to the wall.
His men jerk into action, but mine stop them before they can successfully pull out their guns.
"My 'wife'!" I bark into his ear.
Yes. My wife—because I never signed those damn divorce papers.
"And," I continue, "you know what would really be profitable? You, joining my search party to find her. That way we can sign this goddamned contract and be done with it."
Jerking him further into the wall, I release him and stomp out of the conference office.
* * *
Barging into the mansion, I ignore greetings from both Fitzroy and Claudia, heading straight for the basement.
"Argh!"
Torture-grunts welcome me before I even reach the entrance of the room.
"Argh! Argh! Ugh!"
"Tut, tut, tut." I shake my head, sliding through the slightly opened door. "Do not kill him, man."
He steps aside, bringing a chair and placing it firmly in front of the broken-faced hostage.
Turning the wooden chair around, I straddle it, resting my hand on the backrest and my chin on top of my crossed arms.
The man has been beaten beyond recognition. His face broken in half, his nose veered to the right, and his left eye swollen and shut.
Reaching for his face, I grab his chin, turning his head slightly to examine him better.
"P...leess..." His voice comes as a distorted mutter.
I buck my head closer, making the wood screech against the hard floor. "You said?"
"I-I-I d-n't—know," he sputters warm blood on my face—a direct consequence of forcing himself with the last word.
"Where is my wife?"
His face contorts in ways that are definitely painful, as tears start running down his cheeks in red messy lines.
My fist connects with the skin under his jaw, jerking his head up and making him scream. "Wrong answer."
"I don't know!" he shouts—his voice surprisingly clear—shaking his head.
"Let's try that again."
I look over him, nodding at my man standing behind him.
"On the night of my birthday, my wife left this mansion and never came back. You were among the men I sent after her."
My man wraps a chain around his neck from behind, strangling him.
"Where is she?"
The strangling continues, and the fucker continues to fight and buck and wriggle, trying to free himself—but it’s of no use.
After a while, my man looks at me from behind him, but I do not ask him to stop. I already know what the answer to my question would be.
'She was carried by the current'.
'She probably drowned'.
'They never successfully killed her as requested of them'.
Well, thank f**k for that!
Getting bored, I pull my phone out, wanting to feast my eyes on that picture again.
After all, that's all I have until I get her back.
Immediately I open the phone, my brows knit.
Five unread messages from my PI—Jet.
It better be good.
Clicking on the notification, I watch with anticipation as my phone switches screens, bringing the messages to view.
My heart stops for a second, before it picks back up—racing this time.
There are a series of messages, but three catch my attention.
___
Jet
—'We found her.'
—[Picture]
—'There is no doubt.'
___
My eyes casually shift to the struggling man as his body goes limp. His tongue poking out from around his broken lips and his eyes rolled backwards. Pity.
Looking back at the messages, I take my time this time.
There is an attached address at the end.
And it's not far away.
- Writer
