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It was a no.
And he was upset about Taylor. He knew she was avoiding being alone with him, and it was driving him crazy. Having had her next to him in bed and then giving that up so he could stay alone in his penthouse to prove to her he had her best interests sucked. Upset was the name of the game, and it was mostly focused on Taylor. He was upset she wouldn’t talk to him, upset she had been angry today, upset that she probably hadn’t eaten.
God, he should have left her in that coffee shop. She had been so happy, and she smiled all the time. He had loved watching her smile.
Derrick glanced at his watch, 11:30 p.m.
“Fuck,” he muttered. He hoped Taylor had eaten by now. His flight had hit delays before leaving the ground, and the weather had slowed them down.
He powered up his phone as he exited the jet, grateful that the drop-off was private. Instantly the thing started buzzing.
Maybe Taylor …
Nope, a text from Marty:Help!!!!
Oh God, Marty, what now?
What?
I need u 2 help me, I’m at Hypnotic.
Derrick shook his head. Marty probably wanted him to pay her drink tab, forgot her card again, or something like that. But her security could handle it.
Can’t, going 2c Taylor.
I’m w/ Taylor.
What the fuck?
Derrick dialed, but the phone just rang until Marty’s voicemail picked up. The same thing happened with Taylor’s.
I can’t hear you here, just come,Marty texts him.
Panic engulfed Derrick, causing him to sprint to his Range Rover and drive like Batman in pursuit. Twenty minutes later he was at VIP valet of Hypnotic.
A blaring white, brightly lit club, Hypnotic was one of the busiest in LA. A revolving door of photogs and press were constantly funneling in and staked out around it, hoping to get cover-worthy fodder of celebs and socialites. As Derrick raced past them to get to the entrance, he watched flashes and phones being turned his way.
Greeeeaaaat.
Derrick got to a valet, and he was greeted by a large tank-sized man.
“Mr. Fletcher,” the tank said with a hint of humor in his voice. “We’ve been expecting you.”
Oh, this just kept getting better. And more ominous. What the fuck was happening?
“Keep the car here. I’ll be right out, and I want it ready,” Derrick barked at the valet, sending the man jerking back in surprise. But he didn’t question Derrick; he merely gave a dazed nod.
“Uh, yes, sir,” tank-boy replied, but Derrick barely heard him because he was already making his way inside.
The path to the VIP section was very familiar to Derrick, and he was momentarily overcome with guilt. He was here a lot, liked the attention, liked the party, kept himself busy and in trouble. Allowed himself to forget his stupidity and infuriate his father.
And now he wondered why he wasn’t being taken seriously.
Derrick was torn from his thoughts as a large hand grabbed his arm. He turned to the reach, sneering, ready to get into it with anyone in his way. But he found himself face to face with Rog, Marty’s security guard.
Rog was a man of few words, but he could express a lot. He jerked his head over his shoulder, and Derrick turned to see Marty, but no Taylor.
Derrick stormed to his sister. “Where is she?” he demanded, shouting just as much out of anger as necessity to be heard over the club’s noise.