Page 51 of The Hot Shot

“She mean something to you?”

“Yes.”

“Without the sex?”

“Jesus. Yes, all right? I’m not a total pig.”

He nods again. “Then leave it alone until you’re certain. Otherwise, you’re just fucking with her head, and that ain’t right.”

The muscles in my chest draw tight, and the stuffy air of the plane closes in on me. “You’re right.”

It hurts to say it. There’s a voice in my head that is protesting the fuck out of agreeing with Dex. It’s probably my dick, since he’s a selfish bastard. But it’s the region around my heart that aches.

The plane dips and turns on the final landing leg. Below, New Orleans is a faint glitter to one side, the enormous spread of Lake Pontchartrain an inky blot on the other side.

Home.

Chess is down there. My hand twitches with the desire to pull my phone out and text her, but the flight attendant has already chastised Gruben for texting. I really should heed Dex’s advice, pull back from Chess for a while. Not seeing her every chance I get will probably help clear my head.

Then again, Dex had been warning me off sex, not friendship. I can still be Chess’s friend.

As soon as we land, every guy pulls out his phone and is on it. Including me.

BigManny:Just landed. What you up to, Chester?

She doesn’t answer.

I tuck my phone away and try not to be impatient. It’s evening. She might be eating. Or out. On a date. Yeah, not liking that idea.

I pull out my phone again. Nothing.

BigManny:You out?

Nothing.

I want to leave it alone; she’s under no obligation to respond.But it feels wrong. Like something’s off. Frowning, I stalk down the gate, my teammates chatting around me.

Rolondo is glued to his phone when he halts. “Shit,” he says, turning to look at me.

That quickly, my skin prickles. “What?”

“Isn’t this your photographer’s place?” He hands me his phone, which is running news footage.

The bottom drops out of me. Chess’s building is an inferno. I can’t breathe. For a second, I can’t even see.

I start running, my heart in my throat.If she’s gone... No. Nope. No. No.

She has to be okay. Shehasto be.

Chess

So this is what shock feels like. I’ve always considered myself a fighter. Life slaps at me, I slap back. Yet, here I sit, smelling of smoke, unable to do more than stare a rusty blot on the floor. Is it blood? Iodine?

Pain radiates along my wrist at a steady rate. My right butt cheek is so sore, I lean to the left to alleviate the pressure. I’m guessing there’s a massive bruise forming but no one looked, and I don’t really want to, either. Everything else is numb. The bustle of the emergency room hums in my ears. The sounds are strangely detached from where I sit behind the thin curtains that surround me. A woman starts retching. My stomach roils.

I’ve been here for hours. Everything moving at a snail’s pace. I’m finally patched up and free to go, but here I sit.

I can’t stay here forever, yet I don’t move. I can’t. I have nowhere to go.