Wherever It Leads (3 page)

“Hello?” Her eyes light up as she listens, a slow smile touching her lips. “No, I didn’t lose my phone today. But my friend did.”

“Someone found it?” I leap across the room until I’m right in front of her. I try to hurry her along, to get more information, but she just waves a hand to silence me.

“Why, yes, it was a great day on the beach.” She fans her face, her wide eyes sparkling with mischief. “I’m the one in the white bikini. My name is Presley Bradshaw, by the way.”

She listens again, mouthing
oh my God
, before composing herself. “That’s Brynne Calloway. It’s her phone you have.”

“Where?” I thunder. I’m bouncing up and down, saying a prayer of thanks that a do-gooder did find it, vowing to be a better person, cleanse my soul, eat less Snickers—whatever it takes to keep this good tide rising.

“Of course,” Presley coos. “Absolutely. How thoughtful of you to do this. You’ll never know how much it’s appreciated. We’ll be right there.” She ends the call and sighs dreamily. “He sounds gorgeous.”

“You can’t
sound gorgeous
.”

“Just wait till you hear him.”

I roll my eyes. “The important thing here is that he has my phone. Yes?”

“Yes! Yes, he does,” she sing-songs. “And he’s waiting for us at Angel’s Market.”

“He’s probably homeless,” I say, heading to the door and making my way down to Presley’s Mercedes. “We’ll have to make sure we give him a big reward.”

“Well, he’s a homeless guy with a voice like cashmere,” she chirps, hopping behind the steering wheel. “And if he looks half as good as he sounds, I’ll happily sprawl out like a reward buffet.”

The early afternoon sun trickles through the car window sending a kaleidoscope of colors through the crystal dangling from the rearview mirror.

The warmth permeates not just the glass, but my skin as well. The Vitamin D soaks into my soul and reminds me of lazy days at the beach and picnics. None of those things have happened much this summer. The last true beach day I had was with Presley the afternoon I found Grant cheating on me.

“Brynne.” He said my name simply, like he was just sounding it out. The calmness in his voice was a strange contradiction to the anxiety in his eyes. He made no move to get off the woman lying underneath him. Naked. Smirking at me with her bright red lips.

“What are you doing?” I shrieked, my hand cupping my mouth to keep the vomit from pouring out. My hand trembled as I watched, in absolute horror, him actually pulling out of her body.

I couldn’t pull my eyes away from the train wreck in front of me. Grant reached up and grabbed a towel and tossed it haphazardly over her body. My vision was blinded by white-hot tears that built, yet failed to fall.

“What are you—” I started to say, but then stopped. “Don’t answer that.”

Grant rolled off of her, but didn’t come to me. He made no effort to console me or try to talk his way out of it, not that it would’ve made a difference.

“Fuck you,” I bit out.

“This is complicated,” he said finally, his voice still eerily calm.

I snorted. “No, it’s really simple. You are the most pathetic asshole I’ve ever known.”

I turned on my heels and fled. He didn’t call for me and I didn’t look back.

Little did I know, but that day was the start of so much sadness in my life.

“Wanna go to the beach today after we get your phone back?” Presley asks, pulling me out of my reverie and picking up on my beach vibe. “We could just do a quick little trip this afternoon. It could be fun.”

My shoulders rise and fall, the magenta tank top slipping off my shoulder. The sun warms it and I find myself leaning further into the light. Something about the way the sun raises my spirits, like it’s done since I was a little girl and would lie on the hill behind our house and read magazine after magazine, makes me realize one thing—Presley is right. I can’t start down the slippery slope of self-pity again. It’s easy to fall into the trap but harder than hell to climb out of it.

Glancing over my shoulder, Presley is dancing in her seat to the beat of a song on the radio. I really want to capture that feeling again of being alive and happy about it. I just need something to set the spark.

“Yeah, let’s go to the beach later,” I say. The words feel good coming out of my mouth. So good, in fact, that I sit up in my seat. “Let’s get some cheap wine and Mexican food and see what kind of trouble we can get into.”

“Deal!” she beams. “And how about Tybee Island? Are you up for that?”

“I actually work this week,” I groan. “And I can’t miss. I can’t ask my parents for help with my tuition this fall. They’ve spent so much on finding my brother that I just can’t even bring it up.”

“I understand.”

“I might have a few days off next week, though, if you want to treat me to a mini-getaway.”

“Yay!” she exclaims, piloting the car down a side street. “I’m taking this as a sign my best friend’s back.”

“I’m trying.”

“You know,” she says, flipping off the radio, “Brady wouldn’t want you moping around. He’d want you to live your life and be happy.”

“He does want that,” I correct, trying not to cringe. “He does. Because he’s alive.”

“Of course he is.”

I can’t help the fear that pierces me that the reverse might be true. Or at least possible.

Although Presley is my best friend now, Brady and I have always been extremely close. We changed schools three times growing up and were always seen as outsiders. So we learned to hang out together, playing chess and video games, fishing, reading books. My world wouldn’t be the same without him, and the weeks since getting the message that he was taken by Nekuti, an African terror organization, have been the worst of my entire life. I just wish he’d have listened to me.

“Don’t go,” I begged, looking into the eyes that are a mirror image of mine. “Brady, you can’t. It’s not worth the risk.”

“I have to. I feel like it’s exactly what I need to do.”

“Why Zimbabwe? Why go there? With Grant, of all people! Someone that you specifically told me to try to distance myself from!”

“It’s different.”

“How?” I stare at him over our mugs of steaming coffee. “You told me not to take him back. You’re the one that told me something was going on with him and that ending our relationship was the best solution. So why are you still friends with him? Even more, if what you say is true, why are you following him across the world? For once in your life, Brady Stewart Calloway, you make no sense.”

“He’s not a threat to me, Brynne. I’ve been friends with him for almost ten years. He’s the same guy to me. But like I told you, something’s off with him. You’re my little sister and were his girlfriend. You were in a much different position to be hurt.”

“Like how?”

“Like if he was cheating on you, which he was.” His eyes darken. “If he was involved in something he shouldn’t be.”

A chill tears through me. “Like what?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. It might just be that he’s seen things overseas that have changed him. You know as well as I do that he’s not the nice, easygoing guy he once was. He’s on edge constantly, calculating, broody. You can do better, and I say that from the position of being his friend.”

“And you think it’s a good idea for you to go to a place that he’s been and you think may have changed him?”

“I’m not going as a security contractor. I’m going as a doctor and it’s where my heart says to go. It’s my calling, Brynne.”

I tried to understand. I openly supported his insane idea, even though I felt like it was a huge mistake. I helped him with his paperwork and even helped pack his gear before he left. The excitement in his voice, the sparkle in his eye when he talked about the difference he may make to the people of Zimbabwe in his six months overseas was undeniable.

I frown as we pull into the busy parking lot of Angel’s Market and I don’t see anyone standing around with a phone in their hand. Presley throws the car in park and we climb out, heading towards the main entrance.

“What do we know about this mystery man besides the fact he sounds like cashmere?” I raise my brows and watch Pres slide her sunglasses over her eyes.

“His name is Fenton and he’ll be waiting by the bananas.”

I follow a few steps behind her, a sudden rush of memories skirting through my brain. “Bananas! That’s where I set it down,” I exclaim. “Now I remember! The pineapple poked a hole in my coffee right there and I had to get it to the trash! Yes! That’s where it is, I bet.”

“No bets about it,” she says as the doors automatically open and we step inside the store. “That’s where he said it was.”

“I’m so damn . . .”

A soft gasp replaces the rest of my sentence.

I know it’s him. Because whatever a cashmere voice sounds like, this man looks like he’s the one to own it. He’s tall, probably six-three, with jet black hair and rich olive-y skin. He’s dressed in black pants and a tight black t-shirt that hugs his muscled arms and wide chest. He stands at the bananas, working on a white cell phone and I’m instantly relieved it isn’t mine.

“My Lord,” Pres mutters under her breath as we near him.

He glances up, first looking at Presley and then instantly past her. To me.

His gaze slams into mine, almost physically knocking me off my feet. I stumble, my steps faltering under the heaviness of his stare. It feels like his eyes should be blue, but as I peer into them, I realize they’re grey. A steely color that’s not warm or cool, just intense.

I don’t know what to make of him and I certainly can’t process it because he’s too beautiful. Too male. Too intoxicating as we get close enough to smell the expensive musk of his cologne.

And then he smiles, his full lips stretching to both sides of his slightly stubbled cheeks, and I’m sure my knees are going to wobble beneath me, leaving me one embarrassed pile of goop on the floor.

Presley, ever on her game, flips her hair before extending a hand. “You’re the man I’m looking for.”

If I could react, I’d roll my eyes at her innuendo. Instead, I just stare like a cartoon character. There are probably little hearts extending from my pupils, exploding right above his head.

“I might be,” he says, looking at Presley.

“Do you want my name or something to confirm it?” she hints.

“Well,” he drawls, his voice as luxurious as Presley made it out to be, “I believe you said it was your friend’s phone. So if that’s the case, I think it’s her name I should get.”

Presley’s jaw drops at the same time as mine. They both look at me.

“If you just show it to me, I can tell you if it’s mine,” I half stutter.

His smirk deepens. “I’m pretty certain it’s yours. Your pictures are on the camera roll.”

“You looked at my pictures?” I gasp, my cheeks heating. “You had no right to do that!”

“How else could I be sure the right person came to pick it up?”

He has a point, but I still don’t agree. Yet I don’t want to argue. Not at least until I have my phone. It feels like such an invasion of privacy and I should be offended, or at least, mock-offended, but I’m really not. Not even when I try to dig deep to find the feelings.

“Thank you for finding it and tracking me down. Can I have it back now?” I ask.

He digs a large hand into his pocket, too near his cock for my own good, and retrieves it.

“Thank you,” I whisper. My fingertips brush his palm as I take it. The contact sends shivers down my spine.

“It’s my pleasure.”

“We’d love to thank you,” Presley says, batting her eyelashes in his direction. “Is there anything we can do?”

He glances at her before resting his gaze on me again. “First, reset your password. It was entirely too easy to access your information and I don’t think I need to explain the consequences if it had fallen into someone else’s hands.” He raises his brows. “Make it something random,” he adds.

I blush at his admonishment.

“Second, I’d love to take you to dinner tonight.”

I know Presley gasps but neither I nor the exotic stranger in front of me acknowledges it. We’re standing in the busy market, but it seems like it’s just the two of us.

“That’s not necessary,” I whisper.

“What time shall I pick you up?”

“Oh, I, uh . . .”

He grins like he’s just won a small victory. All coherent thoughts float away, replaced with lewd visions of him baring his lean body. He stands smugly and I wonder if he has some kind of telepathy and can read minds. Presley steps next to me and elbows me in the side.

“Does six work for you?” he presses.

My mouth won’t work. The words won’t come out.

It’s not that I don’t want to go, because I do. But is it safe? We just met this guy. I don’t even know his name.

Start there.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Fenton Abbott.”

“She’ll be ready at six, Fenton,” Presley says, speaking for me. “And thank you for finding her phone.”

“Can you text me your address?”

“I’ll meet you somewhere,” I compromise.