Page 37 of Hold the Pickle
The line connects, and a voice comes on. “Nadia?”
It’s not Camryn. It’s Dalton.
“Sorry, I meant to call…”
And I puke again. I gasp into the bowl. Jesus. What is going on? I feel awful, like I’m dying.
“Nadia? Are you at the bar?”
“I’m sick,” I choke out. “It’s bad.”
Then I clutch my stomach and drop the phone to the floor.
I can’t stop throwing up.
12
DALTON
Istare at the phone.
“Nadia?”
She doesn’t answer.
The call is still going. I can hear muffled music and talking. It’s echoing, like she’s in a small room.
“Nadia? What’s going on? Where are you?”
Then the call ends.
Fuck.
She sounded in great distress.
Where did she say she was going?
Did she tell me?
I pace our apartment as I scroll through the text messages.
She said she’d be out tonight and not to worry if I wasn’t home when I got in from my shift.
I keep scrolling. Then I find it.
Aces. A bar in East LA.
I grab my keys and race to lock up and jump into my Jeep.
Where is her cousin? What’s happened?
I slam my hand against the steering wheel as I drive across town, ignoring all speed limits and turning any yellow light into a reason to gun it.
She might not even be at the bar anymore. It’s almost midnight. Someone could have taken her somewhere. She could be in real danger.
“Shit!”
There’s no way I can track her. We don’t have that level of connection. I have to hope she’s at Aces.
