Page 114 of Reins

Then I see a man in a white Stetson, pointing back up into the stands.

Fuck. It’s John.

Grabbing my phone, I dial Wade’s number while trying to push through the masses in his direction.

Come on. Pick up.

When his voicemail kicks on, I shove it in my pocket, beelining for the place I saw him last. By the time I circle the arena, John’s gone.

What the hell was he pointing to?

Looking in the general direction I remember his hand, I nearly drop as ice grips me.

It’s a punch to the gut when I see the area where Rosalyn has been perched.

Empty.

I have to get there. Now.

Running through people, crashing between couples, pushing around bunches, it still takes me too fucking long to get there.

Panic has me panting when I reach the base of the seats.

She’s gone.

Using the rail, I duck under the bleachers themselves, short cutting around the shadowy supports to try and veer towards the exit.

But where the hell is Rosalyn?

Pulling out my cell again, I try to call her.

Voice mail? God damn it! “Rosalyn! Call me!” I leave a frantic message, then start to dial Wade when I catch a glimpse of a shiny big flatbed truck, decked out with balloons and window paint with ‘Just Married’ blazing down each side.

And the man who’s squatting behind it over a barrel tied to the tow hitch, a gray baseball cap unable to hide the blaze of nearly white-blond hair.

When the bill raises, I see the face of evil.

Eli.

With a grin, he waves with something small and black in his hand.

A remote.

The barrel.

He stands and points his finger at me like a gun, firing off his thumb before turning on his heel to saunter away.

No. Not today.

Running faster than I have in over a decade, I race past the barrels tied to the truck and tackle him from behind.

The small plastic device skitters across the gravel as Eli lands with a grunt.

When he catches me across the bridge of the nose with his elbow, it makes stars pop in my eyes while he wiggles out from under me.

“You’re gonna kill us both you stupid mother fucker,” he grunts. “You’re the one who needs to pay.”

“For what you did?” Reaching out, I grab at his pant leg but he turns, kicking at me, just as he grabs the remote.