The Do-Over (The Miles High Club #4)(81)

“Deal.”

He holds up the keys, and I snatch them out of his hand. “And you’re paying me for tonight.”

“You can keep the tips.” We go to walk out of the office. “Oh, and Christo.”

“What?”

“It’s a full moon party tonight.”

“Are you fucking serious?” I bark. “Every man and his fucking dog will be here.”

“Thus the need for more bar staff.” He fakes a smile.

Great.

I drag Hayden down the hall quickly to the room, and I open the door. A tiny double bed sits in the middle of the room. “This place is a fucking shithole,” I snap.

“You’re just used to the hotel. It’s not so bad.” Hayden shrugs. “Looks like the perfect reading spot to me.”

“I am done with hostels.” I kiss her quickly. “See you tonight.”

“No, you won’t. You’re working,” she teases.

“Don’t remind me.”



I sit in class and stare at the blackboard. The teacher goes on and on and on.

This is the most boring and pointless course I’ve ever done in my life. I glance at my watch: 11:00 a.m.

Fuck.

My god . . . has time completely stopped?

I can’t sit here for another seven hours. I will literally die a long and painful death.

I exhale and flick my pen against my forehead as I try to focus.

I wonder what Grumps is doing. I slide my phone out of my pocket onto my lap, and I text her under the table.

Hi Babe,

What’s doing?

I wait for her reply . . .

The teacher goes on and on some more, and I keep glancing at my phone.

Why isn’t she answering?

I text her again.

Are you okay?

I wait for her reply . . .

I shuffle around in my chair. Why isn’t she answering?

An hour passes. Still nothing.

I get a vision of all the drunk assholes in the hostel, and I begin to sweat.

What if something has happened?

I text her again.

Grumps,

I’m getting worried.

Text me!

I stare at my phone under the table as I will it to ring.

Hayden . . . call me, fuck it.

“Mr. Miles,” the teacher calls.

I glance up.

“Distracting you, am I?”

Yes, you are, actually.

“Phone away. Now.”

I fake a smile. “Sorry.” I slide my phone back into my pocket, and I stare at the blackboard.

This course is pointless. Who cares about rules of alcohol consumption?

Not me, that’s for sure.



Finally, it’s lunch break, and I rush from the classroom and dig out my phone.

No missed calls.

No texts.

I march to the cafeteria as I dial Hayden’s number.

It rings out.

“Where the hell is she?”

I dial her number again . . . still no answer. I hang up and call her again.

No answer.

That’s it—I text her.

Call me RIGHT NOW!

I grab a sandwich and sit at the table and eat alone. I’m beginning to sweat.

What if something has happened to her?

I go over all the possible scenarios in my head.

She could be asleep . . . she could be getting harassed by idiots. She could be getting attacked as she walks to the shops. Maybe she’s getting drugged and raped right now.

Fuck.

I call her again . . . no answer.

I’ve got better things to do than worry about a missing girlfriend all fucking day.

Oh my god . . . she’s missing.

I call her again.



Five o’clock, and I dive out of the cab as it pulls up in front of the hostel.

I’m frantic.

I’ve had the worst day of my life. Hayden is missing, probably dead in a ditch.

I pay the driver and run inside and take the stairs two at a time. The place is packed with people in white.

Stupid fucking full moon party.

I run down the corridor and burst into our room. It’s empty.

My chest tightens . . . fuck, where is she?

I run down to the bar and look around in a panic. I see Eddie. “Where’s Hayden?” I stammer.

He looks around and points over to the corner. Hayden is sitting with a group of people, laughing and having the time of her life. She’s relaxed and having fun.

In her white dress . . . the sky turns red.

We make eye contact, and I turn and march back to the room, furious.

I storm into the shower, and I’m so angry that I can’t even see straight.

I shower and go back to the room to find Hayden lying on the bed. “Hi, babe.” She smiles happily. “How was it?”

“Why haven’t you answered your fucking phone?” I yell at the top of my voice.

Her face falls. “What?”

“I’ve been calling you. All day, worried sick.”

“What do you mean?” She picks up her phone and frowns as she reads the screen. “Forty-two missed calls?” She looks up at me. “What’s wrong?”

“I thought you were dead in a ditch,” I cry.

Her eyebrows rise. She’s surprised by my tone. “Don’t yell at me, Christopher.”