Ponytail nodded. “Hell yeah I did.”
I walked down the short hall, knocked on Axton’s door and waited. Nothing. I tried the door handle, but it was locked. I jiggled the knob. “Ax, you in there?”
No answer.
“Hey Joe,” I yelled.
Joe shuffled down the hall to stand next to me.
“Axton’s door is locked and he’s not answering.”
Joe shrugged. “Don’t know, dude.”
“Do you have a key?”
He scratched the top of his head. “Um…I don’t think so.”
I pounded on the door and shouted Axton’s name, but still no response.
“Are you going to kick the door in?” Joe asked.
“Not unless I have to.”
“Cuz that would be awesome. But, like, better if you had on a tight leather jumpsuit and boots that came up to your cootchie. All superhero style, you know?”
I walked back down the hall and out the front door. I made my way toward the side of the house until I stood outside of Axton’s room. His light was off but the window stood open, the curtains fluttering inward from the light wind.
Joe followed. “Hey, maybe the Axman escaped.”
I wrapped my hands over the window ledge, and bracing my feet against the house, hoisted myself up. Throwing one leg over the sill, I ducked my head and toppled into Axton’s bedroom, then quickly scrambled to my feet.
With my hands stretched out in front of me, I stumbled around in the dark and stubbed my toe as I searched for the light switch. When I finally found it, I flipped it on and took a good look around. There was an unbelievable amount of crap scattered everywhere, but no Axton.
A knot formed in the pit of my stomach. Where the hell was Ax and why hadn’t he taken his car?
I tromped back to the living room and asked Joe a few simple questions, like ‘When did Axton come home? Was he acting strange? Did he say if he was going out tonight?’ All I got back was, “Dude, I don’t know.” Not terribly helpful, Joe.
I gave Joe and Ponytail specific instructions to call me if Axton called or came home. They nodded as they munched on cold pizza and watched me with glazed eyes. With a sigh, I left the house and got back in my car.
I drove around for hours, stopping at all of Axton’s favorite hangouts: The Burger Barn, The Slaughter House (a local watering hole), Howard’s Hot Dog Stand, The Carp (a bar that featured live music), and even The Sizzler, Axton’s favorite restaurant. He was nowhere to be found and no one had seen him all night. I kept calling him, but he never answered.
I got home close to eleven o’clock. Worry clawed at me as I climbed the two flights of stairs to my studio apartment. Something was wrong with Ax, I felt it in my gut.
I dropped my stuff on the small bistro table in the corner then curled up on my orange futon, but I was too edgy to sit still, so I stood and paced the room. Axton gave me his backpack for safekeeping. Why? He was obviously hiding something, but there was nothing unusual inside of it. Did it have something to do with his computer? And what about the strange man? Did Axton have something that belonged to him? And why did Ax sneak out of his window and not take his car?
My head ached from asking myself the same questions over and over. Should I call the police? Should I wait to see if he showed up tomorrow? I didn’t know what to do.
Axton and I didn’t have much in common on the surface. I vaguely remembered him as a goofy kid from school. We hadn’t been friends, but our parents moved in the same social circles. But five years ago, when we ran into each other at the city college, it was like I saw him, really saw him, for the first time.
I had been feeling so hopeless and isolated after moving out of my parents’ home. All my old friends had gone back to their expensive schools, my sister had newborn Scotty to take care of, and I went to work at Ma’s Diner. I’d gone from country club tennis courts and a Lexus convertible to shopping for food at the dollar store and using a bus pass. I’d never even made my own bed and suddenly I had to figure out how to pay rent on a dump of an apartment. I was completely lost.
Until I met up with Ax.
With his sweet smile and love of Godzilla movie marathons, he kept me going. One day at a time. He held my hand through it all, offered to lend me money — which I could never bring myself to take — and brought me pizza. Lots and lots of pizza.
For a while, he was my only friend. And I would have lost my way without him.
He was an affable, tech-loving doofus who liked to spark up a bit too frequently and I was a rebellious smartass who could barely pay my bills. We were both misfits, not to mention bitter disappointments to our respective parents. I loved him like a brother. And if he was in trouble, I had to help him.
But I couldn’t do anything about it tonight. With a sigh, I took my hair out of its ponytail and massaged my scalp. In my Post-it sized bathroom, I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and pulled on a t-shirt my ex-boyfriend, Kevin, left behind. It was puke green and bore the name of his band, TurkeyJerk.
Boyfriends like Kevin might drift in and out of my life, but Ax was my constant, the one man I could count on. And now he was missing.
I blew out a breath. Well, I was just going to have to find him. Whatever trouble he was in, I would help. Maybe it was my turn to save him.
Chapter 4
The next morning I awoke to my phone ringing instead of my alarm. “Axton?” I asked, after fumbling with the receiver.
“It’s Ray. You’re late. You sick?” My boss’s gruff voice got me up in a hurry.
I looked around the room, my gaze finally landing on the clock. Six-fifteen. “Damn.” I hauled ass out of bed. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
He grunted in reply and hung up.
After throwing on a pair of semi-clean jeans, a bra and a wrinkled, long sleeved t-shirt, I brushed my teeth and pulled my hair into a sloppy ponytail. Then I grabbed my bag and made it to work in ten minutes.
“Sorry I’m late,” I yelled through the kitchen door. The smell of fried eggs and cinnamon French toast made my stomach growl. Tying a blue and white gingham apron around my waist, I got to work. I wanted to make sure Axton’s backpack was still safely hidden away in the syrup box, but there wasn’t time. The early crowd was in full swing.
Ma’s Diner was a hole in wall. A little brick building with no sign, a place you’d drive past and never notice. Ma’s served breakfast. Period. If you wanted a sandwich, it better be an egg sandwich or you were out of luck. We were open seven days a week, excluding Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter, from six to one. And if you came in at twelve fifty-five, you took it to go.
Ma’s hadn’t changed much since it opened in 1956—I’d seen the pictures to prove it. Wallpaper patterned with big baskets of fruit was now yellowed and dingy. Ten rectangular tables topped with pink Formica speckled with little pieces of gold glitter were scattered throughout the room, and none of the chairs matched.
Ma came in five times a week. At almost eighty, she still waited tables like a pro. Her real name was Marty, but I’d never heard anyone call her that. She was a favorite with the customers, especially older ones who liked to sit back and shoot the shit. Ma would talk to them about the good old days when her husband, Frank, was alive. But what she loved to do most was drink black coffee and complain to her son, Ray, that he never did anything right.
Lucky for me, Ma had come in that morning, as evidenced by Neil Diamond’s greatest hits playing over the speakers.
When we hit a lull around ten o’clock, I poured myself a cup of coffee and leaned my elbows on the counter in
