“Please,” I whisper, hitting redial again. “Please pick up.”
Nothing. Just his recorded voice telling me to leave a message. I’ve already left four. Each one more desperate than the last.
The temperature display on my dashboard now reads thirty-eight degrees. Not freezing yet, but getting there fast. I pull my jacket tighter around my body, cursing myself for not keeping anemergency blanket in the trunk. Another several minutes pass as I stare out at the abandoned gas station across the street, its broken windows like empty eye sockets in the moonlight.
This is ridiculous. I can’t just sit here all night, waiting for a husband who clearly doesn’t care enough to check his messages. Club business, I huff to myself. Hope it was important.
I scroll through my contacts, trying to think who else I could call. I have no family. Morgan is currently in Arizona visiting her mother. There’s no one else I feel comfortable calling this late, asking them to drive out to the middle of nowhere to rescue me.
Except…
I scroll through my contacts until I find the number for the Devil’s Rejects clubhouse. Roman made me save it for emergencies only. Well, this certainly qualifies.
The phone rings five times before someone picks up.
“Yeah?” a male voice, gruff and impatient.
“Hi,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “This is Kayla Sullivan, Roman’s wife—old lady. Is he there?”
There’s a pause, the sound of muffled voices and laughter in the background. “Who?”
I clench my jaw. “Roman. Sullivan.” I say each word slowly, as if I’m speaking to a child. “Viper?”
“Oh, Viper.” The man’s voice changes, becoming slightly more respectful, though no more helpful. “He’s not available.”
“Not available?” I repeat, anger creeping into my voice. “What does that mean?”
“It means he’s not available to talk right now.”
I take a deep breath, trying to control my temper. Getting angry won’t help me get what I need. “Look, I understand he’s busy, but this is really important. Could you please just tell him his wife is on the phone? Tell him my car broke down and I’m stranded.”
“Like I said, he’s not available.” The man’s voice takes on an edge of condescension. “He’s handling club business.”
“Club business,” I repeat flatly. Of course. The sacred, mysterious club business that always, always takes precedence over me. “Can you at least go tell him I called? Tell him I really need him to call me back?”
I hear him sigh heavily into the phone. “Look, lady—“
“Kayla,” I correct him. “My name is Kayla.”
“Whatever. Viper’s busy. He can’t be disturbed.”
My grip tightens on the phone. The cold is really setting in now; I can barely feel my toes in my thin dress shoes. “My car broke down in the middle of nowhere. I’m freezing out here. I need help.”
“So, call a tow truck.” His tone is dismissive, as if I’m an idiot for not thinking of this myself.
“I called a tow truck,” I snap. “They can’t get here for hours. I need my husband.”
“I don’t know what to tell you.” He sounds bored now.
Something snaps inside me. The fear, the cold, the loneliness, and now this; it’s too much.
“You know what? You’re an asshole,” I hiss into the phone. “Just tell my husband his wife needs him, you condescending prick. If he still gives a shit, that is.”
“Yeah, I’ll be sure to pass that message along,” he says sarcastically, and then the line goes dead.
I stare at my phone in disbelief. He hung up on me. The bastard actually hung up on me.
“Fuck!” I slam my palm against the steering wheel. The sudden pain is almost welcome—at least it distracts from the cold for a moment.