Climbing back up to street level, Michael skipped two stairs at a time. His heart thudded against his breastbone with the full impact of anger. He directed it at himself, knowing that he had miscalculated time. No, he had wasted it, and for what? For getting no answer from Bull, other than evasion! How that crazy artist had predicted the fate of the old man remained unclear.
Michael texted one frantic message after another to Ash. He told her he was sorry, he hadn’t meant to miss dinner with her, but something had just come up. Realizing that this sounded like a lame excuse, he added that it was a question of life and death, and unfortunately it was left unanswered, but now he was heading home, so please wait.
Michael considered writing, “Let me make it up to you,” but decided against it. He held these words in reserve for the moment they met face to face. If she replied with, “You can’t,” there would be only one way to stop their fight from starting: sweep her off her feet and kiss her till she loses herself in his arms.
Meanwhile, he called and called, but to no avail. There was no answer.
Dead tired. That’s what he was. Down below, from Bull’s place, the sound of a door banging shut rattled the stairs. It compounded his frustration over missed signs, mistaken clues, blocked paths. He prayed that by some magical spell, another door might soon open.
Excerpt from Virtually Lace by Uvi Poznansky
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