“Nah,”—he shook his head—”it only proves I’m redeemable and you’re a lost cause.”
I scoffed. “Like fuck, you are.”
Shooting me an annoyed side glance, he scowled deep and pushed the pedal to the metal. “I like it better when you’re silent.”
The jolt of the acceleration flung me back in the seat, but it didn’t shut me up. “I see you got the cops in your pocket.”
“It’s necessary.”
“So where are my artilleries?”
Chad gave me a look. “Barring the obvious fact that I’d be out of my fucking mind to give you weapons to use against me, I let the cops have them as payment to hold your cash and docs for me.”
“And what about my clothes and—”
“Eminem,” he said out loud, cutting me off, and I was momentarily confused until I heard a beeping sound and his monitor responded, “Locating Eminem” and, in a second, all of Eminem’s albums were loaded.
Hitting a button on the steering wheel, Chad selected the 2010Recoveryalbum, then the singleLove the Way You Lie.
Still a diehard Eminem fan, I realized. Back when I knew him—or at least thought I did—Nas and Eminem were basically the only music artistes he jammed to. A small smile tugged at my lips at the choice of song, though.
Was he apologizing for hitting me?
Huh.
“Do you st—” I started to ask, but he instantly pressed a button on the steering wheel and upped the volume so loud and blaring, my words got drowned out by the music.
Pursing my lips, I turned and looked out the window at the world zooming by. Because, yeah, whatever, I got it now: he liked me better silent.
Arrogant shit.
My ears were buzzing when we finally got to his place in Russian Hill—a building I’d watched for months, seeking the most expedient way to steal in.
There’d been no way.
The only residents of this six-story apartment building were big, bulky, mess-with-me-and-you-die employers of Chad. It had taken me some time to realize no normal people actually live there, people who I could befriend and manipulate to sneak my way into the building.
After a week of scoping out the building and seeing only scary-looking fellas come and go, I’d settled on the conclusion that the entire building belonged to Chad, and only his security team resided there. Like it was his compound.
Clever fucker.
I bet he slept like a newborn baby at night, curled in a fetus position and sucking his thumb.
When Chad swung the R8 through the mighty tall gates of his “compound”, a man who seemed to gobble steroids for breakfast immediately came out of the building and hurried to take over the car. Hmm, a criminal valet? Ha.
Getting out of the car, I slammed the door with unneeded force. But Chad didn’t bite the bait. He just handed the keys to the man, took the food bag from me, leaving me with the duffel, then grabbed my wrist with his free hand and tugged me along.
The outside of the building was all kinds of the typical San Fran quaint and charming, but inside was wholly modernized with clean chrome and cream finishes. The lobby had a huge receptionist counter at the front, and sitting behind it was another hulk-like man, watching a set of monitors lined off down the long stretch of stainless steel counter, which I had no doubt were showing security feeds on every inch of this place.
Further down the expansive lobby were burgundy sofas and beige armchairs, raindrop chandeliers and tall mirrors, expensive art and ostentatious rugs, tremendous potted plants and flat-screen televisions on the walls. You’d think you were in the lobby of a five-star hotel, the place was so lavishly designed. Not an apartment building of criminals.
How deceptive. Like the owner.
Like a trimmed puppy with a pink dog tag, I was tugged along into the elevator. Chad punched in a code and our ascent began.
Silence.
He was in hate mode. But could I blame him? On numerous occasions I’d tried to kill him.
