by S. Ann Cole
“I trust you,” I whispered in a hoarse voice. And best believe I stupidly did. After all he just did to me, I trusted him. With my fucking life.
“Good. Once we step out of this building, struggle. Okay?”
Without waiting for a response, he pulled me away from the wall and steered me back out into the restaurant.
The young couple were no longer there, the OPEN sign on the door was turned inside, and the tall, dark-skinned man behind the counter was waiting patiently with his hands laced on the countertop, chomping down on his bottom lip. When he saw us round the corner, he exhaled an audible breath, then shoved two foam boxes of food in a Thank You bag.
“So you actually came for food?” I asked Chad.
Chad eyed the food as the man tossed packets of sauce and ketchup in the bag. “Hugo makes the best jerk chicken and pork in all of San Francisco. You don’t want to see this place on a Friday or Saturday night. Trust me, I’m here for the food.”
“Thanks, Hugo,” Chad said, as the man passed him the bag, and I knew the “thanks” wasn’t about the food.
“Anytime, mi don.”
“Because you didn’t warn me,” I hissed at Chad’s accomplice, “I’m gonna need my fucking change. You don’t deserve a tip.”
Hugo broke into a wide grin, his neat, shoulder-length locks dancing as he shook his head. “Jah know, it sticky, ‘cause if only you could reach yah hand out so I could give it to yah…”
That’s when I placed his accent. He was being a smart-ass because my hands were cuffed. Alright. Let him have his fun. There’ll always be a “next time”.
Eyes narrowing to a glare, I warned, “Mark my face, Jamaican punk. Because I’ll be back for my fucking change.”
Hugo looked to Chad in question, and Chad gave him the same shrug Hugo had given me then dragged me away from the counter.
I’d be coming back for my change.
When we were out the door, I did as Chad had instructed and struggled. Manhandling me, which I assumed was a part of the act for God knows what, he roughly stuffed me into the car and set the food in my lap.
As soon as he got into the car himself, he reached over and relieved me of the cuffs, then took my messenger bag and set it down on the floor between his feet. I wouldn’t be getting that back for sure.
While starting the engine, he used his other hand to dial someone on his cell. “Now,” he commanded into the phone when the recipient picked up.
By the time he hung up and set the phone down, there was a loud, car-jerking explosion. Confused as to what the hell was going on, I glanced around, then into the rear-view mirror where I saw a massive blaze of fire and smoke a few blocks down. A glow of red flaming through the black of the night, a caustic symbol of destruction.
As Chad peeled away from the curb without even glancing back at the explosion behind us, I asked, “What the hell did you just blow up?”
The R8 accelerated in a glorifying roar. “A 2012 Kawasaki Ninja.”
NINE
‘Tis Grace that brought me safe thus far…
I silently seethed after Chad’s last words. Too irate to speak. Too irate to even argue. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to plunge a sharp knife right in the base of his throat, puncture his lungs and fucking kill him.
How dare he blow up my bike! What gave him the goddamn right?
Um…you kinda just tried to kill him, the annoying voice in my head reminded me.
To keep from screaming obscenities at this impossible pestilence of a man, I chewed on my tongue and ate my words for dinner. That, and because he was speeding like a freaking lunatic, tires screeching and all, and my body was pressed back in the car seat.
When the car began decelerating, the buildings and street signs no longer a blur, I noticed we were on the road to my apartment complex. Disappointment pricked at me and I stupidly found myself saying, “I thought you said you were taking me with you?”
A look of irritation passed over his features, as if the sound of my voice was the last thing he needed to hear, like I was nothing but an obnoxious gnat. He just kept on driving until we were at my apartment, not giving me the courtesy of an answer.
I wanted to stick my tongue out at him, but looked out the car window instead, and that’s when I noticed the flashing lights.
Police cars and a fire truck.
The hell?
The gates were taped off, no entry. But it didn’t seem as though Chad was there to get in. He swung right up to the yellow tape outside the gates, drew up the handbrake, left the engine running, got out of the car and walked unhurriedly up to one of the police cars parked a distance away from the others.
While he bent at the window to talk to whoever was in that cop car, I dragged my gaze back to my apartment building, trying to understand what had happened, considering there was no fire and there wasn’t much I could make out from this distance.
Setting the bag with the food on the dashboard, I leaned forward to peer a little bit closer through the windshield. A horrified gasp escaped me when I saw the thin sheets of sooty black smoke, residue of an extinguished fire, floating out of an apartment on the top floor.
My apartment.
Holy shit, my apartment had been on fire! What the fuck?
People, residents of the complex, huddled around, staring up at my ruined apartment. The fire truck must have gotten there before the fire consumed the whole building, because it was only my apartment bleeding smoke.
While I was out chasing Chad, my apartment had been on fire.
The sound of the car door opening dragged me from my warranted indignation and tongue-tying shock. Chad folded himself back inside the sports car with a duffel bag.
My chocolate brown duffel bag. Which had over half a mil inside.
Tossing the bag onto my lap, he slammed the car door harder than I thought necessary, shifted the gear in drive, and reversed from the scene.
Lost for words, I glanced down at the bag in my lap, then at the side of Chad’s face, then in the rear-view mirror back to the apartment building, then at the bag again, then at Chad. “How did you…hold on…you’re the one who set my apartment on fire?”
Driving a little less manic than before, he gave me a sidelong glance as an answer.
A growl rumbled in my throat like a Bandersnatch and I gripped the straps of my duffel bag to control the rage spiking inside me. “Why the hell are you setting all my shit on fire?! Arrrghh! Do you have to be such a deviant fucking miscreant?!”
Chad turned his head to me and cocked it slightly. “A deviant miscreant?” he asked, low and slow. “And, what are you?”
As I heaved in a breath, gearing up to shout at him some more, he unexpectedly soared into an incensed roar. “San Fran is my safe haven, with minimal crime and impossibly happy people. And sometimes it creates a nice illusion that all is right with the world. But every once in a while, someone like you comes along and starts shitting on my rainbows and fucking unicorns. Painting my blue skies black and my white clouds red, eclipsing my sun, sucking me back into the fucking darkness. And you know what, it pisses me off! You’re pissing me the fuck off, Blood!!”
With each word, his voice crescendoed, got growlier, and by the end, I was pressing myself against the car door.
“So tell me,” he said in a lower octave, “if I’m a deviant miscreant, what are you?”
“The angel of death?”
With a humorless laugh he said, “And yet I have you in my car. Taking you to my home.” Exhaling, he tutted. “Oh Death, where is your victory? Where, oh Death, is your sting?”
“You’re tryna slew me with a Bible quote?” I asked, incredulous. “Pretty sure that’s an insult to God.”
“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.”<
br />
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 2010 Recovery album, then the single Love 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.
And failed.
Now I realized it was because he’d known all along my purpose here and played me. And I was an ignorant idiot to believe Chad wouldn’t have suspected me.
I should have gotten a hint the second he’d asked me in the garden if I wanted to kill him. But I’d been too busy aching for his lips on mine to hear the warning bells.
I’d waited until he’d completely fucked my brains out to question how he’d gotten in the complex. Then, like a dull-witted fool, I’d believed him when he said he never knew I lived there.
So distracted. So unacceptably distracted I’d been.
A prime example why screwing your target is never an option. Yeah…you just don’t do that. Ever.
My ass was grass. This was a major fuck-up, and I’d been trying all night not to think about what the result of my failure would be when The Voice found out.
In addition to failing, I was being held hostage by my target.
Jhay Byrd: dumbest fucking assassin who ever lived.
The elevator pinged open and coughed us out into a luxuriously pretentious penthouse. So disgustingly arrogant in its deep brown and beige decor, designed for a man’s palette. The ridiculously high ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows with panoramic views of the Bay gave the illusion that the penthouse was a lot bigger than it actually was.
He lived splendidly, this man. How unfair that he’d completely ruined my life, but was free and alive enjoying his to the fullest.
Keeping my lower lip pressed between my teeth, I followed where he led, partly because I had no choice, and partly because I’d given up on everything. I’d gone from one person’s captivity to another. And while I’d like to think that this particular captivity would be a sweet captivity—what with the dangerously toxic, unexplainable emotions I felt for this man—Chad’s surly attitude was like a warning sign to abandon all hope.
He went from wanting our fucks to mean something to not wanting to hear my voice at all.
Setting down the plastic bag with our food on an eight-seater dining table, he led me down a short hallway, stopped at the first door on the right, turned the knob, and pushed it open, gesturing for me to get in.
I walked into the room and was overwhelmed.
In a good way.
In royal purple and beige, the room was capacious and beautifully decorated. Flanked by two nightstands with elaborate bedside lamps was a king-sized bed with a tall, tufted headboard. Two massive, teal armchairs and a coffee table made for a sitting area on the far right. Dresser, chest of drawers, a fifty-inch flat-screen TV on the wall.
I wanted to cry like a little girl, the room was so warm and welcoming. It’s like a long-lost bedroom. Mine. Made for me. Royal purple was my favorite color. How and why did he have a room in royal purple?
“Closet’s stocked with clothes for you. Undergarments and sleepwear are in the chest of drawers,” he voiced from behind me, remaining at the doorway like he wasn’t allowed in. “You have everything you need here. Need any assistance, my housemaid—when she returns in the morning from her day off—will be here to attend to you.”
Those words hit me, like a fist to the gut, and I whirled on him. “You decorated this room for me? Bought me clothes? Shit, you planned to take me hostage all along?”
Straight-faced, he corrected, “You’re not hostage.”
I threw my hands out, the duffel bag dropping to the carpeted floor with a mild thud. “Then what the hell’s all this?!”
“We played a game and you lost. I manipulatively left myself open on the chessboard and you, predictably, moved into all the traps.”
Ashamed of my stupidity, I dropped my gaze and accepted defeat. “You knew. All along you knew why I was here and you just…toyed with me. Let me think I was winning.”
Folding his arms across his chest, Chad leaned against the door frame. “To give you credit, you were working as a fake stripper in my club, right under my nose and I didn’t even smell you. That’s something. Because I have spies everywhere who sniff out my assassins from miles away. No one’s ever gotten…this close.”
“Why are you keeping me alive?”
He chortled at this, but it seemed more like he was laughing at himself, at his own madness. “Honestly, I’m not sure yet. For all I know, I might�
�ve hit my head real fucking hard somewhere and just don’t remember it.”
Because you want me, goddammit! Because I mean something to you. Say it, you proud asshole!
To hide a smile, I turned from him and went to sit at the edge of the bed, keeping my head down. “What else do you know?”
I stiflingly held in my breath, curling my fingers and clutching the duvet, praying like hell he wouldn’t say, “That you’re Tweety Byrd.”
Please don’t say you know who I am. Please don’t say you know who I am. Please don’t say you know who I am. It will change everything.
A long stretch of silence, then, “Only that I need to protect you.”
At that totally unexpected answer, I glanced over to the doorway at him. “Protect me? From what?”
Uncrossing his arms, Chad rubbed his eyes and straightened up. “Look, I’m too tired to get into that right now. I’ve had enough shit for one night. It’s late and I need to recharge. I suggest you shower and get some rest, too.” He turned to leave, then paused to toss over his shoulder, “And don’t bother trying to escape. You won’t succeed.”
Long after he was gone, I watched the empty doorway. Confused. My whole life just felt like one long, never-ending game, and I kept losing with each misjudged move. Sometimes I wondered what the whole point of my existence was. Why I was even alive.
As my eyes roamed around the room, I could admit to one thing: I was happy to be here. To be Chad’s captive, or chess piece, or whatever.
Back at Hugo’s restaurant, when Chad told me he would be taking me with him, I’d been too much in pain to jump up and down at the announcement, because those words were gold. It was as if it was what I’d wanted all along and never even realized. Why did Chad “taking me with him” thrill me so much, I had no idea. All I knew was that something in my stomach fluttered at the prospect. And now, here I was, in a commodious room decorated specifically for me.
And I felt something.
A good something.
A great something.
A path-breaking, future-changing something.
