Page 11 of Choices

I get into the driver's side of our bulletproof SUV while Rico climbs into the passenger side and plugs an address into the onboard GPS. I raise my brow at him again, and again I'm met with silence.

The address isn't one I recognize. I look closer at the map.

Fuck, we're going to visit Hannah.

I roll my eyes.

Whatever. If the boss needs to get laid and he's got a suburban housewife kink, so be it.

Surprisingly, Little Miss Soccer Mom only lives about ten minutes away, on the other side of Arlington from our condo. I hop on 29, drive a few miles, and exit into the wealthiest neighborhood I think I've ever seen. Coming from poverty, Rico's wealth is obnoxious, but at least I know it's not important to him. He wields it like a weapon. This neighborhood, though? Screams entitlement and materialism.

Matty's at work today, but I bet he grew up in a place like this. Rich prick.

I pull into the driveway because fuck it, put the SUV in park and turn it off.

Sure, our blacked-out, tinted, bullet-proof windows SUV stands out in suburbia but who gives a shit? Let the Stepford wives call the cops. We're untouchable.

Rico gets out and walks right up to the front door as if he owns the place. Fuck, what am I going to do? Sit here while he fucks the soccer mom?

Fuck that, if he wants to get laid he doesn't need me to chauffeur him. Not to this side of town.

I get out, too, and follow him to the door.

This fucker has the audacity to grin smugly. I roll my eyes, trying not to show how annoyed I am.

"Eager to meet our little miss housewife?"

I glare in return.

"Can't blame ya," he says. "She's a sweet little thing." If he weren't the head Jefe, I'd have punched the shit out of him for that remark. Instead, I do what mutes do best and hold my tongue, shoving my hands in my front pockets so they're not tempted to fly.

I had listened as he told Matty all about their heart-to-heart that night. I'm not sure if he notices or not, but his voice takes on a different quality when he's talking about her, almost soft and far away.

He's interested.

I don't like it.

Rico, like the cocky shit he is, doesn't even knock or ring the doorbell, he simply walks into her house like he owns the place.

She's in the kitchen, her back to us, doing the dishes. She's got big black chunky headphones on so she doesn't hear us enter, and she's swaying to the music.

"You see the hood's been good to me ever since I was a lowercase G, but now I'm a big G, the girls see I got the money, hundred dollar bills, y'all."

I look at Rico who's simply smiling, his eyes on her lush ass. Who the hell is this woman singing 1990s hip hop?

"If you were from where I'm from, then you would know. That I gotta get mine in a big black truck. You can get yours in a '64."

Finally, she turns and gasps, dropping a plastic cup that sends water droplets and soap suds all over. One hand covers her chest, which is heaving now with adrenaline, and the other rips her headphones off.

"Fuck Rico! You scared the shit out of me."

He simply laughs. "Sorry." He doesn't look sorry. He looks like a kid on Christmas morning.

"Montel Jordan?" He asks, walking into the kitchen and picking up her cup for her.

"I'm in my 90s R&B era. So sue me."

The smile she gives Rico is bright and airy, and I suddenly can't breathe. A pang of jealousy shoots through me and it's foreign.

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