Page 35 of Torched Spades
The last thing I need is Reese hearing any more of my personal information, so I move closer and mumble again, my blood pressure rising as she keeps clicking.
“What?”
“February 17th,” I growl, ready to grab that fucking mouse and shove it down her throat. Then two footsteps move in behind me, along with the distinctive crackle of warning.
The clicking stops, and the tech blinks at the computer screen. “There’s nothing on file, Johnny. If you’d like, I can send a refill request over to Dr. Brennan’s office, and—”
Fuck.
“I’ll come back.” I don’t hear her response because I’m already halfway toward the door. My head is a war zone riddled with landmines, and I don’t know which one’s going to blow next.
Once outside, a blast of crisp March air hits me, calming the brewing storm. Tipping my head back, I scrub a hand down my face, then head to my car, all while trying not to think about the warped door that bitch just flung open.
How did things get so fucked up so fast?
Two weeks ago, no one knew the name Johnny Malone. My only claim to fame was convincing a slightly batshit atheist I was the antichrist. However, since getting tangled up with Becca, I’ve stalked my psychiatrist, installed cameras in her condo, pissed off the Irish mob, and had confrontations with two members of the Providence PD.
Exactly the shitshow I’ve been trying to prevent.
My blood is still thrumming as I approach the driver’s side of my Impala. I’m about to press the unlock button when Dice’s warning replays in my head.
“Enjoy your victory, Johnny. You won’t be so lucky next time.”
Slowly, I glance over each shoulder. Satisfied no one is watching, I walk around the perimeter of the car, inspecting everything from the windows to the trunk for signs of forced entry. Finding nothing, I scan all four tires and the exhaust pipe before dropping to my knees and searching the undercarriage for loose wires.
Only then do I open the door, slide behind the wheel, and start the ignition. Even still, I hold my breath.
Becca was right. I do work third shift, which, unfortunately, doesn’t start for hours. Sliding my phone from my pocket, I type in a search for local shooting ranges. Once I locate the closest one, I pull the car into traffic and hit the gas.
Owen will have my ass when he finds out, but right now, I don’t give a shit. I need a distraction from once again finding myself staring down the barrel of both sides of the law. I need to keep from thinking about the life I’m not supposed to crave anymore. The man I’m never allowed to be again.
The kind who never waited in line at a fucking pharmacy.
Chapter Eleven
JOHNNY
As soon asI pull into my driveway, I see Owen sitting in his black SUV like a badge-toting grim reaper. I almost throw the car in reverse just to see if he can predict my next destination, as well. However, considering I haven’t spoken to the man in nearly two weeks, I’d wager a guess his presence isn’t so much fueled by ESP as GPS.
Inventive. Stupid, but still inventive.
Of course, there’s also the unspoken dark cloud still hanging over our heads. The one shaped like Jack Ledger’s limp dick after shooting a load of blank threats across the interrogation room table.
Jackie boy may have done his research, but not well enough. I knew barring any personal phone call being made, no “alert” would ever pass Owen’s desk. That’s why I went to the precinct rather than telling Ledger to go fuck himself. However, if Owen has my location monitored as I suspect he does, I’m even more intrigued why he’d wait four days to confront me.
After parking, I take my time walking over to him. I’ve never been one for the “wait and see” approach, so I open the passenger’s side door of the SUV and invite myself inside.
“Obsession isn’t a good look on you, Owen.”
At first, he says nothing. He just keeps staring through the windshield, the muscles in his neck pulled tight enough to snap. Obviously, I have a hunch what set him off. But the line between hunch and proof is as vast as the one between freedom and incarceration. So, draping my arm next to the window, I relax and wait out the silence.
Eventually, he exhales what I assume is an attempt at controlling his temper. “What the fuck were you thinking?”
“You’re going to have to be a little more specific than that.”
He cuts me a searing side-eyed glare. “You want the whole list or just the first page?”
I smirk. “Let’s go with your top two grievances. I’m on a time crunch.”
