Page 56 of Chicago Sin
I don’t turn, even though I want to. I fucking hate having my back to danger. “I don’t know,” I mutter. The pounding music fades.
“It’s gone,” Hannah tells me.
I turn back to the van and tug the cart, resuming like nothing happened.
Fuck.
That could’ve been the Hermanos. They could’ve had assault weapons and fired from the car. Hannah would’ve been killed.
I’m still ice-cold and emotionless when I picture myself getting gunned down, but the thought of Hannah dying because of me brings bile to my mouth.
I shouldn’t be hiding out with her. It would be better to expose myself to danger than to use her as my shield.
I need to get out of her life.
Fucking soon.
Ushering her to the passenger side of the van, I open the door and assist her inside, feeling as if eyes are still on me. Watching my every move. I notice that Hannah is examining my face, obviously picking up on my discomfort. Not saying anything to explain, I close her door and walk around the van pissed that I let my guard down. My eyes dart from side to side, scanning the parking lot, and finally acting like the man I was trained to be.
No more playing house. Our fucking lives are on the line.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Hannah
Shadow races to greet us when we get home, climbing Armando’s pant leg.
“What the fuck?” He rears away to stare down his leg at my tiny sharp-clawed nuisance.
“I’m sorry.” I rush over to extricate the kitten’s claws from his thigh. “He’s a menace.”
“Let me see him.” Armando holds out his hand. I hesitate a moment before I hand him over. I’m not sure where Armando falls with treatment of animals although he did buy toys for Shadow.
He takes Shadow from me and holds him up face-level. “Listen, little man. My leg? Not your scratching post. Got it?”
I giggle and reach to take him back.
“Give him one of those treats,” Armando says, and my heart does this weird squeezing thing. Like we’re pet parents together or something stupid like that. It’s ridiculous and weird and God—this whole situation exhausts me.
I retrieve the treats and feed Shadow one while Armando puts away the groceries and sets the table.
I’m mad at him, I remind my ovaries, which drop eggs every thirty seconds. Mad at him. He tied me up in my own bed last night. He’s taken my phone, which I need. He’s still standing guard over me like I’m a prisoner.
Technically, I am a prisoner. Or am I? It’s hard to feel like a prisoner when I keep fucking my jailer. I’m struggling to keep my hands off him right now.
We sit down and eat one of those pre-cooked rotisserie chickens and a Caesar salad that Armando made. Armando eats fast, head down, not saying a word. I picture him eating like that in prison, and my chest gets tight. I want to ask about it, but he’s so closed off, I don’t dare.
He finally looks up, pauses mid-chew, and swallows hard. As if it’s just dawned on him that we’ve sat here in silence as he shoveled food into his mouth like a guard is waiting to take his tray away.
“So tell me something about you,” he says.
“Um… like what?”
He pauses, his eyes dart around the room and then center back on me. “What is your favorite flower? I know you are around them all day and know the preferences of your clients. But what is yours?”
“Do I have to have one?”
“Yes. Everyone has a favorite.”
