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I take a moment imagining the fun scenarios where Dex apologizes, where we kiss and make up, where he tells me he wants to be with me.
I imagine reverting to the bliss we had before this drama.
I imagine a fake marriage that will never happen, and the bittersweetness of it coats my tongue in sour hope.
Eventually, a few delivery boys emerge from the loading doors carrying two bright pink Sugar Bowl boxes. But instead of a van, they load them into a sleek black SUV. It idles in the corner, so subtle that I almost miss it.
Where are they going? I have to know.
My heart leaps up my throat as I start the van.
My vehicle grumbles like a loud dragon, but no one turns to look as I follow the SUV out of the clubhouse and back toward the city.
Shit, shit, shit.
So maybe I’m not cut out for this spy chick stuff after all…
My heart pounds a headache into my skull.
My hands go slick against the steering wheel.
I open the window, just so I can feel the wind on my face, never mind the fact that the humidity after the rain makes the air feel like pea soup again today.
I can’t believe this is real life.
These guys are probably criminals.
Actually, screw probably.
If Forrest Haute was doing anything legit, he wouldn’t need my desserts to play hide and seek with mystery numbers.
Dexter’s right.
This is dangerous.
The realization skitters down my spine like marching spiders. I tighten my fingers on the steering wheel. If I get caught, there’ll be more than a potential lawsuit to deal with.
Like actual hell to pay.
My fingers cramp, wanting to lock up.
We head through downtown and wind toward a rougher area with worn abandoned buildings and barely functioning warehouses.
This place makes my old neighborhood look like paradise.
The shadows are alive at night here. Sirens are a lullaby.
My skin pricks with sweat.
At least no one gives me a second glance, though. I’m hanging a few cars back and the van blends in with the rest of this place in the winding traffic.
Iblend in—for now—and there’s nothing sleek about me. Nothing expensive except the ring that’s no longer on my finger and stuffed away like a dirty secret.
The SUV pulls up on the side of the road next to a battered laundromat. It looks normal enough, with its sign lit and customers washing clothes inside. The industrial-sized washing machines and tumble dryers are visible through the window, going through their spin cycles.
There’s nothing suspicious about this place.
Still, Haute’s friends must be here for a reason.
