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The momentum of the car stopping pushes his face right up next to the windshield.
"Stop!" His angry face scowls at me. I'm mostly reading his lips because I can't really hear him from outside.
"I am stopped!" I scream back, but he's probably reading my lips too.
His eyebrows furrow as he slides off the car like he's mad at me. He's the one who jumped onto a moving car. I did nothing wrong except try to leave this nightmare of an evening—and him—behind. As he stomps to the passenger door, I fumble for the lock but he opens it before I can get my brain and my hand coordinated. He plops in the passenger seat ofmyJetta and glares at me.
"Get the hell out of my car!"
"We're talking now." His voice is commanding and harsh. Who the hell does he think he is talking to me like that?
"The hell we are. Get out!"
"Drive to the beach." He points through the windshield telling me which way to go. The Brooklyn accent has returned to his voice and he looks a lot more like the fighter I once knew. That guy was hot when he was angry. This dickwaddle in a suit is just pissing me off.
A car behind me honks for me to get out of the way.
"I have to move."
"So drive."
"Not with you in here."
The car behind me gives up on waiting, honks, and goes around us.
"Get out!" I reach over his lap and open his door. My arms brush his thighs and darn, darn, they are still ripped and tight.
"Drive," he says like he can give me orders.
"No." I cross my arms and stare forward through the windshield.
"Your dad has probably sent someone out here to follow me. Did you tell him about us?" he asks me.
"No." Of course I didn't. It would put us both in the crosshairs.
"I didn't either, so unless Donnie or Renzo did, he doesn't know."
"Donnie and Renzo didn't tell him. I would have heard about it."
"Then drive if you want to keep it a secret," he says with a condescending tone.
"I hate you." My foot stomps the gas and my wheels squeak as we tear out of the parking lot.
Chapter 14 I Hope You're Right
I reluctantly follow his directions to Sky Tower on 52nd Street in Lower Manhattan.
A card from his wallet grants us entrance into the parking structure of the highly coveted, extremely expensive apartment complex.
"What are we doing here?"
"Park. 3503." He points to an empty space near the elevator.
"Is this your place?"
He doesn't answer me as we park. "Let's go."
"No. You get out here," I say.
