At five minutes till six, I parked my car across from Pussy Whipped. I jumped out and headed to the corner. Before the light could change, Hannah came out the door of club and started up the street. She wore nice dark jeans, and her glossy hair slid easily across the silky blue top she wore. My cock jumped just looking at her.
She got into a green Chevy Malibu, and the car re-entered traffic, going north, the opposite direction.
Fuck.
I ran back to the shit-mobile, started it up, and waited a grueling thirty seconds for traffic to clear. When fate conspired against me, I took a chance. I pulled out into the first large gap and did a U-turn in the street to the sounds of blaring horns and “Fuck you!”
Traffic sucked at six o’clock, but that worked in my favor because the Malibu couldn’t get too far ahead of me. The few times the lights changed, I was able to catch up almost immediately.
“Where the hell is she going?”
We drove for a solid hour, sitting in traffic for most of that time. Finally, the Malibu pulled up in front of a parking lot right outside the Loop on South Wabash. I glanced around. I didn’t think she’d come all this way for the Starbucks. When Hannah got out of the car and started walking, I swung into the lot. It belonged to a grocery store, but I didn’t give a fuck.
A guy pushing carts back into the building gave me the finger when he saw me leaving the area. I gave it right back along with, “Have a nice day.”
Hannah walked past the bank, past a couple of restaurants, and I suddenly had a sickening thought. I stopped dead on the street, ignoring the woman who plowed into my back.
“What if she’s going on a date?”
“Stalker much?” the woman said.
I shook my head and started to say something, but she gave me that hard stare women give when they think they’re looking at a real douche. So instead of being nice, I said, “Fuck off,” and she scurried on her merry way.
My girl finally stopped in front of an innocuous-looking seven-story building with one of those hideous re-paneled fronts, probably done in the sixties when the collective conscience said, “out with the old, in with the new.” The people in the sixties were full of horseshit. Chicago’s history was a living thing, and I was happy to see some barricades. Maybe someone was tearing that front down to let that building breathe.
Hannah smoothed her hair, pulled open the door, and vanished inside.
What to do, what to do.
Cop logic dictated I follow her, but Danny O’Shea wasn’t a cop, and I didn’t think Hannah would be happy being stalked, even if she liked me.
Screw it. I gave her a minute to find an elevator, and then I went inside.
Typical office building. Some attorneys. A couple of dentists. Insurance companies up the ass. I supposed she could have a dentist appointment, but as I perused the building directory, my gaze snapped to something on the fourth floor.
Armor Security.
The tagline attached to the logo said, Armored Security Services—Your Valuables, Our Guarantee.
“Bingo.”
I took the elevator to the fourth floor, planted my carcass against the wall outside of the door, and waited. I might look like a total schmuck when I found out later she had a dentist appointment, but that was a risk I was willing to take.
Chapter Six: Hannah
After I stuffed the flash drive into my purse, I headed to the ladies’ room to splash water on my face. Every time I came to this office I got a case of the flop-sweats. The owner never spoke to me, though his eyes said volumes. Now, like I’d done for the past three deliveries, I’d walk down that hot sidewalk and head to Starbucks for a coffee I didn’t want. I’d gag it down, trying to look like a woman relaxing after work but really trying to calm my nerves, and then call for an Uber to take me back to the club.
Such a small assuming thing nestled among the tissues and makeup in my purse, but to me it felt like a cement block pulling me deeper and deeper into dark waters. I knew what it held, and my seemingly insignificant part in whatever my brother had planned with this legitimate thug seemed incredibly significant to me.
No amount of education was worth what these trips did to my sanity. I might not be a criminal, but my involvement brought me closer and closer to that fine line between innocent bystander and conspirator.
I stared at myself in the mirror above the sink, hating the girl who stared back. I’d chewed off all the lipstick while waiting for the man to give me the latest message, and my lips looked raw and ragged. Like my nerves. Like my thought process. Like my life.
“You’re losing it,” I whispered.
I tried shaking out my hands to remove the pinpricks of anxiety. I splashed some more water on my hot cheeks. Finally, I reapplied the lipstick, but nothing could cover the damaged skin.
“Fuck it. Get your coffee, relax, and get home.”