Fuck, I hate owing people.
The length of the drive, I continue to mull over the things that don’t make sense about Carlito’s plan for Wednesday evening. What would he be planning preemptively? I haven’t mentioned to anyone that I’d be anywhere in particular. He has to have some information that I don’t, something that isn’t quite fitting into the timeline.
I’m perplexed and confused by it all, but when we pull into my spot in the garage, I know we aren’t done just yet. I still need the Fed's help.
“Jack,” I elbow him, and he lifts his head from his phone, looking around as if he recognizes where we are.
“You should come inside with us. We still have loose ends we’ve gotta resolve.” He agrees with a lip-pressed smile, and we head to the elevator, going to the top floor and stepping into the darkness of the penthouse. Lee turns on the lights, and I guide the group to the kitchen.
“Holy shit, man.” Jack is gaping at the vaulted ceilings and towering windows of my mundane living. A laugh escapes from my mouth, and I go straight for the freezer, pulling out my own personal bottle of Three Seasons Gin from the Cambridge distillery. I pour everyone a shot, and we clink our glasses, downing it in silence before taking one more. I’ll admit it’s not the brightest thing to do right now. However, along with solving this ridiculousness, my heart is still very much breaking. I just need an ounce (or two) of momentary relief.
“She’s a great girl.” Jack finally says as he plops down on the barstool, and the boys have left to stand by the entrance. I pour myself another shot, and he holds out his glass like a child for me to top him up. I do reluctantly, hoping to stop feeling like he’s beginning to grow on me by doing him a begrudging favor.
“Yeah.” After gulping down my fourth shot, I let out a hiss from my mouth.
“You got lucky, ya know, that she’s okay.” I lick my bottom lip in annoyance. This asshat has no idea.
“We broke up.” I sniff angrily, leaning against the countertop.
“I didn’t know you were dating… I was just—talking about her working for you.” He clears his throat and looks down at his shot glass.
“Oh,” is all I say before tossing the gin back into the freezer and walking across the penthouse to my room.
“Where are you going?” He slurs a little. Can’t even handle his liquor. I scoff as I enter my room, but just before I’m about to close the door, I call, “You can sleep on the couch.” And with that, I flop to my bed, accompanied by grief tightening its grasp around my neck for the remainder of the night.