"I see you're still demanding," he teases.
"Not leaving my car outside, man. You know how I am," I claim.
He grunts. "Maybe you should get a beater for the hood."
"Not a chance."
He adds, "I'll be out in a minute."
I wait, watching my mirrors, only semi-confident that no one would try anything on Chainsaw's doorstep. Relief hits me when he finally steps outside.
He opens the passenger door and slides in. We slap hands, and I notice he's added three more tear tattoos under his eyes. It's common with gang members, which I'm sure Chainsaw is. Which gang, I don't know or care, since I don't ever mess with him. Each tear is a sign that he's killed someone and proud of it. I assume the tears represent rival gang members since he's probably killed way more than only three people since I last saw him.
Chainsaw questions, "What's the job?"
It's why I like him. He's straight to the point, like I am. I state, "I have a guy I need you to pick up. He works security for the front door of Cheeks. His name is Snake. Make sure it's him you pick up and no one else."
"Yeah, of course," Chainsaw says, as if I've insulted him.
I ignore his tone, adding, "Take him to my warehouse."
"Will do. Do you know his schedule?"
I shake my head. "No. I'm assuming he'll be there tonight, although I could be wrong."
"I'll call you when it's done," Chainsaw states.
I hand him a yellow envelope of cash. "Call me when he's at the warehouse."
Chainsaw arches his eyebrows.
I continue, "Don't finish him off. I want to make sure I'm there."
His lips form into a sinister smile. "I love it when you like to jump in and play."
I grunt. The warehouse is only for these types of situations. It's not the first time Chainsaw's handled business for me. I normally like to have him do everything so my hands are clean, but Snake messed with Blakely. This is personal.
"I'll text you when he's there," Chainsaw states, then gets out of the car with the yellow envelope.
I peel out of the neighborhood. I'm heading toward Malibu when another call comes in. I hit the answer button on my dashboard screen and say, "Jones, what's going on?"
He relays, "There's movement in the US accounts going into the offshore ones."
"Fuck," I mutter. Hugh is really testing my patience. I can't wait to take him down. I add, "I need you to hurry up and get me access to the Cayman accounts."
"I'm on it, but I thought you should know," Jones says.
"Thanks, man. Keep me posted of any other activity," I demand, then hang up.
Traffic's bad like always, and it's later than I anticipated when I pull up to the boutique. The staff loads my trunk, and I fight more traffic on the way back to Malibu.
I make another stop to pick up dinner at a local farm-to-table restaurant. I down a beer while I stare at the waves crashing into the rocks, waiting for the food to be made. For the millionth time today, I wonder what Blakely is thinking about the contract.
By the time I get home, it's almost dark. I don't realize how anxious I've been all day about leaving her on her own until I walk in and see her standing at the window.
Her arms are crossed, and she's wearing one of my flannel shirts. She has the sleeves rolled, and her hair is tied into a loose bun.
It's another thing I really like—seeing her in my clothes. Knowing she's naked underneath and waiting for me to come home gives me such a hard-on. I consider going against my rule and fucking her tonight even though her birth control won't be effective yet.