Page 48 of Chad's Chase

Did heknowI needed them?

“Until I can trust you won’t try killing me again,” he said, “I’m taking you with me. Okay?”

I shrugged, because did I even have a choice?

Dropping his hands from my face to my shoulders, he spun me around to face the wall, tugged my hands behind me, and the next thing I knew, he was cuffing me.

Although I didn’t bother struggling, he brought his mouth to my ear and told me, “This is not to dominate you, make you feel inferior, or trap you. I cuffed you for a reason I can’t explain to you right now. So just work with it until we get into the car. Trust me, alright?”

“I trust you,” I whispered in a hoarse voice. And best believe I stupidly did. After all he just did to me, I trusted him. With my fucking life.

“Good. Once we step out of this building, struggle. Okay?”

Without waiting for a response, he pulled me away from the wall and steered me back out into the restaurant.

The young couple were no longer there, the OPEN sign on the door was turned inside, and the tall, dark-skinned man behind the counter was waiting patiently with his hands laced on the countertop, chomping down on his bottom lip. When he saw us round the corner, he exhaled an audible breath, then shoved two foam boxes of food in aThank Youbag.

“So you actually came for food?” I asked Chad.

Chad eyed the food as the man tossed packets of sauce and ketchup in the bag. “Hugo makes thebestjerk chicken and pork in all of San Francisco. You don’t want to see this place on a Friday or Saturday night. Trust me, I’m here for the food.”

“Thanks, Hugo,” Chad said, as the man passed him the bag, and I knew the “thanks” wasn’t about the food.

“Anytime, mi don.”

“Because you didn’t warn me,” I hissed at Chad’s accomplice, “I’m gonna need my fucking change. You don’t deserve a tip.”

Hugo broke into a wide grin, his neat, shoulder-length locks dancing as he shook his head. “Jah know, it sticky, ‘cause if only you could reach yah hand out so I could give it to yah…”

That’s when I placed his accent. He was being a smart-ass because my hands were cuffed. Alright. Let him have his fun. There’ll always be a “next time”.

Eyes narrowing to a glare, I warned, “Mark my face, Jamaican punk. Because I’ll be back for my fucking change.”

Hugo looked to Chad in question, and Chad gave him the same shrug Hugo had given me then dragged me away from the counter.

I’d be coming back for my change.

When we were out the door, I did as Chad had instructed and struggled. Manhandling me, which I assumed was a part of the act for God knows what, he roughly stuffed me into the car and set the food in my lap.

As soon as he got into the car himself, he reached over and relieved me of the cuffs, then took my messenger bag and set it down on the floor between his feet. I wouldn’t be getting that back for sure.

While starting the engine, he used his other hand to dial someone on his cell. “Now,” he commanded into the phone when the recipient picked up.

By the time he hung up and set the phone down, there was a loud, car-jerking explosion. Confused as to what the hell was going on, I glanced around, then into the rear-view mirror where I saw a massive blaze of fire and smoke a few blocks down. A glow of red flaming through the black of the night, a caustic symbol of destruction.

As Chad peeled away from the curb without even glancing back at the explosion behind us, I asked, “What the hell did you just blow up?”

The R8 accelerated in a glorifying roar. “A 2012 Kawasaki Ninja.”