His lips twitch at my tone but he doesn’t respond, changing lanes and heading north. “What kind of car do you want?”
I look out the window, absorbing the city during the day. People everywhere, in cars, on foot, all living their lives with blatant disregard for their daily freedoms. They talk without thinking of death. They live without holding themselves back from violence. I stare at a stroller-pushing mother and imagine our truck plowing her down, the scream and crack of her bones underneath the tires. If I roll down the window, I’ll get a front row seat to their pain. “A convertible,” I mumble.
We enter the four-lane road that is our destination, and Jeremy moves to the slow lane, peering out the window. “Where do you want to start?”
I scan the signs and point forward. “There.”
He gives me a confused look. “Jaguar?”
“Yeah.”
He puts on his blinker, taking his time pulling into the dealership and parking, his truck out of place among the sleek vehicles. I open the door and step out, my sneaker hitting the hard concrete, a small thrill shooting through me at the contact with the outside world. It is still new. I am still grateful. And that emotion is a reminder that I need to be careful. I need to behave. This purchase will open my world up. I need to make sure I don’t open it too far and suck hell in along with it.
I step forward a few steps and stop, my eyes feasting on a midnight blue beast in the front row. It glistens under the sun, a hint of glitter in the paint. I don’t move, don’t take my eyes from its lines. It would look down its perfectly created nose at my high school Honda Accord and snort, smoke puffing from the vents on its sides. It is sex, speed, and attitude all rolled into one. It looks like a car that would make side bets with its owner, and rub its hands in glee at the prospect of mayhem.
I can buy this. I have money to burn, and this can be mine. It has been years since I have bought anything frivolous. But for my ticket to freedom, it feels like the time is right to splurge. To open the door, sit in its leather, and celebrate the unorthodox definition of success I have attained.
I hear the scuff of feet against pavement and break my eyes from the car, colliding with the image of a thin man, his suit pressed, his eyes passing from Jeremy’s truck to my jeans and finding us both lacking. He tilts his head with a perfunctory smile. “Anything I can help you two with?”
“We’re just looking,” Jeremy offers, and I send him a look that stops him cold, his eyes questioning as his mouth stops moving.
“That one,” I say, reaching out and pointing to my car. “I want that one.”
The man continues to smile, an impressive feat that manages to convey annoyance without breaking the mold of professionalism. “The F-TYPE S. That is our V8 model, a fine car. Perhaps you’d like to step inside and discuss pricing?”
“No.” I step forward, running my hands along the glossy paint, the car seeming to swell underneath my touch. I can imagine her purr, can hear her throaty growl when she loses all control. “I want to drive it.”
CHAPTER 45
House Arrest Countdown: 10 Days
“MR. RENZA?”
Marcus looks up from his desk to see a man, tall and lanky, a thin tie knotted around his neck, rolled-up sleeves revealing tattoo-covered forearms. He frowns. “What?”
“I’m Nick. John said you wanted to see me? I’m the tech guy.”
He eyes him for a long minute, the man’s image not consistent with the pocket-protector nerd he’d been expecting. Another minute passes before he pushes on his desk and rolls away, gesturing forward with a hand. “Come here.”
The large room grows smaller with the new presence, the man’s stench invading Marcus’s personal space, his seat before the desk barely containing the constant movement of his body, finger taps, hums, bouncing legs. The man has not one bit of control, an infuriating condition. Marcus glares at him, pulling a notepad from his center drawer and ripping off the top sheet, his pen pushing it across the table at the man, the camgirl’s website scribbled across its surface.
“This website? This is what you want info on?”
“Yes.”
“Okay…” the man drawls out. He drops his messenger bag on the closest chair and digs into its depths, pulling out a tablet. “Let me pull it up. You said on the phone you were blocked from it?”
“Yes.”
“Your IP address is probably toast. But my iPad won’t use your Wi-Fi, so it should let me in… yes.” He sets down the tablet on the desk, at a place where they can both see the screen. “Damn, she’s hot.”
Marcus’s hands grip at the arm of his chair. His control is slipping, another indication of prison rotting his composure. Two years ago he wouldn’t have blinked at that statement. Two years ago he wouldn’t have felt ownership of a girl he met on the Internet. Fuck, two years ago he wouldn’t have been wasting precious time on the damn Internet. The man runs his fingers over the surface of the device, pressing on links at a speed that sickens Marcus, the linger of his eyes over Jessica’s body angering him even more. “So… I’m sorry—what info did you need?”