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The man held his hands out. “Hang on.”
“Give me my wallet back,” Blake said.
“Uh, don’t do that,” I said.
“Hang on,” he said, wriggling the gun at the man.
The man started backing off, heading toward the exit. “Man, let’s just part ways here.”
Blake grunted, still holding the gun. “I’d like my wallet back.”
“Hey,” the man said. “Okay.” He reached into his back pocket. I guessed if he had a choice, he’d try to pass off his own wallet for Blake’s and walk away with the most money.
Uh oh.
The man lifted his hand, and appeared stunned to be holding a folded newspaper. “What the...” His gaze lifted until he met mine. “You! You stole my wallet.”
Blake lowered his gun, looking back at me. “You...”
I tried not to grin. “Can we just get out of here please?”
“She stole my wallet!” The guy cried out. “They’re stealing my wallet! Help!”
“We should go,” I said.
Blake grunted. I dove for the passenger side door and he ran around, getting in and starting the engine.
A couple of other guys came around the corner, trying to figure out the commotion. The hooded man waved his hands in the air, shouting. “They stole my wallet!”
Blake gunned the engine, pulling out of the lot. The two men tried to stand in the way, the only exit, but when it became clear Blake wasn’t going to stop, they dove, landing in the heap of trash bags.
The Mercedes pulled out into the street and we took off.
TRUTH AND HOT POCKETS
We were silent in the car. I was waiting for police sirens. I had no idea what Blake was thinking, but I had a wild guess.
He twisted his hands at the wheel, checking the rearview mirror repeatedly. He took several side streets, wound around until we were back into South of Broad territory. His eyes were dark. His jaw was firm. When he pulled into his driveway, I hesitated, because I knew there would be questions and accusations.
My stomach growled.
Blake’s head jerked back, as if realizing again that I was there. He studied me with side glances. “Still hungry, huh?”
I bit back a snappy retort. I really wasn’t in the position to be a smart ass. “Yes.”
This seemed to relax him somehow. At least for the moment, we were on a different sort of mission. We were both hungry.
Blake hopped out and opened my door before I got my seatbelt off.
It was tempting to use the opportunity to run away, but I found myself following him back inside his house and into the kitchen. If I left now, I’d have to find my own food, or grovel back to the boys. I wasn’t ready for that yet.
“Have a seat.” He motioned to the kitchen island, where there were stools by the bar. I ignored him, poking around in the cabinets just to see what was behind them.
Blake opened up the fridge door. “There’s champagne.”
“No,” I said.
He chuckled. I saddled up beside him, looking over his shoulder. The fridge had only one bottle of champagne, and the rest were sodas, bottles of water, and a couple varieties of beer. There was a collection of ketchup, and mayo, and other common condiments in the door. He opened the freezer part, and there were boxes of frozen foods stacked neatly. “Do we want pizza or...”
“I’m not going to wait on a pizza,” I said. I pointed to the individually wrapped hamburgers. “Is there a microwave in here?”
“Of course I’ve got a microwave. Do I look like a complete savage?” He pulled out one. “How many do you want?”
“Three.”
His lips twisted up into a smile. “You better eat them all.”
“Better make four.”
He laughed, putting the sandwiches together on a plate and stuffed them in the microwave. I leaned against the counter with my arms across my chest. I didn’t want to go too far from the food. I felt better simply being in sight so I could stare down the timer.
He leaned against the counter next to me, crossing his arms similarly.
“So,” I said, wanting to avoid the topic of what had happened earlier. I wasn’t ready to explain myself. “I thought rich people had, like, personal chefs and things like that.”
He shrugged. “A little impractical to carry one of those around all the time. I’m on the road a lot. I suppose I could if I wanted. Some people cart them along as they travel.”
“You have Hot Pockets and Eggo waffles.”
“So?”
“Isn’t there like rich people frozen dinners?”
His arm nudged into mine. “You’re talking like there’s a secret barrier between rich and poor.”
“Isn’t there?”
He blew out a sigh. “So I don’t have to buy Hot Pockets only when they’re on sale. That makes me a bad guy? Look, there’s a few things I can buy that maybe some people can’t afford.”
“Like everything.”
“Like things other people make. For example,” he opened a cabinet and pulled out a bag of Pop Chips. “Okay, this one might be more expensive than a bag of Lay’s, or generic store brands, but there’s people in these factories, too, you know? My buying these keeps people in business.”
I huffed. I didn’t really have a response to that. Luckily the timer beeped on the microwave. He moved to open, and I hovered at his back. He chuckled, putting the plate down on the counter.
He plated a couple for me, and I took one more from his plate and turned away to go sit in the living room. I put my plate on the coffee table.
He flipped on the television, but I completely ignored it, inhaling three sandwiches and half of the bag of Pop Chips, which I hated to admit, but really liked.
He sat back after finishing his
one sandwich. His arm went up around the back of the couch. “Well, you have a healthy appetite.”
I shrugged, and sat back, stretching my legs out and planting my palms on my stomach. “I told you I was hungry.”
“I didn’t realize you carried a black hole in your stomach. You weigh about as much as a pillow.” He prodded a finger at my stomach. “Where do you stuff all that?”
I smacked him on the wrist, and then my heart stopped, realizing I’d just hit him like I did Raven. Somehow it felt awkward now because he was rich. And good looking. Proper people didn’t smack.
He only chuckled and shook his head. “Vicious. I like it.”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“I’m learning,” he said. He wiped his fingers on one of the napkins. “By the way, can I have my wallet back?”
I felt my cheeks heating, and I slowly pulled out a wallet.
He glanced at the one in my hand. “That one isn’t mine.”
I may as well have lit my face on fire. I plopped that one on the table next to our empty plates and produced the other one.”
He took it, opening it up and checking the contents.
“I didn’t take anything.”
“You did, pumpkin,” he said. He pointed to the other wallet. “You took that.”
“I just thought it would be fair.”
He squinted his eyes at me. “You just pickpocketed an armed robber, Miss Kate. Tell me how you learned to do that.”
I pursed my lips, not wanting to answer his question.
“You don’t work for the FBI, do you?”
“I’m not exactly on their payroll.”
He grunted in frustration, stuffing his wallet into his back pocket again. “Who the hell am I fighting these crazy accusations from then? What kind of agency sends a girl like you after me? Tell me who you’re working with.”
“I can’t?”
“Darling,” he barked at me. He leaned toward the coffee table. He pinched the corner of the wallet between his fingers like he didn’t want to get too much of his fingerprints on it. “This isn’t just some hobby you pick up, like whistling. Why are you really here?"
I bit my lip. I didn't want to reveal the truth and at the same time, we weren't getting anywhere. I still hesitated. Like the boys, I supposed I needed more convincing. "I don't want to sound mean, but I don't want to reveal who or why. I'm here on my own because I don't want any repercussions on anyone else."
