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They aren’t my fucking friends; they are people I’m fucking linked to by an invisible chain wrapped around my neck, tight enough to cause torturous agony, but not death.
“Take a fucking walk, man,” Jagger says to me before turning Tatiana around to face him. Kissing her head, he says, “I’m sorry.”
I can’t take it anymore. I turn around and walk out.
I want to fucking run, but I already did, and my legs feel like lead.
I want to turn back time, but I can’t.
I want to remind her who Angelo is and make her feel the hell I am feeling right this fucking minute. And I will.
***
Nine and a half hours is how long it takes to drive from Detroit to New York City. The entire trip, I think about who I was and who I am: a killer, a martyr, a man who snaps and takes a man by the throat, even after rotting behind bars for so many fucking years for doing the same damn thing.
I almost turn around five different times. However, I need to see her. I need to show her who Angelo is. To tell her Jonathon is a fucking joke. To tell her I hate her for using me. I need to get back at her by fucking her senseless so she, too, can never forget who I am.
They say a man never forgets his first. It’s true. I can’t shake her. I could go fuck someone, use someone to get her out of my head, my thoughts, get her off my cock. But I’m not built that way. Instead, I am going to fuck her in a way she will never forget me. I will fuck her body in every degrading way she fucked with my name. Mine, not Jonathon’s.
I am breaking parole, breaking the law. If she calls the cops, I’m going back to prison. I want exactly that. I want to be locked up. I would rather rot behind bars. At least they can contain me physically, and my fucking breaking heart won’t be able to lead me to the path I am on.
I fucking miss her so goddamn much, but I hate her, too.
After this, I will leave and never think about her again. I’m here to equal the playing grounds. I’m going to use her, and then go back and hope to hell my miserable existence ends sooner than later.
I pull up in front of her building. 160 Riverside Boulevard, the Upper West Side. She had already given me her address that long-ago day she typed her number into my phone.
After driving around the block five times, I finally find an open spot and parallel park the truck. Honestly, I’m shocked the damn thing made it. I hope to fuck it makes it back to hell, or from one hell to the other. None of it really matters.
My nerves nearly get the best of me, but I force myself out of the truck and walk across the street. Then I watch long enough to know there is no doorman, which is bullshit. This is NYC. I even see people walk in and out; some not even buzzing in. Her security sucks.
I shake my head, trying to rid the fucking bullshit I’m feeling. Her safety isn’t my concern. She used me, I will use her, and then we will be fucking even. When I walk away, I won’t bring Annie or Jonathon with me. I will walk away the way she found me—untouchable.
A man in a suit walks out the entrance door without taking a second glance at me in my track pants and a fucking hoodie. I skate right inside.
I see that access to the tin box requires a key. I don’t have a key, and I don’t like the fucking tin box, so I wait. Glancing around, it’s then I see the stairwell. There are at least a dozen people buzzing around me and none, not one of them, even gives a second glance. I feel invisible, which I fucking like.
I get closer to the stairwell and see a woman look at me. She sees me.
I don’t get the look of a woman who wants to fuck me. No, the redhead is annoyed by me, a look I don’t get often. I want to ask her what her fucking problem is, but I don’t. I really don’t give a shit.
The stairwell door opens, and I catch it as it’s about to close and look at my phone. Seventh floor, apartment 777. The nuns would have loved it.
Once at the top of the stairs, I swing the door open to see that red-headed bitch knocking on a door.
I step back when she turns toward me so she doesn’t see me.
When I hear her voice—Tatum’s voice—I step back out in the hall.
