Page 24 of Keeping Kasey
Logan curses under his breath, reluctantly stepping out of my way.
“Going to be the death of me,” he mutters as I pass.
“Thisis your car?” I ask, stopping as soon as I see that flashy vehicle.
The fact that Logan drives an all-black Rolls-Royce Phantom has to be the most cliché thing about him yet.
“One of them,” he answers, rounding the car to the driver’s seat.
“And I’m sure all of them are just as gaudy,” I mumble as I climb inside.
For the first time in my life, I wish I had my license. I’ve lived in cities my whole life and barely leave my home anyway, so I’ve never needed to drive myself. Now, it means I’ll be carpooling with Consolis for the foreseeable future.
The car is pristine, and I wonder what reaction I’d get if I rested my feet on the dashboard. I have half a mind to try it, but he speaks up before I can.
“Why Pac-Man?”
I shrug. “Everyone likes Pac-Man.”
“I don’t.”
“I get the feeling the list of things youdolike could fit on an index card.”
“A post-it,” he mutters, almost too low for me to hear.
“Did you just make a joke?”
He doesn’t answer, but I could swear his lip twitches upward.
I spend the rest of the drive taking in the structures around us: massive industrial buildings that look like they haven’t been used in years. None of them are particularly grand, but they all have the same worn, red bricks and tall, dirty windows.
I must be making a face because Logan raises a brow.
“Doesn’t look like much,” I say.
“That’s the point.”
He pulls the car into an underground parking garage and quickly clears the three security gates before gliding in. The garage is painfully average-looking, and Logan parks in a spot closest to the elevator and door leading inside. We get out of the car in silence, and I follow him to the elevator, which is metal on all sides except the back, which is black.
I don’t get the smug look on Logan’s face until the elevator starts rising—then I have to press my lips together to keep my mouth from falling open.
The wall isn’t black; it’s glass, and as we ride from the underground level, I get a clear view of the base’s interior. We seem to be rising directly into the center of the base.
It’s a vast room, with the same red brick from outside making up the interior walls and a glass ceiling that shows the towering warehouses surrounding us—which I realize are all connected. Metal walkways with black railings outline the seven floors, and stairs go from one level to the next. Each floor is lined with black metal doors, and that’s all there is in the way of decoration.
It’s a hub of activity, with at least fifty men moving about, and a few of them stop to watch our arrival.
“You were saying?” Logan asks, pride evident in his tone.
“I’ll admit I’m impressed.”
The volume change is immediate when we step out of the elevator on the fourth floor. The room is all hard surfaces, so voices and footsteps echo around us.
I follow Logan out, peering over the railing to people-watch. Logan wasn’t kidding about the dress code. Everyone here looks ready to walk into a corporate boardroom. It’s not exactly what I expected from a criminal base of operations.
I’m starting to wish I had changed.
I pretend not to notice the men whose eyes follow me like I’m a walking blue marker. I’m also painfully aware of how the leggings cling to my skin, leaving very little to the imagination.
