Page 72 of The Wicked
Elio was already walking down the hall to the elevator, his strides so long that I found myself walk-running after him. “I can’t leave without the painting,” I gritted.
He walked into the elevator, and I groaned, stepping in after him. He pushed a button for the underground parking lot when the doors closed, and we started going down.
“We cannot fuck this up; I will lose my shit if we fuck this up,”Dog said.
“Why are we leaving?”
“It’s almost ten, no?”
“Yes, but—” The elevator stopped after a short while and slid open again; he walked out, and I rushed out after him; he dug hishand into his pocket, bringing out a key and pressing a button. A car beeped to life in the distance, and someone leaned away from it quickly; she was wearing a waitress uniform.
My eyes widened as I took in the ride. “Holy mother of fucking Lambor-huracán-ghini,” I whispered.
“You’re shitting me.”Upper’s voice reached my ear.
“I shit you not.”
“Please sneak a picture, please, Zahra, please.”
I pulled out my phone, took a quick picture, and sent it to him. His squeal of excitement almost made me deaf.
The car was matte black and smooth on the eyes. It was so low that it almost kissed the ground. I just knew I was looking at millions of dollars.
The waitress straightened, holding a painting in her hand. “Sir, as you wanted.”
“The painting…” I trailed off, watching him collect the medium-sized frame wrapped in secure transparent packaging.
The twisted chihuahua stared at me. Why the fuck would anyone want this? I’d scream Bloody fucking Mary if I had to wake up to this hanging on my wall.
The waitress shot a stiff nod to him and then to me before leaving.
Elio handed me the painting. “Come on; I have places to be,” he said, already walking around towards the driver’s side, none of his security in sight. I rushed to the passenger’s side of the car, entering what smelled and looked like leather heaven.
“Why did you tell me to go find the painting when you had already found it? Do you know the kind of risk we took?”
He started the engine, and the car roared to life.
He glanced my way. “Your presence was beginning to get insufferable,” he said before pulling the car out of the parking spot and driving towards the entrance.
I stared at him, dumbfounded. “You really are a shitty motherfucker.”
“That is an incestuous remark. I don’t think I appreciate you implying I had intimate relations with my late mother,” he responded, entering the main road.
“What—I—you weren’t supposed to respond to that—it’s one of those statements where you justdon’trespond.”
“Whose law was that, querida?”
“No, we’re not doing that. Don’t call me that.”
Still driving, he looked my way. “What. You don’t like Sport; you don’t like Darling—”
“Darling is fucking cool; I’m all for it, but whenyousay it, it’s like you’re mocking me.”
“That is exactly what I’m doing.Mockingyou.”
“Anyone ever told you you were an asshole?”
“No.”
