15. Hendrix
Hendrix
“ W hat the hell do you mean?!” I tear the ears off the second customer service rep in forty minutes. “I did not freeze my account!”
The irritatingly calm and collected woman repeats her spiel about how over two hours ago a request to freeze my bank and credit card accounts came through the bank app.
Apparently because they were stolen.
“My cards are right here!” I wave the Visa in front of me. “Right in my hand.”
She apologizes about the inconvenience but insists there’s nothing she can do without an investigation or some shit.
I hang up in her face and let out a shriek, stomping my feet like a child. All while the hotel staff cringes in secondhand embarrassment.
Consider my Spidey senses activated.
Pinning Carlo with a deadly stare, I march over to where he’s sitting on one of the couches.
“What the hell is going on?”
He stands, pulling at the bottom of his suit jacket. “ Non lo so, signorina. I’m-eh sorry.”
“Oh, yes you do know, Carlo. Now spill.” I point to the cop outside the window writing a parking ticket. “Or so help me God, I will cry kidnap.”
“ I…eh… ” Carlo eyes the officer as he turns our way, then removes the sunglasses from his head to cover his eyes. “ Sua madre …she know your stepbrother is home.”
My teeth grind together. “And how does she know he’s home, Carlo?”
He looks down at his freshly polished dress shoes.
Guilty. As. Charged.
“What the fuck, dude?!” I turn and storm off, shooting him a warning over my shoulder when he follows. “Wanna add bathroom peeping tom to your list of offenses?” I halt my movements, hand cupping my ear. “No? Didn’t think so. Now go away and let me scream at a mirror in peace.”
It’s no longer a secret that Carlo speaks very broken English and has been depending on whatever Italian I know to communicate. So, it’s safe to say he’s betting on assumptions when he announces in Italian that he’ll be sitting on the nearest couch.
I grant him a sarcastic thumbs up, then when he turns, I continue on with the dramatic exit. And I say exit, because that’s exactly what the fuck this is now that it’s impossible to book a room.
After a long scream and quick squat on the toilet, I run my hands under the water to clean them off.
My mother really is something fucking else.
Cancelling the credit and debits.
Typical trap for a person who rarely carries cash.
I don’t even bother answering the fiftieth call of hers, the excuses she’ll try to feed me are already nagging at my brain.
He’s your stepbrother. Get to know him.
You’re only eighteen.
You can’t stay alone at a hotel with crazy people these days.
But she wants me alone in a room with her psycho stepson.
Granted, Mom doesn’t know all the nitty gritty about what happened in Lance’s room, but she knows enough to at least consider Saint dangerous.
But yeah.
Hotels…they’re the problem.
I wipe my hands on my shorts, not wanting a dryer to signal being done with business just in case there’re Italian ears somewhere listening.
I’m not dumb enough to still believe Carlo was only hired to be my driver, given drivers don’t usually feel the need to conceal carry weapons.
This guy’s packing.
Which means there’s trouble somewhere in paradise.
And given both our families have ties to low places, it’s not exactly a shocker.
But the Montgomery ties to a fall guy is nowhere near as dangerous as the Lavell ties to the U.S. government and its enemies.
Not to mention the rest of Riverside’s royal families.Why else would Vic need to be in D.C.?
I stare down at my phone, still debating whether or not the “I told you so” is worth getting Archer’s help.
Nope. It’s not.
I’ve dealt with enough drama from men today.
Bex is gone. So there’s that.
All that’s left is me, myself, and a trip to the closest twenty-four hour Starbucks.
Pressing the off button on my iPhone, I watch it shut down before hiding it in a small slot I found under the sink.
Again.
I’m not dumb.
I know simply keeping my phone off isn’t enough to stop a guy like Vic from being able to track me.
Sliding both arms into the straps of my Montsouris, I check myself in the mirror before initiating Project Fuck Right Off.
Three steps away from the door, a cleaning lady opens it, offering me the perfect opportunity to peek at Carlo.
He’s perched on the couch, ankle resting on his knee, with brushed back wavy hair unmoving as he looks down at his watch.
Middle aged Pacino’s handsome, I’ll give him that.
But not enough to put up with this bullshit.
I jam the door with the tip of my Chuck, waiting for the right moment to bolt to the employee-only exit.
It comes in the form of a cocktail waitress handing Carlo a menu. He declines, but she persists with a coy smile, and I silently thank her for flirting with the only suit in the room that benefits me.
When Carlo shoots a worried glance my way, I quickly remove my sneaker from the doorway, and when I crack it open again I find him looking down at the menu.
A ding goes off on two elevators across the hall, and around ten people pile out. I’m like a snake in the grass weaving through them to the exit.
I hold my breath and twist the knob, letting out a deep one when it opens onto the street.
“Freedom!” I sing into the air, spinning around as bystanders sneak me an awkward side eye.
“Freak…” some bitch mumbles under her breath, and if I didn’t just break out of jail I’d cut the hoe.
Although…I’m never one to let a good retort go to waste.
“Skank whore!” I bellow out, once again in song, and the cowardly bitch does what cowardly bitches do.
She chooses boring and keeps walking.
So, I walk. All the way to the closest train station with my head down.
It’s gotten a lot harder to jump the turnstiles in Manhattan, at least from when I used to do it sophomore year.
Not because I couldn’t afford it.
But because the cops in my neighborhood were not only out of shape, but assholes too, and I loved watching them struggle to chase me and my friends.
I managed to get through this time, though, as gracefully as possible when the old man behind the glass got on a call.
Then it was smooth riding.
The only twenty-four Starbucks Mom wouldn’t suspect I’d hide at is two neighborhoods over in Summit Park, a true beauty by day sketchy by night.
Correction: very sketchy.
Every night on the news level of sketchy.
Not that I care, because to me, the Riverside gangs are no better than the inner city ones.
At least here I can find some people I relate to.
Like the old man sitting outside the subway station as I jog up the steps, offering me some apples when I check out his fruit stand.
“No thanks,” I tell him, explaining I have no cash.
It’s a lie, but I’m not about to spend any of my last hundred on a Red Delicious.
No matter how delicious it may be.
The old man shakes his head. “You youngins and your dependency on those damn cards.” He holds out the apple. “Just take it.”
Not looking to argue, or worse, prove him even more right, I pluck it from his hand with a simple thanks before continuing on my way. Which, thankfully, is just a few more blocks.
After finishing the apple and a quick cigarette, I enter the Starbucks, finding it mostly empty. Call it another small mercy from the universe. There’re only a couple baristas, and like two sets of customers scattered on each side of the shop.
My kind of social setting.
“How can I help you?” John, the cute hipster barista, asks as I approach the counter.
“Venti. Dark. Three sugars. And a blueberry muffin.”
He takes my name, my money, then gets to work on my order as I trail over to the table with a comfy chair.
I go through some things in my bag, hating the fact I’ll be left to my own devices for fuck knows how long.
Can’t stay here for two days, that I know.
But if I drown myself in enough coffee—maybe till morning.
“Hendrix!” the guy shouts, ridiculously loud for no reason, and I grumble just that as I trudge to the counter.
“Threw in a little something extra for you.” He winks, handing me the coffee and bag.
I help myself to a peek inside.
Cheese danish. Fuck yeah, I’ll take it.
Along with his compliment on how pretty my eyes are.
“Thanks.”
“For the danish or the compliment?”
“Both.”
Wiggling his eyebrows, the cute hipster barista replies, “A lot more where that came from, baby.”
And just like that…the meet cute turns cringe.
I turn without another word, heading back to the table I called silent dibs on, and park my ass to drink, eat, and I guess people watch for the next eighteen thousand hours.
I’m hours deep into watching when the boredom turns deadly. My only reprieve being cigarettes and the couple dozy offsy moments I had courtesy of spending most of last night snooping through Saint’s room.
Which was all for nothing, by the way, because I found just that in the endless amount of perfectly organized drawers, shelves, even refrigerator.
I mean…who labels their protein drinks by expiration dates?
Have you not met Bex? I think to myself, chuckling.
No wonder her and Saint get on so damn well…they share obsessive compulsiveness.
Moral of the story, I found more interesting belongings left in the bathroom of this damn Starbucks than in the biggest…baddest… Royal Heathen’s dorm room.
And the thought of all this wasted time is making me really cranky.
“Mind if I sit?” some blonde chick asks, holding a laptop.
I look around at the crowded coffee shop.
Guess this place gets poppin’ after eight.
“Whatever,” I tell her, needing to escape my thoughts and boredom as I slide the chair back and stand.
“Oh, no, you can stay,” she offers, but regrets her kindness when I respond with, “Can’t. You’re too peopley for me.”
This place has a back door, and a front door, so naturally I opt for the one without a line forming outside of it.
The street is buzzing with impending nightlife, including bars filling, restaurants packed, even the corner boys setting up shop for business.
Get the fuck out of here, Montgomery.