I’m finishing a grilled sandwich that we bought in a trendy bar downtown. Slade pulls over. While we wait, he tells me stories from what he calls his “misspent youth.” When I push him, he mentions names. Pop stars, rock stars, supermodels. I can’t decide if I should be jealous or impressed. It occurs to me that another reason I like Slade so much is because he’s a good conversationalist. Romeo is always preoccupied with work, and Hawthorne is incapable of going five minutes without insulting me—just because he pulled my ass out of the fire doesn’t mean that I’m so stupid as to think he’s on my side. In fact, from where I’m sitting, Hawthorne now has dirt on me. He could use it against me. The next time he wants me gone, he doesn’t need to convince Slade and Romeo, doesn’t have to put it to a vote. All he’ll need to do is order me to take a hike. I frown. Why the hell am I thinking about that? As soon as I get my car or the insurance money, I’m gonna leave anyway. It’s like my muddled mind can’t quite reconcile itself to the fact that I’m not staying.
