Page 10 of Jane Deyre
Fifteen minutes later, we’re flying down the 405 Freeway, way above the speed limit. My hair whips against my face as questions spin in my head.
Who exactly is this man?
What does he do?
Why are he and his young daughter living with his godmother?
How exactly is he connected to the legendary Edwina Rochester?
What happened to his wife?
And what does he expect of me?
The last question troubles me the most. Though I have considerable experience with kids, taking care of younger foster siblings and tutoring elementary school ones while I was in high school—and taking photos with those little snot-ridden brats on Hollywood Boulevard—I’m still worried. I’ve never dealt with a privileged rich kid. And a troubled one to boot.
As we careen down the freeway, passing a colorless miasma of car dealerships, retail outlets, and industrial buildings, I have no idea what’s on his mind. Not once has he taken his eyes off the road and looked at me. His face is impassive. Unreadable, especially now that he’s wearing dark sunglasses. If anything, he looks brooding. Pissed off. I suppose I would be, too, if I had to start my day off by schlepping all the way to Compton with some stranger masquerading as a Smurf.
Over an hour later, thanks to traffic, we reach my exit.
“Are we almost there?” asks my companion, irritation steeped in his deep voice.
“Yeah. My place is just around the corner. Make a right and then a left at the stop sign.”
He does as I’ve instructed. “Stop.”
He slams down on the brakes. Dust rises from the asphalt. “Jesus. This is where you live?”
Embarrassment seeps through me. I live in the middle of a gang-ridden neighborhood. In a total dump. Now, I’m sorry I let him drive me here. I should have told him to stop the car as soon as we exited the freeway so he didn’t have to see the hellhole I call home. Maybe I should have taken public transportation. Not everyone lives in a fabled Hollywood mansion. Or drives a Rolls-Royce.
He stares at my small, decrepit abode. The yellow paint is peeling and the lawn looks jaundiced because it hasn’t been watered for months.
“Want me to come in with you?”
It’s bad enough he’s seen the outside of the house. I sure as hell don’t want him to see the inside with its grungy furnishings, flaking walls, and stained puke-green carpet that smells of stale beer, urine, and tobacco. No matter how much I’ve cleaned it.
“No. Wait here. I’ll be right back. I don’t have much.”
“Make it fast.”
As fast as I can, I jump out of the car, avoiding the eyes of the gawking smokers and snorters. I hope Ward will be safe here. His fancy car is prime car theft material. And despite his build, he’s easy prey to these knife-and gun-wielding gang members.
I crouch down to retrieve my key, which I’ve hidden in the pathetic dead-looking potted plant on the stoop. Looking over my shoulder, I quickly unlock the front door and hurry inside.
CHAPTER 5
Ward
Ikeep the engine running. Put up the top. Lock the doors. Turn up the air-conditioning. Turn off the music.
My pulse spiking.
The sun heating.
The smell of weed seeping through the crack of my window.
Getting to me.
My eyes shift left and right looking out the windows, intermittingly checking my surroundings through the rearview mirror. This crap neighborhood is making my skin crawl. I want to get out of here as fast as I can. Away from these goons who are eyeing the Rolls. They’d better not fuck with me. Because they’ll be fucking with the wrong person. I open the glove box and pull out my Glock.