Page 105 of Adam
“I need you to pick up a delivery,” he says, limping closer.
I raise a brow. “You want to try that sentence again? With details this time?”
He lets out a low chuckle. At this point, I honestly can’t tell if he likes me, hates me, thinks I’m entertaining, or just an absolute pain. Not that I give a damn.
“It’s a package from Leo Anderson.”
A nasty jolt shoots down my spine at the name. The kind you get when someone you can’t fucking stand pops into your day and ruins the mood. Perfect. Just what I needed.
“Consider it done,” I say, folding my hands in front of me, mimicking his loyal lap dogs.
“Eager, aren’t we?”
“What can I say?” I shrug. “I missed the guy.”
He chuckles, amused this time.
“I need you to pick it up specifically from him,” he insists.
I lean in, my eyes wide in mockery. “I get it.”
This day keeps fucking giving, and it keeps spoiling me. She confessed everything, every filthy little thought she’s had about me. Her voice was shaking, and I wanted to laugh, bite her, kiss her, ruin her all at once.
Fuck, I loved how desperate she looked saying it, like corruption tasted sweet on her tongue because it came from me.
And then there’s this motherfucker. That smug piece of shit I’ve fantasized about destroying in ways that don’t even have words. He’s going to welcome me like a friend. Like I’m not planning murder behind my smile.
Plus, I’m having a word with that fucker Michael. Useless bastard can’t do one damn thing right. Instead of putting thatfucker in the ground, he lets him walk around for what, a handful of cash? Fuck him.
“After you’re done with this, you kill Wes.”
“Oh, that—” The words die halfway out as the sentence clicks. A slow, crooked grin creeps in. “I beg your finest pardon, but what did you just say?”
“He’s a liability now that you’re here.”
So, he indeed likes me. Poor bastard.
“That’s a lot of faith in me staying put,” I say, my eyes flicking over him, bored.
He saunters toward me, and I track every move he makes, even though I stay perfectly still. Then he hooks his cane under my chin, lifting my face with that mock-authority crap he loves to parade.
I swallow the laugh clawing up my throat. No point poking the devil when he’s in a chatty mood—especially when he has no damn clue the devil is actually me.
“Leaving my side,” he murmurs, tilting my face up. “That is you signing your own damn obituary. Becoming dead weight,” he adds as his smile crawls across his face. “Identical ending. I have no interest in loyalty, only in usefulness. You decide how fast the hell hits you.”
Ah, this fucker loves hearing himself talk shit. He could monologue over a grave and still think he’s delivering gospel.
Why ruin his big performance? Let the man enjoy his own voice; someone has to. Riling up the big bad wolf would be foolish when I’m supposed to stand at his heel like a faithful dog. I love seeing him think his words are carving fear into me instead of boredom.
“Yes, boss,” I hiss, letting him bask in the illusion that his little delusion actually pinned me down.
“Good boy.”
God, this clown is unbelievable. Ridiculous in ways he’ll never understand.
He thinks he’s the nightmare in the room, but one day he’ll figure out he’s been flexing on someone darker than his threats. That’ll be his problem, not mine.
And I’ll enjoy that moment a hell of a lot more than he enjoys his speeches.
