Vindictive #4

1. shit show

He picks up on the second ring, sounding very less than pleased.

"Who is this?" I hesitate in answering, which of course did nothing for his patience. He asks again, his voice thick in irritation. "Who is this?"

"Gary..."

"Milan." I can hear it in his voice. His patience is hanging on by a thread. "Where are you?"

"I'm sorry, I lost track of time and...can you send a car?"

"Where are you?" He repeats, his tone hardening.

"West Side."

"Qué coño haciendo allí? Huh?"

"Por favor, Gary, it's raining."

"I know it's fucking raining. Give me a fucking address."

I list off the cross streets and he hangs up without saying anything else.

I fucked up.

Pushing my hair from my face again, I lean back pathetically against the glass and stare outside as cars drive past every few minutes. The wait equaled stress. Gary wouldn't be coming to pick me up personally, which gave me a bit more time to figure out what I was going to say. That also meant it gave him more time to stew in anger. Or simmer down, if I was lucky. But let's be honest, luck and me were miles and miles apart. My eyes close and I take a few deep breaths. There was never a time where I wasn't fazed around Gary. He was frightening. Powerful. He was a man who knew what he wanted, and knew how to get it. And he would get it, because he'd be willing to do anything it took. Ruthless.

It was that part of him I resonated with. I knew all about being ruthless. I knew what it took to be on top. I knew that I had to be the smartest in the room, and if not the smartest than the bravest. You can't be stupid and cowardly. That's no way to survive.

I'd made it my mission my entire life to be ahead. Even as a child, being on top mattered more than anything. Fiercely competitive and unapologetic about it. To others that translated as me being a bitch. And maybe I was. But, like I said, unapologetic. So I'd done everything. I learned languages, I learned sports, I learned arts. I was good at picking things up, learning quickly, adapting. I was good at being good.

Of course, I guess that goes to show how little being good at everything actually means. I'm still here.

I don't know how long I waited, but the car finally came. A sleek black BMW rolls around the corner and honks twice. It was still raining, so I run towards the car and slide into the passenger seat, dripping water onto the leather seats. I barely got to buckle the seatbelt before the car sped down the street.

"Easy, Jag. I'm still kind of drunk." I'm not, but if he thought there was a chance I'd throw up in the car, he'd slow down. And he does. I let out a grateful breath and lean back against the seat, my eyes drifting shut. The air conditioning was blasting, making me feel even colder due to my damp clothes from the rain. I didn't ask him to turn it off. I knew he wouldn't. "Scale of one to ten?"

There was a long pause. "You're lucky. Six."

My eyebrows shoot up and I turn to look at him. "Six?"