But he doesn’t.
I don’t know why they haven’t drugged me or knocked me out cold. They haven’t even tied me up. I don’t know why they’re holding off, but something tells me that’s not a good sign.
23
The van turns right, and I bobble sideways as we pass over a bump in the road. The driver continues up a secluded road where more men stand outside, nodding their heads to let the driver know he’s clear to go.
After about two more minutes, the van finally begins to slow down and soon, comes to a stop. There is a white gate ahead that he parks behind, two guards in all black standing there.
The driver hops out immediately and starts speaking to them, explaining the damage to the van. He then comes around the back as the man I attacked remains seated in the passenger seat, the gun still pointed at me. He’s pissed. I can tell.
Who cares? He’s already ugly anyway. One scar won’t make a difference.
The back door flies open and the driver flicks his fingers, ordering me to get out. With a scowl, I slide across the back, stepping out barefoot. The man with the gray eye took my shoes off during the ride here.
When my feet land on the asphalt, I hear someone let out a low whistle and I look over. One of the guards is drooling like a dog, giving me a look that I find absolutely disgusting.
“Fuck off,” I hiss in Spanish.
“Shit,” he says in his native tongue. “You were right, Lonso.” He looks at the man that had the gun in the passenger seat. “She is a feisty little bitch.”
The driver pulls out a gun and nudges me with it. I can tell he doesn’t deal with their shit often. Either that, or he just doesn’t care. “Let’s go. To the gates.”
The other guard posted there opens it for us and I walk ahead, a gun pointed at my back, studying the large stucco home. It’s nothing like Draco’s, but it is big. The roof is tan and there is a two-door garage, pillars built on the porch and the balcony on the second level.
The guard that was standing at the gate takes the lead and I follow him to the house. When he opens the front door, I feel my chest tighten. I don’t know what’s inside. I don’t even want to find out. But I keep my chin held high, giving a dirty look at the guard before passing by.
The driver grabs my elbow when I’m in the foyer, leading the way now. He walks past a den, a dining room, and even a kitchen, veering left until double doors appear at the end of the hallway.
When he opens the door, I’m truly surprised by what I walk into.
It’s not some kind of holding room with white walls and no furniture. It’s not a room with cages and chains. No, in fact this room is fully furnished.
The floors are made of hardwood, a loveseat perched against the cheetah-print accent wall. I notice the pillows on the loveseat are cheetah print as well, along with the rug in the middle of the room, some of the vases, and even some of the glasses set up by the scotch on the tray.
I almost want to throw up it’s so much.
The driver pushes me forward a little and I look back at him.
“Go. Sit. Hernandez will be here to speak with you soon.”
“This is his home?” I ask.
The driver smirks. He walks to the corner table where the scotch is and pours a glass. I think it’s for him, until he comes in my direction and offers it.
I look down at it before meeting his eyes, then turn my back on him and walk to the loveseat. I sit, one leg crossed over the other, and glare up at him, jaw ticking.
He simply shrugs, his long, black ponytail falling behind him as he tosses the drink back himself. The guard, Lonso, walks in, already frowning at me. I return his frown and narrow my eyes at him when he shuts the door and walks to the table.
They both sit and pull in their chairs. Lonso whips out a deck of cards and the driver sighs, planting his elbows on the table. “We’re in for a long fucking day,” he mutters.
“Fuck, yeah. And I’m fucking starving. I told Lorenzo to order us some fucking tamales or something.” Lonso gives me a sideways glance. “Are we supposed to feed the bitch?”
“You know Hernandez will be pissed if we don’t offer her something.”
I roll my eyes and scoff. These men are fucking amateurs. Compared to Draco’s, I’m honestly surprised they even got to me. This Hernandez person already seems like a fucking joke.
The clock on the wall tells me four hours have passed. I’ve paced the room, keeping a sharp eye on the guards and the door, while also searching for something I might be able to use to take them out with.