Chapter Nineteen: Danny

Five fucking days.

I hadn’t seen Hannah in five fucking days. I’d tried calling the club several times during the day, but each time she hung up on me. I’d made a bit of progress because now when she answered she’d say she was too busy to talk before she hung up. The last call I’d made she’d said, “Leave me alone, Danny. Stay out of my business.”

Like hell. I debated about going in early just to talk, but if she was avoiding for a reason, I didn’t want to jeopardize her wellbeing. I thought seriously about just going upstairs and demanding some answers, but I couldn’t risk it.

My cock protested each morning, and though the thought crossed my mind that I could have virtually any woman I approached, something about Hannah had me taking care of business myself. I’d stand under the spray of my lukewarm shower, take my cock in my hand, and let the fantasies of that amazing late afternoon fuckfest fill my head with images and my cock with cum. It never took long. After a few tugs, my cock spewed out all my frustration, and cum splattered on the busted tile.

Jesus. I wanted that girl.

My shifts had gone pretty well. After Steve had cast a few speculative glances at me when I returned to my post that evening—which seemed like it had taken place in another time and galaxy now—he had pretty much left me alone to do my job. I watched, I bounced, and I waited. For what I wasn’t quite sure, but something hovered in the air, some sort of anticipatory vibe that made my Spidey senses tingle. A cop has these senses, but a cop under cover feels it bone deep. Something was going to happen—and soon.

Pussy Whipped saw an abundance of low-life scum on a daily basis. In the last week, though, the scum level had taken a marked swing, though I’d yet to figure out if it was up or down. The men coming through the door, strolling through the neon-filled haze and heading into Richie’s office, weren’t the usual enforcers and dealers. These men stunk with an air of hardcore violence. If you wanted a job done—murder, armed robbery, complete and utter mayhem—these were the men you called. Real dicks.

They chatted with Steve like long-lost friends. They ran their hands over the girls with carte blanche, and when I tried to intervene, I was slapped on the wrist by the head bouncer and told to mind my own fucking business. I tried to be helpful by pointing out I was minding my fucking business because the girls were my business, but when Dougie gave me a stare-down, I shrugged and turned a blind eye—at least from the bouncer’s standpoint.

My cop radar was tuned in. I’d checked in with Pops several times, and he verified that my radar was working just fine. Apparently, Stan had tuned into a few idle chats while he took a piss in the back alley. After what Stan called “a mind-blowing orgasm,” one of the muscle-bound bruisers had told Charity that they’d be around and he looked forward to more. When Charity asked why and went in for round two, the goon let it slip he’d been hired for “something big.”

I figured at some point I’d owe that girl another drink—though not for the reason she’d hoped. She must have gotten the hint because she’d moved on. I guess that was because every day I asked her how Hannah was. The word “fine” never reassured me. I wanted to see her for myself. I intended to do that today.

At five minutes till six, I parked my car across from Pussy Whipped. I jumped out and headed to the corner. Before the light could change, Hannah came out the door of club and started up the street. She wore nice dark jeans, and her glossy hair slid easily across the silky blue top she wore. My cock jumped just looking at her.

She got into a green Chevy Malibu, and the car re-entered traffic, going north, the opposite direction.

Fuck.

I ran back to the shit-mobile, started it up, and waited a grueling thirty seconds for traffic to clear. When fate conspired against me, I took a chance. I pulled out into the first large gap and did a U-turn in the street to the sounds of blaring horns and “Fuck you!”

Traffic sucked at six o’clock, but that worked in my favor because the Malibu couldn’t get too far ahead of me. The few times the lights changed, I was able to catch up almost immediately.

“Where the hell is she going?”

We drove for a solid hour, sitting in traffic for most of that time. Finally, the Malibu pulled up in front of a parking lot right outside the Loop on South Wabash. I glanced around. I didn’t think she’d come all this way for the Starbucks. When Hannah got out of the car and started walking, I swung into the lot. It belonged to a grocery store, but I didn’t give a fuck.

A guy pushing carts back into the building gave me the finger when he saw me leaving the area. I gave it right back along with, “Have a nice day.”

Hannah walked past the bank, past a couple of restaurants, and I suddenly had a sickening thought. I stopped dead on the street, ignoring the woman who plowed into my back.

“What if she’s going on a date?”

“Stalker much?” the woman said.

I shook my head and started to say something, but she gave me that hard stare women give when they think they’re looking at a real douche. So instead of being nice, I said, “Fuck off,” and she scurried on her merry way.

My girl finally stopped in front of an innocuous-looking seven-story building with one of those hideous re-paneled fronts, probably done in the sixties when the collective conscience said, “out with the old, in with the new.” The people in the sixties were full of horseshit. Chicago’s history was a living thing, and I was happy to see some barricades. Maybe someone was tearing that front down to let that building breathe.

Hannah smoothed her hair, pulled open the door, and vanished inside.

What to do, what to do.

Cop logic dictated I follow her, but Danny O’Shea wasn’t a cop, and I didn’t think Hannah would be happy being stalked, even if she liked me.

Screw it. I gave her a minute to find an elevator, and then I went inside.

Typical office building. Some attorneys. A couple of dentists. Insurance companies up the ass. I supposed she could have a dentist appointment, but as I perused the building directory, my gaze snapped to something on the fourth floor.

Armor Security.

The tagline attached to the logo said, Armored Security Services—Your Valuables, Our Guarantee.

“Bingo.”

I took the elevator to the fourth floor, planted my carcass against the wall outside of the door, and waited. I might look like a total schmuck when I found out later she had a dentist appointment, but that was a risk I was willing to take.