There's always a mix of anxiety and excitement when tailing someone, like static electricity in the air that sends sparks across my skin and makes my heart pitter faster. However, tonight, there’s the amplified anxiety thumping in my ears like obnoxious shitty bass from a strip club. So the thrill of the hunt is gone since I'm worried Kay might be aware we're following him.

And as much as I hate to admit it, the man is like a damn ninja—constantly popping up places and scaring the shit out of me. 

But I’d like to think that with Sammy’s help, we’ve managed to one-up Kay this time. The old mafioso placed a tracker on Kay’s SUV, allowing us to maintain a distance while still keeping tabs on him. I don't know how he did it, but I'm guessing he had to sneak into the Abramovitz mansion to accomplish the task. So far, Kay has done a little shopping at the posh grocery store only people with disposable incomes can afford, but then he stopped at an art gallery a bit ago, so we’re waiting for his next move.

Judging by the people through the art gallery’s windows, this must be an upscale event as they parade around in cocktail attire and sip champagne. They’re either oblivious to the junkies passing out from fentanyl around the corner, or they don’t care as long as they don’t have to see it. My phone buzzes, so I glance down and smirk.

Angie: Your mom’s dog takes massive shits. 

Me: Don’t forget to pick it up and toss it into a trash bin.

Angie: Cha Cha or the shit?

I facepalm myself and groan, but then tap out a reply. 

Me: The shit!

Angie: You’re lucky this mongrel is cute. Bring me back a cheeseburger and a shake.

Me: No.

Angie: YES.

Me: No.

Angie: Did you forget that I was shot? With a bullet. From a gun.

Me: Fine.

Wiping the smile off my face, I slide the phone back into my pocket, but Jackson is staring at me.

“Update on Alma?” Jackson asks.

“No. Just Angie being Angie.”

Sammy takes a sip of his coffee and glances at me. “That explains the shit-eating grin.”

“I wasn’t grinning.”

“You were, too,” Jackson and Sammy say in unison.

“Fuck off. She’s a pain in my ass.”

“Aren’t they all?” Sammy points at the windshield. “Look alive. Guess who just left the gallery.”

“Oh, well, look at that!” I grunt.

The long cascade of blonde locks is unmistakable as Kay rests his hand on Jocelyn’s lower back while escorting her to the SUV. After what Augusta told me, their body language has taken on a different meaning. If they are having an affair, then Kay’s hand above Jocelyn’s ass is more than him just assisting her into the car. It’s a possessive, this-is-my-boo gesture. Her legs shift under her wine-red silk dress, and I’d love to break them.

The woman is a snake.

But the question is, which one is worse? Her or Augusta?

After the latest events, I can’t trust either of them, and the people I can trust are becoming less these days. 

“Here we go…” Sammy starts the engine of the soccer mom van he rented, and we snail away from the curb, keeping our distance as Kay maneuvers through the streets. 

Jackson gives directions as he holds a tablet and watches the little blue dot move across the map while we track the SUV. Eventually, we end up in Potrero Hill. It’s one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in San Francisco with bay and skyline views from a mix of condos, classic Victorians, boutiques, and offices. Kay pulls up to a renovated Victorian with a black exterior, white trim, and cedar accents at the top of the hill. This has to be where Richie is being kept. The garage door rolls open, and the SUV slides inside, then disappears, but not all is lost. 

We have a plan A, B, C, and D, and I'm about to tackle the first one.

“Here I go…” I latch onto the car’s door handle.

“Wait!” Jackson grabs my shoulder. “Are we sure this is a good idea?”

“Absolutely. If this isn’t where they’re hiding Richie, then it’s definitely where they come to fuck.” I open the door.

Jackson doesn’t let go of my shoulder. “But, this Kay guy isn’t dumb. What if he has cameras or security guys watching the house?”

“No.” Sammy rubs his grey stubble. “This is a clandestine rendezvous. Nobody knows they’re here. I doubt Augusta even knows this place exists.” 

“Well, it’s now or never.” I stare at Jackson. “I’ll be fine. This ain’t my first rodeo.” 

“Be careful,” he blows out a breath and sits back, releasing my shoulder. 

“One more thing..." Sammy slides a gun to me. "Take this Glock just in case shit goes sideways. You know how to use it, right?"

“Indeed." I slide it into my jacket pocket and give the fellas a wink. "See you boys in a bit.”

There's an evening fog rolling through the neighborhood, and it works to my advantage as I skip across the street dressed in all black like a shadow. Yet, the trouble with Victorians is how nestled together the homes are, which makes breaking into them more difficult. So when I make it across the street, I head for the bushes and crouch to plot my next move. I could climb the trellis, and see if there is an open window on the second level, but the trellis is facing the street which would make me vulnerable to getting caught. 

"Bingo!" I grin.

There is a narrow wooden fence a few feet ahead, dividing the Victorian from the one next to it, which is barely wide enough for a skinny noodle to squeeze through, but it's my best bet. So, like the agile athlete that I am, I hoist myself over and land like a cat without a single sound. I hope Jackson saw me and has his jaw on the floor over my impressive gymnastics.

The space between the two buildings is so narrow that both sides kiss my shoulders as I inch toward the backyard. When I finally make it, I peek around the bend and there's a patio with sliding glass doors I can try to pry open. For a woman like Jocelyn, I expected this place to be decked out like an oasis. Instead, it has the average plastic chairs someone can find at the Home Depot and a small charcoal grill. 

Interesting. This place must solely be for fucking, and not for playing house. 

A light flicks on from somewhere inside, causing a golden glow to cast through the glass windows and onto the weather deck of the patio. Now I can see Kay and Jocelyn in the kitchen. She scoots onto the countertop as Kay uncorks a bottle of wine, and she watches him pour two glasses in a way that says she's ready to devour him. Her silk dress has a high slit, revealing her thighs, as she swings her legs back and forth as if she's airing out her cooter.

Kay hands Jocelyn one of the glasses, and she takes a sip while admiring him. He’s about to taste his wine, but she pulls it out of his hand, sets it aside, and reels him in with her legs. There's an attempt to kiss her, but Jocely leans back on her elbows, as if spreading herself out like a feast across the countertop. So, Kay digs his fingers into her hips, pulls her in closer, then drags his mouth up her waist, and to her chest where he fondles her. Jocelyn enjoys every second as she writhes beneath his touch, rubbing her clothed twat all over his clothed dick like a couple of teenagers dry humping in the back of a car on a school night. 

Then he slides down the strap of her dress and sucks one of her perky breasts into his mouth. This releases something ferocious in her as she bolts upright and begins tugging the belt on his slacks between sloppy kisses. The pants fall to his ankles, and a massive erection flops out, which makes my jaw drop. I’m well-endowed, but this guy has a damn anaconda! 

He gives the snake a few strokes, then takes Jocelyn by the waist with his gigantic hands and flips her onto her stomach. She’s faced down with her cheek pressed into the marble countertop, and her expression contorts with another moan when he enters her from behind. 

There is a chilly breeze on my neck, yet my temperature is hotter than magma, so I tug my collar. But as much as I’d love to watch Jocelyn take Kay’s big ol’ shlong like a pro, I have bigger fish to fry. Plus, I’m not a voyeur. So I skip across the yard and make it to the other side unseen as Kay has his way with Miss Naughty Little Jocelyn like a rabbit during mating season. There has to be an unbolted window somewhere as I feel across the wood paneling in the dark. That’s when I notice light spilling across a patch of grass further ahead, and when I reach it, there is a small rectangular window at my feet. 

Winner, winner, chicken dinner.

The only time windows are this close to the ground is when they belong to a basement. I bet Richie Fucking Reddy is down there.

So I crouch and take a peep. Sure enough, I spot a washer and dryer machine, but that’s not the only thing. The basement appears to be a small apartment with a couch in front of a TV, and decor on the walls, but I can’t see much else, so I have to get inside. I press on the glass, and like most basement windows, it swings open, since nobody ever seems to lock these. It’s as if they can’t fathom someone breaking in through here. I slide in feet first, then climb down the washing machine, and proceed cautiously. There is a hint of mildew in the air mixed with laundry detergent, but the basement is warm, and there's the soothing white noise of a fan oscillating somewhere. TV light flickers across the walls, so someone was definitely here before Kay and Jocely's arrival, which means they're likely still here.

Pulling out the Glock, I inch closer. If the cushions are still warm to the touch, then whoever was down here must be hiding somewhere, so I click the safety off the gun and peer over the sofa.

Well, holy shit.

That little fucker known as Richie Reddy is fast asleep with the TV remote on his chest. I place my hand on his mouth causing his eyes to open wide, but he doesn’t have a chance to scream or defend himself as I whack him with the gun, knocking him out cold. Richie’s eyes close, and he’s out for the count, so I lift his ass from the bed and flop him over my shoulder. This isn't part of the plan. If it turned out that Richie was here, then we were going to return tomorrow to grab him before the raid to save Alma, but you know what? This asshole is coming with me!

As I creep across the basement, Jocelyn’s moans reverberate upstairs, and it sounds like she’s showing off, but it also lets me know she's at the precipice of coming, so I need to hurry. Huffing, I hoist Richie onto the washing machine, then climb onto the drier to give myself leverage to shove him out of the window. It takes a few tries but stuffing dead weight through a window is harder than it seems. Especially by yourself.

By the time we’re outside, sweat is dripping down my forehead, and I’m panting heavier than a dog after a run. But hey, I got him out of the basement, and that was half the battle. 

Now to drag him across the yard, and get back to the fence...

When I poke my head around the bend to check for Kay and Jocelyn, they’re still going at it in the kitchen, but he’s now on the floor and she’s riding him like a bull. This provides the perfect window for me to haul ass to the fence while their attention is away from the sliding glass doors. So, I scoop Richie’s floppy self into my arms, and run like the wind, then toss him over the fence. His body thuds when he lands, but I'm sure the bushes cushioned the blow, so I’m sure he’ll be fine, and I climb over to retrieve him. 

Headlights beam as a few cars come over the hill and proceed down the street. So, I stay low to the ground, hoping the shrubs will camouflage us while I wait for the traffic to pass. When it’s clear, I throw Richie over my shoulder one last time and sprint up to the car like a T-Rex is after me. It’s gotten darker since I left, the fog is gone, and crickets chirp as the night sky fades from an amethyst hue into a deep blue. Sammy and Jackson are in mid-conversation when they see me, so the old man starts the van, and Jackson throws the back door open. 

I practically dive into the back with Richie, and my chest is tight with sharp breaths, but I manage to say, “Go!” 

Sammy pulls away from the curb, and we leave the neighborhood. “So, what happened to the original plan?”

“Yeah!” Jackson barks. “You said that if Richie was in there, we would wait until tomorrow to grab him.”

“I made an executive decision last minute.” I fasten my seatbelt.

“So then what do we do about tomorrow?” Jackson asks. “We’re supposed to meet with Kay. What if he knows we took Richie.”

“He can’t pin it on us.” 

“But how do you know?”

“I mean, he can try, but how will he prove it? Besides, neither he nor Jocelyn can kick up a fuss without exposing their lie or secret fuck-house to Augusta, and I don’t think they want that.”

“Oh, so you caught them in the act?” Sammy looks at me through the rearview mirror.

“Yep. They were dick-deep. Augusta was right to be suspicious.” 

“So what now? What do we do with Richie?” Jackson asks. 

Sammy flicks on the van's turning signal and turns right. “I know a place where we can keep him until tomorrow.”

“Awesome,” I say. “Let’s get this sorry piece of shit over there, and call it a night.” 

“First, we need to grab some burgers.” Sammy glances back at me. 

“I’m not hungry.”

“Neither am I,” Jackson says, and Sammy laughs.

“Well, it’s not for you. It’s for Angie.”