Exodus (The Ravenhood #2)(23)
Humiliation heats my face as he eyes me in a way that lets me know exactly what he thinks about me.
Tobias’s demeanor shifts before he turns to me, his expression granite. “Give me your keys.”
“What?”
He lowers his eyes to the keys in my hand. “Give me your car keys, Cecelia.”
“Yeah, I don’t think so.” He walks over to me and holds out his hand, and I sigh before handing them over. He turns and hurls them at Terrance, who barely manages to catch them at his chest, a wince on his face from the sting. Tobias’s tone is unforgiving when he speaks.
“Wash and shine her car, soap, sponge, water, and wax, and she better be able to see her fucking reflection in it when you’re done.”
I step forward. “That’s not necessary, I—”
Tobias cuts me off with a look while RB glances over to Terrance with a ‘you just fucked up’ written in his expression. Tobias addresses RB next. “You watch him do it.”
RB nods, regarding Tobias with distinct respect.
Tobias ignores them both as they glance around the foyer. “You’re coming with me.”
“Uh, no I’m not, I’m in need of a shower—”
“We’ll be back in an hour,” he tells them both, gripping me by the arm to escort me out. “No one gets past this door. Tyler will meet you here in ten.”
“Got it,” RB answers.
I rip my arm away just as Tobias rounds the driver’s side of his Jaguar.
“I want to talk to Tyler.”
“No.”
“Well, I’m not decent,” I snap, arms crossed in an attempt to hold my ground.
“This isn’t a fucking date. And we’re not done with our conversation. Get. In. The. Car.”
We lock our eyes on each other for a second, then two before I slide into his leather seat. Shortly after, we’re flying down the lone road toward town.
“Want to tell me why you’re giving anyone with ink access to Roman’s house?”
Silence.
“You didn’t have to do that back there, you know? I can take care of myself.”
More infuriating silence.
“If disrespecting women is a hard limit for you, you might want to consider taking a closer inspection at your reflection.”
He navigates the roads easily as I scowl at the side of his head, attuned to the fact I must reek after a two-hour hike, my skin sticky from dried sweat. My hair matted in a heap atop of my head.
“Where are we going?”
He remains mute, relaxed in his seat as we drive another ten minutes until he whips into the parking lot of my bank.
“Making a deposit?”
He backs into one of the spots on the opposite side of the door facing the entrance.
“Let me guess, scoping for your next big heist?”
“Jesus,” he shakes his head. “Just watch.”
“What am I looking for?”
“Criminals. I want you to take a good look at that building and tell me when you spot one.”
“Really? We’re looking for criminals based on appearance?”
“Says the girl who just asked me if I’ve seen some of the people working under my fat thumb.”
“I just meant—”
“No way to justify that statement. Now, based on that line of thinking, let’s find some criminals.”
An older man walks out of the bank; he looks to be in his eighties and holds the door for a younger woman walking in.
“Nope.”
“How do you know? Because he held the door for her?”
“I don’t for sure. But he doesn’t look the type.”
“What’s the type? Everyone dressed in a hoodie? Everyone with tats? Who smells like pot? Sagging skinny jeans? Skin color? What about haircut? Can you tell by a haircut?”
“You’ve made your point.” Heat travels up my neck.
“No, I haven’t. Watch.”
And I do. For several minutes I scrutinize every person walking in and out of the bank and dismiss them.
“You don’t see one?”
“This is ridiculous. How am I supposed to know?”
“How about this one?”
A forty-something man walks out in a soiled work uniform just before he climbs into a utility truck.
“Clearly a hard worker. Looks local, and he’s probably all about providing for his family. This is wrong. I get what I said was generalizing but—”
“Where’s the criminal, Cecelia?”
“I don’t know.”
“What about this guy?” Tobias juts his chin toward a suit walking in.
“I don’t know!”
“Then keep looking.”
I search our conversation until I realize I’ve been looking at the people, not the building itself. “It’s the bank, isn’t it?”
“You think organized crime is as bad as it gets?” He says, staring up at the logo before turning to me. “Ask yourself this. Why is a twenty-year-old employee feeling threatened enough by management to bring her elderly grandma into the branch to open a second bank account she doesn’t need?”
“Because it’s her job?”
“It’s so her granddaughter can reach her eight accounts a day quota so she can keep her job. Because there were thousands just like her in small towns, who thought they were signing on to be a part of a well-known bank with a stellar reputation and only a week or so in, found out they were dancing chickens. Every day they felt pressured to open accounts. A ploy by the powers that be to drive up stock prices to an untouchable status, to fatten an overstuffed cow because Midas rich wasn’t fucking rich enough. Some resorted to opening accounts for dead people. This happened every day for years, all the while these people, these low-level employees, desperate for a paycheck, were being mentally abused to the point they committed criminal acts.”