I've never hated a human the way I hated Alex Esteves.
He was smug. He was mouthy. He was everywhere. And worst of all? He was Conan's best friend.
Which left me with one very specific problem: if I broke every bone in his irritating little body like I wanted to, Conan would hate me. Maybe even leave me. But if I didn't, I might actually explode from the pressure of tolerating him.
By the time I reached his apartment, my jaw was clenched so hard it felt like it might crack. I barely remembered the drive. My hands were locked on the steering wheel the whole way there, and the sound of the engine wasn't nearly loud enough to drown out the rage building in my head.
And this place? His building looked like it hadn't seen maintenance since the invention of indoor plumbing. Flickering hallway lights, weak security, thin walls. Conan came here? Frequently?
I stomped up the stairs and knocked once.
Nothing.
I knocked again—harder, sharper.
