Page 15

Chapter 15

Liam

T he trip outside Ruin took me two hours. My meet was the second dead drop this month, and despite the long trip, riding the Trace let me reflect on our run-in with Fleur here two weeks ago.

I haven’t seen her since.

Glancing down at my fingers on my right hand, drawing pencil residue streaks across the outside of my pinky. Evidence of a painful week.

I started in high school. A talent I apparently inherited from my mother, whose watercolors hang in most government buildings in Mississippi. She told me once it was her escape, a haven from the world of motherhood and the emotional drain it took on her. Her own parents had paid for her lessons while growing up and it paid off. She was brilliant—is brilliant.

If only she were proud her talent passed to me instead of Adam. It’s him she wishes she had that connection with. Not me.

I’ve been drawing more than ever this week, compelled by my run-in with Fleur and her mouth, but perpetuated as a way to clean my soul. In the years I’ve worked for Darrin, I’ve been more and more complacent. Each time the boys harass a woman for a “good time”—despite my attempts to interrupt. Each kill. Each shipment. All of it goes against my nature.

That’s the thing about selling your soul; no matter the reason, it comes at a cost. A debt to a higher power that none can repay.

The audacity of her to speak to me like she did—shit. That’s the first thing Blitz informed Darrin about when we returned to the compound that evening. All about Adam’s new friend and how feisty she is. Still didn’t hide the fact she was nervous, terrified even. I saw each shiver. Her knees trembled, but she masked her fear with casual glances toward the car, where some of the most dangerous men at our disposal waited. And they noticed.

I could almost see the wheels turning in Darrin’s head, although he didn’t voice them out loud, about Fleur. His silence is even more intimidating than words. Thin lips formed a line, brows furrowing as Trip and Blitz both went on and on about the girl.

It crossed my mind to call Adam, to inform him Darrin caught wind of her name, but the ache of bitterness kept me from dialing his number. He never did truly grasp what it was like to lose something.

A snarl leaves my lips, flying into my helmet as I correct my bike from almost crossing the centerline. The need to get back drives me to run twenty over the speed limit. What I don’t need is Darrin asking questions.

Dusk settles over the remote compound as I pull in. Four box trucks are backed into the warehouse, offloading a recent shipment. But this is more than I originally anticipated. Twice the amount I had accounted for. Twice. Shit.

Snape waves me over to the clubhouse after I park. The weather is cooler this evening, but a nervous energy heats my body, enough that I need to remove my jacket.

The compound is buzzing. It’s more than the typical high we get when a new shipment comes in to be divided out to dealers. This is different. More predatory, and I can see that in Snape’s eyes as I near him. The gleam in them is haunting.

“Whatch’a say, Snape?” I ask, ready to blow past him into the clubhouse kitchen for a beer.

“Boss is fixin’ to send a message.”

I pause, one boot raised over the door’s threshold. “When? Who?” I snap my gaze toward Snape, who licks his lips the way he always does when someone is about to have their ass handed to them.

“That guy from a few weeks ago who showed up at the gate. He’s been taking what he’s supposed to be dealing.”

I snort. “How? He can’t possibly take everything he’s supposed to be dealing … he’d die.”

Jackpot is almost fifty times more potent than heroin. The irony that a drug offering powerful relief for those with terminal cancer can also be so lethal isn’t lost on us.

Respect the product.

Darrin’s words.

But Jackpot is more than highly addictive, it’s lucrative. Cheaper than other opioids and easier to smuggle because small amounts are so powerful. The baggies of powder our dealers carry are about equal to a brick of cocaine with the same profit margin. Losing one or two customers to an overdose isn’t detrimental to the bottom line.

I’ve never done the stuff. Never plan to.

“Not sure. His girl is in on it too. Pleaded for his life just an hour ago as Darrin beat the piss out of him,” Snape says.

Damn .

Shrieking sounds from the warehouse, and a chill runs down my back. I steel my face before eyeing Snape, who sighs. “At least Darrin said he’d let the girl work . You up for a show?”

No. Never.

I shrug. “We’ll see.”

We both stride over to the hulking, run-down warehouse. It’s one of the better ones, though. Most facilities used to parcel Jackpot are rat-infested cesspools.

The building is long and rectangular. Rusted metal coats the whole thing. Several bays for trucks to load and unload line the back, while a single point of entry funnels everyone in that direction, easily secured or picked off if you aren’t supposed to be there.

Reaching the door, the female’s yelling gets worse, and I brace myself for what I’m about to witness.

Blitz and Goff stand on the inside of the door. Both of them watch the scene unfold. While Blitz is a trusted member, unaddicted to the Jackpot that flows so freely from this place, Goff is not so lucky.

He’s been addicted for several years, accumulating more debt than he can possibly pay back. Always taking drugs or borrowing money from Darrin to gamble or buy a hit. Darrin didn’t demand he deal, though. No, he’s let him work around the compound. His softness with Goff irritates many of the men, but Darrin pretends not to notice.

Goff’s gaze is pinned on the young lady. Streams of mascara blacken underneath her eyes, which are wide in fear as another man holds her elbow. Goff is no doubt thinking of River, his sister. Perhaps wondering if he’ll ever go too far and put her in the position this woman is in.

I scan the warehouse. The packers are still working. Most of them don’t even glance up from where they weigh and measure out the powder into convenient bags, each designated for specific dealers.

A loud thud, as if concrete itself connected with a skull, rings out. Darrin’s fist coils back for another strike. The man who came crawling, pleading to Darrin the weeks prior, is now riddled with black and blue circles. Hair disheveled, he steps back with a limp, making retreat difficult. Darrin follows his every move.

“You stole from me,” Darrin says, his voice quiet and unfeeling. A predator sizing up his prey. Those deep mismatched eyes harbor so much pent-up rage and emotion as he scans the man’s body, searching for weak points to inflict the most pain.

“I’m s-s-sorry. I can’t help it.”

“I’ve given you a chance. You came here searching for a fix. For a high that only I can give.” Command laces his voice as it thunders throughout the warehouse, reminding everyone exactly who runs and owns this operation. “I provided that, and you … you squandered it.”

A far-off look in Darrin’s eyes catches my attention. But as soon as it’s there, it’s gone. Blinked away and offering no mercy.

“No,” the man pleads. “I promise I won’t do it again. I’ll sell triple. I’ll, I’ll?—”

Darrin grabs the back of his head with his fist and the man jerks, trying to free himself, but Darrin holds fast. The female is crying, full-fledged tears now. Whether for her man or for the drugs she’ll now have to work for instead of freeloading, I’m unsure.

Darrin reaches down to unsheathe a knife from his waistband, and the man’s eyes widen in terror. A wet spot appears on his light-washed jeans as Darrin drags him toward the packers. Large containers of fine powder line the stainless-steel tables, getting ready for weight checks, but before that—bags. Large bags of Jackpot, sizes I’ve never seen before. I stiffen at the knowledge. So much. There’s so much.

His knife splits one, powder spilling out. Goff and Blitz both jerk in surprise. Each for different reasons. Blitz sees the wasted money while Goff sees the wasted high.

All the while, Darrin sees the perfect ending.

He shoves the man’s face down.

Down into the bright white powder piled in the bag, the slice made big enough for his thin nose and mouth.

Silence invades the warehouse. Packers have retreated from their stations. The woman has dropped to her knees, head hung low. There’s a silent scream etched over her mouth and her eyes are desperate, heavy.

Muffled sounds are the only noise echoing in the metal building. Grunts and slaps to the table sounds around the man as he struggles to breathe, nose pushed into the deadly powder. His fingernails scratch and claw at the steel. Fighting. He’s fighting, but it’s for nothing.

Darrin stands over him, his muscled arm holding his head in place over the large, opened bag on the table. Nostrils flared, he doesn’t even look down at the man struggling for his life. He meets the stare of every man in the room. Connecting with their eyes in declaration.

This is my house. My power. My operation, he silently seems to say.

The man’s arms begin to slow, weakening as he aspirates the Jackpot. His head jerks from side to side and Darrin’s hand presses harder, his fingers digging into the man’s scalp.

The scene is violent and, in a sick way, poetic.

A squeaking sound shatters the silence as the man’s arms slide off the table, going limp at his sides. It’s only then that Darrin looks down at the man, and he turns his head. Red and purple splotches decorate his face through the white powder covering it. Eyes unseeing and open. Darrin stares down at the man with zero emotion. His mouth turns into a nonchalant downward curve, and he shrugs, rolling his shoulders.

“Goff, deal with this. Blitz, put the girl in the clubhouse.”

Neither of them moves.

“Now!” Darrin barks. “All of you, back to work.” Packers jump into action, pulling out their chairs and aligning themselves back on either side of the tables. Scales start weighing, bags are packed, and shipments sorted.

I move to Darrin, treading carefully with the hatred in his expression. “Where’s this shipment headed?” I ask.

Darrin raises his chin. While Darrin meets my height, he’s all lean muscle—thinner. The hallows of his cheeks are more gaunt than I’ve seen before. He ignores my question.

“We have security items to discuss. Raven, another drug lord across the state line in Alabama, is encroaching on our territory. We meet in the clubhouse in an hour.”

I nod, a swallow working its way down my throat. Spinning on my heels, I turn to the door and leave the warehouse. Fresh night air slams into me, and I gulp it down while power walking to my cabin.

Each step is quicker than the last. Stars overhead shine through the trees, speckles of constellations and far-off wishes never granted. Never for me.

Despite the cooler summer air and the breeze kicking up through the trees, sweat beads on my upper lip and I swipe at it. Week-old stubble grazes my hands, and I bat away another drop of perspiration dripping down the side of my temple.

Plowing into my front door, I slam it. My breathing becomes heavier, and a strangled choking noise wrestles itself from my mouth. I cover my lips, taking several steps forward, and stop at my small drawing desk.

In one fell swoop, I toss the materials there. Hands destroying the neatly arranged cups of items and filled pads. Charcoal sticks and drawing pencils clank to the floor while sketch pad papers float in the air. They dip and glide as sketches disappear in the dark cabin and cover the wooden floor.

I stare down at them. Ash-colored eyes stare back at me, boring into me until a sour, bitter tang in my mouth drives me for water.

I fill a cup and down the whole glass in two gulps, then place the empty glass in the sink and rest my arms on the counter. My gaze flicks to the door of the cabin, then flutters closed as I take a deep breath in through my nose and blow out. My stomach churns, but I steel my grimace, striding back to the door.

Pencils crunch and charcoal breaks under my boot, and I spare one last glance. My boot print stomps out those silver eyes before I stalk through the door.