Page 17

Chapter 17

Liam

I hate oranges. I’ve hated them since I can remember, but seeing the way Fleur picked out each sphere. The way she cradled the bright fruit in her hand before deeming it satisfactory for her crate—made me want it.

Why I’m compelled to draw the vile fruit is beyond me.

In fact, I hate blondes. Blondes with braids. Braids I want to wrap around my fist and yank. Yank that perfect tan body to me.

I tried to ignore her when River first approached. Pretended not to notice her until it became glaringly obvious and then … then I lost the battle.

Hell.

I’d watched Fleur from the time she twirled around and ran from me.

Good . I’d thought.

But I made it all of two steps before seeking out her long braid, loose and hanging down her back. That mouth. Her attitude.

Stupid and reckless.

She doesn’t understand who she’s dealing with. And I’m positive Adam hasn’t told her—won’t tell her. His own self-preservation, or maybe his pride, won’t let him.

I shrug, shading in the shadow of the orange sitting in a crate.

I told myself to leave the oranges alone, let them get run over by a truck or perhaps be taken by another person. But no. She’d left them there. So instead of strapping my share of the produce for the compound on the back of my bike, I ditched it with Tilt and strapped the crate of oranges to it.

I hate that I’m attracted to her. I hate that I want what my brother has. Or does he? I’m not sure she’s his. Knowing Adam, he’s inserted himself into her life, liking the fact she has renovations to accomplish on that farmhouse.

The farmhouse I lingered at.

I stood at the door, peering at the old refinished wood, wondering if she heard my bike approach. It took me two whole minutes to decide if I should knock or not.

I didn’t.

I plopped the crate down, picked up the one orange that bounced out, and tried to escape down the stairs while I slid the disgusting fruit into my pocket. I was already down the road when I saw Adam’s new truck pull into her place in my bike mirrors.

I don’t even care.

The buzz of my phone causes me to darken my shade too much and I growl at it. Pushing up from my seat at the dining table, I rip the phone from my back pocket.

It’s Darrin. He wants a meet in the clubhouse in twenty minutes.

Organizing my charcoal sticks and pencils, the ones I salvaged from the floor the other night, I slide them into the container. The plastic container was the one thing my mother gave me in relation to my drawing. Everything else I’ve had to figure out myself.

I shove the papers together into a stack and move them to the rest of my drawing paper before stalking into the kitchen to wash up and grab a glass of water. The pipes groan when the water turns on and the faucet spits before a steady stream finally dumps fresh, cold water into the glass.

Faster than normal, I guzzle the water, tasting the slightly metallic tang that is unique to the compound. I’m hungry but keeping Darrin waiting isn’t an option.

Shaking my head, I leave the orange casting a shadow on the granite, which causes my hand to twitch at my side with that need to catch the perfect light on paper. My leather jacket hangs on the coat rack, and I pull it down to wrap around me. I swallow, do up the zipper, and take a deep breath as I head for the clubhouse.

The Break Room sits toward the back of the main clubhouse area. It’s not what you think when you picture a break room for the average office. There isn’t a vending machine and free drip coffee with a few round tables and chairs. No. The name Break comes from something else entirely.

It resembles a lounge. Black leather couches and chairs stand in the room. Muted lights highlight a long stainless-steel bar fully stocked with all the liquor and beer you could have the hankering for. Usually, one of Darrin’s lackeys is behind the bar. Working for money he’s ultimately going to return when he buys his Jackpot.

Two poles stand straight on each side of the room, each occupied by women dancing. A cool summer breeze from the cracked windows blows Blitz’s cigarette smoke into my face before it’s sucked back out into the night air. He watches the woman from the other day wrapped around the pole with a smirk on his face. His legs are spread wide as he relaxes back on the couch, hands palming his thighs.

Tears stream down the woman’s face, her black hair snarled. She’s violently shaking as she’s forced to work. Forced to dance to pay the debt her now dead boyfriend incurred.

“Going to take off that coat, Liam? Stay awhile,” Blitz says, his back to me as he groans out something inaudible, inching closer to the pole. “Or do you not want to show off that new sleeve you finished the other day? Jay told me you finally had it completed.”

He snickers, and I turn away.

The tattoo sleeve was one I started five years ago with a good friend. The original plans I had for the piece morphed into something different over time, but I finally decided to finish the beast on my right arm.

“I’m shocked you care, Blitz.”

Several of the ladies walk around in their cut-off shorts and ripped tees. Their job here is to bring drinks to the guys or service them in other ways.

Most of the men won’t commit, though. They prefer to take their pick of the handful of women always hanging around.

Darrin has this rule. Unless you claim a woman by marrying her, there’s zero tie to you. Any of the asswipes here can take and use as they please. That’s why Snape married his old lady. Didn’t want anyone else with her, so he claimed her.

Claim. As though another man’s claim is the only reason to keep your hands off a woman. Disgust roils in my stomach with every tear that drips down that girl’s face.

Many women here enjoy it, though. Food, shelter, and drugs—all for free. They’re usually better off than if they were outside the compound.

One of those women, Roe, sways her hips to the music, eyes lingering on me. She moves down the other pole in the room, opening her legs offering an invitation, but I’m not interested. Neither is Darrin. Haven’t seen a girl in years who can turn his head.

Another girl, young from the looks of it, brings me a beer. Her light brown skin, lighter than Darrin’s, glimmers under the soft light. Her eyes are bright blue when they meet mine, not yet torn down by this world, by these men.

“Snape said this was your favorite,” she says.

I take the beer, the pads of my fingertips relishing the cool sweat dripping off the bottle.

“Thank you.”

She retreats to the bar and slides in next to Trip, who wraps her in his arms.

“Liam.” Darrin’s voice breaks through the haze of music. He’s propped up in one of the leather chairs, elbows leaning on his thighs. The ring on his pinky finger glistens with an emerald-colored stone that appears surprisingly feminine. His eyes bore into me as I stride over, taking a sip of my beer. The chilled alcohol slides down to ease the burn in my chest.

“What’s going on, D?”

He snorts, then motions for Blitz, Snape, and Trip to come over as well. Roe twirls on the pole, and she bends over in front of Darrin’s face. He glances away.

“Alabama is going to be a problem. Their dealers have been spotted on our turf. They’re poaching our users across state lines.”

“Let’s take them out,” Snape says.

I shake my head. “Gotta be smart about it. Are they feeding into the national shipments? Don’t want to go to war with those contributing like us.”

Darrin leans back, the chair creaking as he settles deep into it. “They’re a new player. They aren’t part of the national relationship. The Cartel isn’t dealing with them like they do us. I talked to a brother in Chicago, and he’s sending me their formula for it, dirty.” His blue eye shifts over to me. “There’s demand there. Even more so outside of Ruin and surrounding Mississippi. We have the means.”

Blitz practically salivates. “Make our product better, D. They won’t even want the Alabama shit. Plan B is we kill them.”

I stiffen. Dirty Jackpot means the powderwill be cut with other potentially more harmful substances.

“I’ve secured a small shipment of weapons from New York for this exact reason,” Darrin answers.

I bite my tongue so hard it bleeds. But that still doesn’t stop me from asking, “New York?”

“Luka Morozov.”

“Oh boy.” Blitz cackles, downing the last of his growler. He wipes at his mangled mustache with the back of his hand and lets out a belch. “Never thought we’d go as high as the Mafia.”

There’s no way in hell I want the Mafia involved in this business.

“Is that a smart idea?” I ask.

All three heads snap to me, and I level them each with a stare. Folding my arms across my chest, I shrug.

Blitz snorts while sticking his hand down his pants and I narrow my eyes at Darrin, who kicks him in the shin. He tries, unsuccessfully, to stand up straight.

“It’s a small shipment. An insurance policy. This will make us richer, boys.” Darrin raises his glass and we each do the same, most of them sloshing over the side and landing on the already sticky floor. “To getting lucky,” he says.

I take my sip before turning to toss my bottle in the trash. It lands with a loud clank against the bottom of the barrel. “I’m off to bed. Need to check on dealers early in the morning.”

Darrin rises, extending his hand to mine. “Keep me posted on tomorrow.”

I nod, taking his hand in mine, and he pulls me in for a slap on the back. It’s a hug. The big baby.

Pulling away, I smile and raise my hand to Blitz, who is going for round two with a different girl. Snape yells something about the music needing to be louder, and I step out of the room as the bass rattles the clubhouse. It fades as I exit the building.

A few men work to clean up the firepit area. Many of the packers are leaving the warehouse and returning to their bunkhouses for the night until they start all over in the morning.

The Mississippi night air is humid. Thick and sticky, as if I could pick out the moisture by hand. Dampness settles in my nose, the earthy notes mixing with the stench of body odor from the men passing by. Tilting my head up to suck in a fresh breath, I eye the full moon. The rocky and cratered texture pins me with memories of the dimpled peel of the orange on my counter.

I hate it.