Babydoll (On the Fringes Duet #1)

Prologue

Jeff

The Nissan Micra was not built for comfort. Hell, maybe it wasn’t even built for driving. Bumbling along perhaps, but driving? Shit, I’d rather take the bus. At least on the bus I didn’t have to kink my head to one side while simultaneously bashing my knees against the steering column.

This car, with the boxy feel of a coffin isn’t one of the several cars I own for my security firm. I needed something older for this job, so I borrowed my neighbor’s teenaged son’s car. It’s ten years old, has several dents, and the passenger door, purchased from the local scrap yard, is orange.

I hadn’t realized how uncomfortable the car would be until tonight. And it had cost me a tank of gas and some Twenty-One Pilots tickets. I’d changed the plates and took down the ridiculous fuzzy dice so nothing could link it back to the kid.

As I smash my knee for the hundredth time and curse, I wish he drove a rusted Intrepid like I had at his age.

I shift in the unforgiving seat to allow blood flow to my extremities and whack my head on the ceiling yet again. More cursing ensues. My head now pounds along with the bass from a party somewhere down the street. But my throbbing noggin is quickly forgotten the moment my eyes land on a curvy blonde in a calf-length, belted overcoat who’s just rounded the corner.

As she gets closer, my first thought is she’s hot. But hot isn’t relevant. I scribble her description in my notebook. Just over five feet, blonde, round face, big eyes, hourglass figure. I squint, waiting for her to get under the streetlamp, but it’s too dark to note the color of her eyes and I can’t see any distinguishing features. I do notice her legs though, but that stays out of my notes too. It’s not my detective skills noticing them.

Which brings me to my second thought. What the hell is she doing here? This isn’t a neighborhood anyone should be walking through alone, let alone a pretty, petite woman.

Just like the fuzzy dice, now hanging out of sight on the gear shift, this woman doesn’t belong.

Her hands anxiously clench and unclench at her sides which tells me she doesn’t want to be here. Add that to the way she’s glancing around nervously and I’m picking up damsel-in-distress vibes. I growl, my jaw tightening in annoyance. I scribble, ‘broke down?’ in my notes and circle it.

Glancing at the man leaning on the fence that separates his house and the building I’m staking out, I work my jaw. Cigarette smoke forms a cloud around him as he blows out. He’s lit by the entry lights on the building so I can see his face clearly. He squints through the smoke, leering at the woman.

Jesus effing Christ. Could this night get any worse?

Dude’s been lurking at the end of his driveway on and off for as long as I’ve been on this stake-out. I check my watch. More than a few hours now. He could be waiting for someone, just nosy, or maybe he doesn’t like to smoke in his house, but he’s been eying the street like a hawk the whole time and my gut tells me it’s not because he’s the head of his local neighborhood watch. Currently though, he’s only watching her. Predatorily.

I gather a breath and glance between him and the blonde. He straightens as she nears and I reach for my door handle just in case. At first she slows, her steps faltering, but then she surprises me by pulling her shoulders back and walking toward him with a boldness that belies her stature. When her face is once again lit by the street lamp, I see her expression. She glares as if daring him to mess with her.

Is this who he’s been watching for? Another note scribbled into my pad.

He speaks to her and she replies, but their words are drowned out by the pounding bass from down the street. I whisper a curse, annoyed, and concentrate on their mouths. Why can’t I read lips?

By her frown I can safely say she didn’t like what he said. I’m also confident she told him so, because the guy’s leer morphs into a scowl. I hear his next words clearly over the music. But Blondie’s unfazed by the derogatory language. And huh, she walks right up the walkway of the building, leaving the asshole to stare after her.

She better be mixed-martial-arts trained with that confidence, or she’s going to end up on the wrong side of a funeral one of these times. I shake my head.

Leaning deeper into my seat, I release the door handle and scrub my hand across my stubbled jaw. My eyes follow her into the vestibule of the building. She looks at the resident mailboxes, scanning the names with a finger before passing through the second set of doors.

She’s obviously never been here before, or at least not in a while, otherwise why consult the mailboxes? Could she be a prostitute? The thought makes me frown. She doesn’t look like a sex worker. I scribble the thought in my book anyway. Maybe that’s where the bravery comes from—a pimp nearby.

But wouldn’t she be showing more skin? Damn, with curves like hers, priests would pass over their collection plates. Maybe she’s wearing very little under that coat. As my eyes skim down her body, I notice she’s wearing tennis shoes.

Huh. Sex workers don’t often wear sensible footwear, do they? I glance at her shoulder where she should have a purse. Nothing. So, no stilettos tucked away. Before I can consider more options, she disappears deeper into the building, out of sight. I straighten too quickly, bashing my head again and swear.

I’m parked under a broken streetlamp, so when the smoking dude turns his glare on me, I don’t panic. I look the part in a dark hoodie and sunglasses. Actually, I look like a douche, but they’re a dime a dozen around here.

“Nothing to see, buddy,” I whisper and fiddle with the radio, finding a Green Day song and turning it loud enough to appear not to care if I’m noticed.

The guy’s gaze only stays on me for a few seconds before it swings back to the building… and then he pulls out his cell.

I smile. “Gotcha, fucker!”

It’s proof enough he’s watching Gage’s building. And I’d bet my ass he works for Satan’s Ransom. Maybe he’s not a patched member of the MC, but a prospect. Unless he’s undercover too. A narc? And what about the blonde? If the dude’s undercover, she could be working for the Ransom. No one does business, of any kind, in River’s End under the nose of the disreputable MC.

“Who are you, Blondie?” I question quietly, tapping my pen on my knee.

Thinking about Satan’s Ransom always makes my jaw clench, so I force it to relax. Unfolding myself from the coffin-like vehicle, I hunch down in my hoodie, shoving my hands deep into the pockets of my too-low, too-loose jeans.

Keeping my head down, I hike them up and walk around the side of the apartment. The decrepit four-story doesn’t have an elevator, but it does have a windowed stairwell, so I watch the blonde climbing the steps. Now that she's away from the smoker, she once again looks hesitant. Every slow step tells me so. I do a quick check on my phone searching Gage’s family tree, recalling in an instant he doesn’t have one. Gage was a foster kid with years of bouncing home to home. A few of them brutal enough to put him in the hospital.

I might feel sorry for him, but I can’t afford to. He’s an adult now and chose to sell dope and get involved with Satan’s Ransom. A small voice in my head tells me my sister chose to involve herself with the one-percent club too, and she had a good start in life, but I ignore the thoughts and swallow hard.

The blonde disappears down the hall of the fourth floor, Gage’s floor, so I go back to the cramped car to look through my notes on who else lives on that floor.

If the blonde works for the Ransom, had she also been enticed by a bad boy in a leather jacket with a rumbling chopper between his thighs? If those bastards had kept their sights off my sister, she’d be alive today. I growl under my breath and look at the brown bag on the passenger seat.

And Reece would have her mother.

The lunch bag has colorful scribbles of crayon on it and my mood instantly softens. I open it and smile as I feel the pudding inside. Pulling it out, I see it’s butterscotch. I must have been good today. Reece only gives me the butterscotch when she’s happy with me.

I remind myself I’m doing this for her, that taking down the Ransom isn’t just my vengeance. It’s for the little girl that has to grow up without a mom.

Tossing the pudding cup up, I catch it in my hand. “I’ll get them, Reece. If it’s the last thing I do.”

Sharp wailing pierces through the neighborhood yanking my thoughts from my niece. But it’s the deep vibrating rumble of a Harley that has my mind focusing back on the blonde.

As the bike drives by, pulling into the back lot, I see the Satan’s Ransom emblem emblazoned on the biker’s top rocker.

I grit my teeth.

Lu

When I knock on Gage’s door, he doesn’t answer. For a moment, I consider bolting back down the hall the way I came, getting as far away from this door as possible. But when I remember the creepy guy outside, and how his lascivious look makes my skin crawl, I’m also reminded of how much I owe Gage. So instead of leaving, I give the stairway one longing glance, gather a breath, and knock again. This time only slightly less timidly.

My stomach starts to clench a little tighter as I wait and become more aware of my surroundings. The carpet looks as if it hasn’t seen a vacuum cleaner in thirty years, and the walls are a grimy gray, similar in color to the carpet and I’m confident neither are meant to be. I glance up at the lights buzzing and flickering above me.

This feels like a nightmare. No, it feels like my past. Which was worse than a nightmare.

“You can do this,” I coach myself in a whisper. And not for the first time since I entered this neighborhood, I straighten my spine.

My shoulders back, my jaw tight, I press my ear as close to the door as possible without actually touching it. I hear nothing but the droning television, a bloody Lysol commercial. I could use some Lysol right now. In fact, when I get out of here, I might just bathe in it.

I wrap my knuckles harder against number 405 and a wheezing cough from somewhere echoes through the hall as the door to 406 opens. I deliberately steel my expression as a ghostly pale woman with hollowed-out cheeks and dull, bruised-looking eyes blinks at me.

“He’s there. I just left his place ten minutes ago.” She wipes her nose with the back of her hand and sniffs. “He was pretty out of it, but I wouldn’t knock any louder.” Her chin motions toward the door across from her.

“Donny’s an asshole.” Her voice rises as if she wants nothing more than to irritate him. “Works nights. Fuckin’ pimp dickhead. And he’ll slap a bitch silly for fucking with his sleep.”

“Got it,” I murmur, sounding unconcerned when in reality my knees almost buckle. I’ve been away from this shit for too long and I’ve apparently gone soft.

The woman flicks her stringy hair back off her bare shoulder. Her t-shirt hangs on her, the neckline low enough to show off her collarbones like a PSA against crack. She absently scratches her head. “Door ain’t locked.”

I look back at Gage’s door and try the handle, although I’m loath to touch the knob. It turns.

“Gage?” I swallow hard and push the door open wider, wishing for that Lysol.

He was the one that asked me to come see him, not the other way around. And if I didn’t owe him, I wouldn’t be here. God, I’d rather be anywhere else.

“Gage? I’m here.” I take one tentative step inside and slam the hand that didn’t touch that nasty door handle over my mouth and nose. The stench is enough to make me gag.

There’s a mix of smells and all of them are bad. Smoke, tobacco, cannabis, something yeasty like stale beer, and rotten food. All of it mingles together with… is that cat piss?

And then the worst hits, onions, or body odor, and human rot hit me like a wall with my next step.

“Oh, god. Gage, it reeks in here.”

A cat curls around my legs, meowing as I further enter the apartment. Its fur is matted and its eyes are weepy. I scoop it up, scratching it behind the ears. As I pass the kitchen, I ignore the horror of old pizza boxes, dirty dishes with food so old it’s moldy, and glasses of brown liquid with floating cigarette butts.

I speak to the cat as I search cupboards for her food with no luck. “Gage, where’s the cat food?” I call out.

No answer.

Fear churns in my belly, licking up my esophagus like ice or maybe it’s fire, either way it burns. There’s something wrong. Very wrong.

I abandon the cat with a pat and slowly walk to the living area. Gage is on the old sofa, his back to me, but he sits at an awkward angle. My lip trembles. There’s a gaping, puss-filled wound on his toe which explains the rotting flesh smell. Gage is diabetic and obviously not taking care of himself.

Please don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead. Please…

I shake him, holding my breath while I send up a silent prayer. He tilts, wheezes, and slumps all the way to his side. I’m frozen a second as he slowly slides, at a snail’s pace, off the couch and lands on the floor with a dull thud. I scream, loudly. The smell of both his festering wound and the urine staining the crotch of his pants make my stomach lurch and I clamp my mouth shut.

I move slowly around him so I can see his face, my heart pounding so fast I’m lightheaded.

Gage’s lips are starting to turn a bluish purple and I can no longer find my own breath. My mantra morphs into a fear chant.

Oh, god. Oh, god. Oh, god, he’s dead….

And for a moment I’m right back in my childhood car seat. A wide-eyed, trembling kindergartener, crying for my parents who were slumped lifeless in the front seat of our mangled car.

Dropping to my knees, I shake him again, yelling his name. But as foamy liquid leaks out of his mouth my instincts kick in. I am no longer that powerless child. I can take action.

I clear his airway by turning him onto his side. His pulse is there but thready, and his color starts to come back as he gurgles in a few ragged breaths.

“What the fuck! I’m trying to fucking sleep!” The voice booms from the hallway but I ignore it as I feel for Gage’s pulse, this time to count it rather than just make sure he has one.

“Tell your fuckin’ whore to shut her goddamn mouth or I’ll shut it for her.” That comes from inside the apartment. Another singe of fear burns in me, but it’s quickly doused by anger.

Anger at Gage, at the drugs all over his coffee table, and at our past. But mostly, however misplaced, at the dickhead behind me. My head whips around, my glare showing no fear.

“You got a fucking phone?” I point at Gage’s lifeless form. “Make yourself useful and call for help.”

He doesn’t say a word, just turns and leaves. I don’t know if that means he’ll call for help or it’s simply a fuck you, but Gage needs an ambulance and now. I fumble for my cell with one hand while clearing Gage’s airway again.

“Nine one one, what’s your emergency?”

“I need an ambulance.” I spout the address from memory and don’t wait for her to ask me questions. I hang up, and lean closer to Gage to check for breathing again.

He’s still breathing, although not in a way that’s a comfort. I look at the drugs on the coffee table and notice there’s an awful lot. And there’s a cooler bag, a red one like those food-delivery services use and it’s loaded with pills and powders in little baggies. I look back at my foster brother on the floor, anger taking over again.

“You were supposed to stop!” I yell, shaking the bag at him as I pass his form on the floor. I’m trembling from anger, but then my throat clogs with emotion. “We were both supposed to make it. To show them we were stronger. They weren’t supposed to break us, G. Not. Us.” I feel the sob welling up and shove it down, focusing on my anger.

Grabbing the red bag, I take the drugs to the bathroom, flushing it all. I leave the stuff on the coffee table though. I want the paramedics to see what he’s taken. When I come back, I drop to my knees and refocus my energy on saving Gage. “You saved me once and I’m going to save you now. Call it tough love or whatever, but you’re done with this shit.”

He took a beating for me once. Provoked it, actually. One so brutal it couldn’t be ignored. Not even by our indifferent foster mother. Her words?

“How’ll we explain the dead fuckin’ kid, Carl?” She’d looked at Gage, a bloody pulp on the linoleum where he’d managed to crawl, with disgust. Not disgust at the battered, barely alive child placed in her care, but at the trouble it would cause her. “He’s bleeding all over my fucking floor.”

And then she did something that changed everything for me. She rubbed dish soap in her eyes, hit herself in the face several times with the telephone receiver and called 911.

“Oh god, please hurry… my son… oh, god, my son. My poor child. He’s hurt. He’s so hurt! My poor boy tried to protect me.”

And when she hung up, her expression turning from distraught mother back to cold indifference, she said, “Better take off for a while, Carl. They’ll be here any minute.”

She blubbered and cried to the police holding her bruised face, but only worrying about ‘her poor brave boy.’ And they believed her.

Every. Lying. Word.

Thankfully, the authorities removed us from the home anyway, in case Carl returned, so Gage did save us, but I also learned an invaluable lesson that night from our foster mother.

With good acting skills, no one could see who you really were.

And that lesson is still serving me well.

Once the paramedics arrive, I slip away and take the stairs two at a time to the back door. Bursting through it, I buckle forward, grabbing my knees and draw in as much fresh air as I can.

“What’s happening in there?”

I look up, still panting and blink at a huge, bald, biker-looking dude standing five feet from me in the near-empty parking lot. With a coppery, goateed-covered chin lift indicating the top apartment—Gage’s apartment, he repeats his question. My eyes drop to his leather cut and the emblem on it and then I glance over my shoulder to buy time to think and calm the fear growing inside me.

Satan’s Ransom was a well-known one-percenter biker club with hands in pretty much every criminal endeavour in River’s End and a five-hundred-mile radius surrounding it. And their members weren’t known for their love of small talk. Or much talk at all. What they were known for was action. The violent kind.

The blood seems to drain from my limbs and I start to tremble. This is bad. Very bad. For a second I consider calling for help. Maybe the creepy guy from the front of the building will come, but I toss the idea before even really considering it. I know it won’t do any good. The guy wouldn’t stand a chance against the biker even if he had a good Samaritan bone in his body, which is doubtful in itself. Nope, I’m on my own and the big biker is waiting for an answer.

“In there?” I ask, my voice cracking. Turning back in his direction, I keep my eyes low, noticing the butterscotch candy wrappers scattered around his feet. A biker with a sweet tooth? How bad can he be? But as my gaze rises to his chest, I know the answer.

Very, very bad.

Dude’s a patched member. His name, ‘Python’ is right beneath the Satan’s Ransom insignia on his cut. Getting patched isn’t easy and it most often means you’ve done something so awful that it isn’t worth turning on your MC brothers because no amount of information could get you a deal for a lesser sentence.

“Yeah, in there.” Python presses his lips and his jaw ticks. He’s losing patience with me.

Feeling lightheaded, I take in our surroundings.

The reflection of lights flashing blue, red, and yellow, bounce off trees, ramshackle houses, and cars so old I doubt they run. The police, just out front, are responding to my nine-one-one call. But having just dumped evidence down the toilet, they’d likely think I was involved. A junkie, or a dealer like Gage. Jesus, why did I come here? Why was it so damn important I repay the debt I owed Gage?

But I know the answer. It burns, invisible, inside my chest like the scars hidden beneath Gage’s hair where they made burr holes to stop the swelling in his brain from killing him. Because when we were kids, he’d saved me from a drunk foster father named Carl with unzipped pants and lust replacing the usual cruelty on his face. And because he goaded the pervert into beating him so badly, there was no denying we were abused.

He couldn’t even remember what happened that night. His brain had been damaged too badly by the boot stomps. So yeah, I owed Gage. I owed Gage a lot.

Python takes a step closer to me and my knees buckle. He catches me by the arm and I wince.

“Uh, guy overdosed I think,” I say, forcing myself to look at Python’s face. My heart beats wildly in my throat, both from the memory of Gage and my current predicament.

“Someone you know?” Python’s eyebrows lift in question, but his eyes tell me he damn well knows the answer.

Maybe I can run. Go to the cops, explain what’s happened. Maybe they’ll believe me. And if they don’t, isn’t jail better than whatever this biker plans to do to me?

Fear flares further as he yanks me closer. But I can’t answer. My mouth opens, but the words, if I have any, are frozen. My jaw gapes like a Venus flytrap or something. And my brain shuts down as if it packed up and left with a wave and a ‘see ya, you’re on your own with this one’. Even breathing is difficult—which makes sense since it’s part of the autonomic nervous system, controlled by the brain. Which is gone, remember?

And then we both look behind me at the sound of a firm shout.

“All clear back here.”

Brain coming back online, I start to shout, but stop as the words sink in.

All clear back here .

The biker’s hand clamps tighter around my upper arm.

“Keep your mouth closed,” he warns. “I don’t want to have to break your fucking arm.”

He says this so casually it’s as if we’re having a normal chat and he’s not threatening to hurt me in a parking lot behind a drug dealer’s apartment. A whimper escapes my mouth and tears burn behind my eyes. I won’t be walking away from this. I’d clawed my way out of hell years ago and now I’m falling right back in.

Python grabs my chin and turns me to face him.

“Name’s Python and you’ll be coming with me.” He releases my face and tugs me to follow him. Despite my resistance, he drags me toward his bike with ease.

“Walk properly, gorgeous. You don’t want to piss me off, yeah?”

“Yes, okay. No, no pissing you off,” I stammer, realizing struggling won’t change my fate. I’m getting kidnapped either way, but resisting will get me injured as well.

“Smart girl.”

“Where are you taking me?” I ask, letting him lead me to his bike.

Looking back, he smiles at me and it’s even more terrifying than his verbal threat.

“You’ll get your answers soon enough,” he replies, popping a skullcap helmet onto my head.

His huge hands find my middle and he picks me up and plunks me onto his bike. “This is Lady,” he says, patting the motorcycle before throwing his leg over the front handlebars to straddle it. “Lean when she leans and you’ll be alright.”

Again, I contemplate my chances of escape. Could I jump off and make it to the building before he caught me? Would someone let me into their apartment? But I know the answers. If by some miracle, and it would be a miracle , I made it inside, every door would be locked tight and no one would answer.

I’ve lived in buildings like this, in the same types of neighborhoods. The only way to survive was to mind your own business, keep your door locked tight, and never ever talk to the cops or anyone else that came knocking.

Python reaches into one of the saddle bags hanging from the side of the bike and hands me a cell. “Prepaid burner. One number’s programmed in it. Mine. I call or text, you answer. Got it?” When I don’t move, he glances back at me. “Nod that you understand, gorgeous.”

I do and he takes my wrists to wrap my arms around his solid middle. When the bike rumbles to life beneath me, I lean against the big man and let the tears come.

On the first turn, I grip onto Python’s middle for dear life. Leaning when the bike leans is easier said than done. My body resists, wanting to counter the action to keep from tipping over, but when Python growls at me sternly to lean, I squeeze my eyes tight and obey.

Before we’ve even gone a block, we’re flanked by two more bikes, their riders equally scary looking and tatted, and ten minutes after that, we pull up to a small wartime house.

Python cuts the engine and throws his long leg over the front handle bars like before and I glance at the others getting off their bikes.

“Get her inside,” one of them barks and leaves us. Python nudges his chin at me.

“Let’s go, gorgeous. Inside.”

I swallow hard, looking at the other biker warily. Python doesn’t take my hesitation well though, because he lifts me by my armpits and sets me hard onto my feet.

“Move or I’ll carry you.”

“I don’t want to,” I croak, using every bit of bravery I have. “I don’t want to be alone in a house with any of you. It’s… safer…out… here.” My last words come out in a stammer.

The other guy pulls out a knife, opening the blade with a swift click, and points it at me. His cruel cold eyes betray his laughs. “Princess here thinks she’s got a choice, like this is a date or something. Ain’t that cute, Python?”

Python chuckles, but when the other guy grabs me by the back of the neck and shoves me hard enough to fly forward, it’s Python that catches me.

“Slash, you break her before Preach talks to her and I’ll knock your fucking punk ass out.” His words come out on a growl that makes my knees weak.

My gut tells me neither of them like each other, but that Python is higher in the chain of command and a more formidable fighter.

“Now, gorgeous. We talked about this, yeah? I give you a directive, you obey, and no one gets hurt.” His calm, easy-going manner is unnerving. And I’m starting to think I might end up in a hole in a forest somewhere whether I cooperate or not and that makes something inside me click.

“Yeah, right,” I say through gritted teeth and straighten my spine. “Tell that to him.” My voice is strong and steady as if I tapped into some hidden source of strength.

Python gives me a ghost of a smile and nods at me.

“Hey, if it helps, you wouldn’t get a choice even if this were a date.” He laughs obnoxiously at his own joke as he plucks his helmet off and shakes out his straggly, shoulder-length sandy-brown hair.

Python shakes his head but says nothing and I gather a breath. Here goes.

“I don’t know what the hell you want with me, but let’s get this over with,” I say and start walking with purpose up the driveway to the house. “And if he touches me again, I’m not playing nice. I’m kicking, biting and clawing my way down.”

If I’m dying today I’m not going down without a fight.

Python opens the door for me and ushers me into the living room where he sits me on a yellow and brown threadbare sofa. Slash, who plays way too skillfully with what I now see is a butterfly knife, stakes his place on the arm of the matching chair to my right, continuing to flick and twirl his knife. I’m surprised the old chair holds his weight, which has to be double mine. He’s only slightly smaller than Python, although his arms aren’t nearly as anaconda-like as his MC brother’s.

Python stands near the yellowed-lace-curtained window keeping a watchful eye. But Python and his slightly smaller wing man are suddenly no longer my focus. Not when the third guy walks into the room and sits on the coffee table directly in front of me. His eyes are so cold they make my insides twist into knots and quiver.

He’s sinewy and at least a half foot shorter than the other two, but despite looking weaker physically, he’s clearly the leader. A gun hangs loosely in his grip, the arm attached to it dangling between his wide-spread thighs as if he doesn’t have a worry in the world. I focus on that gun, except when I attempt to memorize the tattoos that cover his arms, one of which is a naked woman nailed to a cross with a snake crawling between her legs, or when I’m distracted by his dark, dead eyes.

“Cops are all over Gage’s place confiscating our inventory.”

“Inventory?” I repeat dumbly.

He rolls his eyes skyward. “Our drugs.”

I swallow. Hard, forgetting the strength I had moments ago. They didn’t even know I dumped them. They assumed the cops took them as evidence. I’m sure they’d know soon though. The cop that ‘all cleared’ the parking lot was obviously on their payroll.

“You called 911 and that makes you responsible for our loss of stock.” His dialect is odd, as if he’s performing a sermon rather than a conversation and it adds to the sickening fear rising in me again. This man won’t just kill me, he’ll make me beg for death before he allows it

“He was dying,” I say in a cracked voice. How much worse would this get when they learned I dumped them?

“The circumstances do not absolve you.” The flatness in his dark gaze terrifies me. “How much does she owe us, Slash?”

Slash’s knife clicks shut abruptly and he deadpans me as he slips it into his pocket.

“Just replenished his supply, Preach.”

He frowns. “Seems you have two choices…”

Every ounce of blood inside me drains away, or at least it feels that way. The room spins, the only thing that stays in focus is the cruelty on Preach’s face and the excitement on Slash’s… My guts roil.

I’m so fucked. Hell, if I believed in a higher power, I’d get on my knees right now and pray for death, because whatever my choices are, they’re not going to be as easy as that.