Chapter 6 Miles
Miles
The hammer is heavy in my hand, too heavy for the way I spin it by the handle, letting the steel head blur in the dim light.
A man screams in front of me, his voice high and cracked, already shredded from hours of begging, but it doesn’t stop me from bringing the hammer down again, shattering cartilage, grinding bone.
His knees fold the wrong way. The sound is sickening, a wet crunch followed by another scream, higher, sharper, almost inhuman.
The warehouse smells of oil and rust, the floor tacky under my boots where blood has already soaked in.
The man’s suit is ruined, torn, stained dark, sticking to his skin.
His glasses snapped in half early on. He used to be someone.
Now he’s just meat on a chair, trembling, teeth chattering, sweat dripping off his chin as he shakes his head over and over.
Rico leans against the wall, watching, grinning like a man at the cinema. He loves this. Every second of it. His smile is wide, teeth white against the shadow of his beard. He’s a showman, holding the fear like a leash, pulling it tighter just to hear the choke.
“Where’s the money?” I ask again, voice low, even. My hand tightens around the hammer, blood sticky against the wooden grip. “You lost it, right? Then you find it. Or you tell us where it went.”
“I swear,” the man sobs, voice broken, “I’ll have it for you, please, just—just give me time.
Please. I just need time.” His words slip out fast, slippery with saliva and blood, half choked on his own spit.
He tries to shift in the chair, but his legs won’t move, bent in angles no human body is supposed to hold.
Rico chuckles, stepping forward, crouching down so his face is level with the guy’s. He tilts his head, studying him like a bug he’s about to pin. Then he straightens, wiping his hands on his jeans, still smiling as he nods toward me. “Ask him again.”
I do. Slowly this time. “Where. Is. The money?”
The man spits blood onto the floor, defiance flickering for a second before pain swallows it again. “I don’t—”
I lose my patience. My fist connects with his jaw, a solid crack that reverberates through my arm. His head snaps sideways, and something small and white spits from his mouth, bouncing across the concrete. A tooth. I curse under my breath, shake out my hand, flex my knuckles where the skin split.
Rico laughs, bending down to pick up the tooth, holding it up between two fingers like a prize. He pockets it, whistling. “Souvenir.”
“I don’t have time for this,” I mutter, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, tasting salt and iron in the air.
“You never have time,” Rico says, smirking as he pats my shoulder. “That’s why I’m here. To enjoy the show.”
I turn back to the man, watching the way he slumps against the chair, breath wheezing, chest rattling. He’s close to breaking, but close doesn’t cut it with Victor. Victor doesn’t want maybes or promises or men who say they’ll find the money tomorrow. Victor wants answers now.
“It’s a school night,” I say finally, crouching in front of him, elbows resting on my knees.
My voice is calm, conversational, like I’m asking about the weather.
“So here’s the deal. You talk, you tell us what we need to know, you get to limp your way home, maybe see another sunrise.
Or…” I glance back at Rico, who is already smiling wider, reaching for the tool bag he dragged in.
“You don’t talk, and my friend here gets creative. And trust me, you don’t want creative.”
The accountant’s eyes widen, darting between us. He shakes his head again, stammering, “I—I can’t. I’ll have it. I swear to God. Just give me—”
Rico sighs, dramatic, rolling his eyes like a disappointed teacher. “This bastard’s not going to talk.” His voice is full of glee as he crouches, rummaging through the bag. “So let’s cut the bullshit.”
When he pulls out the saw, my stomach clenches. The blade catches the light, dull but jagged, the teeth crusted with something brown that isn’t rust. He runs his thumb along it, then grins at me. “Want to do the honors?”
I shake my head, standing up too fast, pacing a step back. The room feels tighter, air heavier. My shirt sticks to my skin, sweat dripping down my back. The hum of the fluorescent light above buzzes too loud, rattling in my skull.
“Jesus, Rico,” I mutter, pressing the heel of my hand to my forehead. “He’s still Victor’s guy.”
“Not anymore,” Rico singsongs, flicking the saw on and letting it whir to life. The sound is sharp, mechanical, slicing the silence into jagged pieces. The accountant’s scream rises before the blade even touches him, eyes rolling white as he thrashes against the chair.
“Wait.” I grab Rico’s arm, hard enough to make him pause. “Let me call Victor.”
His eyes narrow, amusement fading just a fraction. He doesn’t like being interrupted mid-performance. But he lets me step away, pulling my phone out with shaking hands. My thumb swipes across the screen, and a moment later, Victor’s voice slides through the speaker, smooth, cold.
“Well?”
“He’s not talking.” My voice sounds distant to my own ears. “Rico wants to cut him up.”
There’s a pause. A long one. Then Victor sighs, the sound sharp as glass. “If you can’t get answers, he’s useless to me. Dispose of him.”
The words are final. Absolute.
“Victor—”
“Do not waste my time, Miles.” Then the line goes dead.
I stare at the phone, my throat tight. Rico’s smile spreads again when I look at him, like he’s been waiting for this exact order.
“You heard the man.” He presses the switch, and the chainsaw roars to life, louder, heavier, the sound vibrating in my bones. He holds it up like an offering, teeth spinning, spraying flecks of rust and oil.
The accountant thrashes harder, chair legs screeching against the floor. His voice is hoarse now, shredded, pure panic. Pleas tumble out, incoherent, begging, bargaining with a God who isn’t listening.
I take a step back. Then another. My stomach flips, bile rising in my throat. The chainsaw noise is too much, drowning out thought, drowning out everything but the smell of blood and sweat and piss.
I can’t stay here.
Not tonight.
Rico’s laughter echoes behind me as I push through the door, the warehouse air giving way to the night outside. It’s cooler here, crisp. My lungs expand for the first time in hours, even if the stench clings to me, iron and grease soaked into my clothes, into my skin.
I need a drink. Something strong enough to burn my throat, to cut through the taste of violence sitting on my tongue. I need a shower, scalding hot, water pounding against me until my skin is raw, until maybe the sound of the saw is drowned out by something else.
Then maybe I’ll head to The Crest.
The music, the bodies, the whiskey—anything to remind me I’m still alive, that there’s more to this than Victor’s orders and Rico’s chainsaw. Anything to drown out the screams that are still echoing through that warehouse right now.
Because tonight, I don’t want to be the man with the hammer.
I just want to forget.
The Crest smells like spilled beer and old smoke, like sweat soaked into the wood grain of the floorboards. It’s half dive, half second home, the kind of place you can walk into looking like hell and no one will ask questions as long as you put cash on the bar.
I shoulder through the door, fresh clothes sticking to me because I scrubbed myself raw in the shower before coming here, hot water hammering my back until my skin felt new. But it doesn’t matter how many times I wash, I still smell blood on me. Still hear the chainsaw in the back of my skull.
No sign of Jamie.
Figures.
I slide onto a stool, the wood creaking under my weight, and order a beer. The glass is cold, condensation dripping onto my fingers as I take that first long pull. It doesn’t erase the night, but it numbs the edges.
Across the room, a couple of cheerleaders hover near the jukebox, squealing over songs, tossing their hair, skirts riding high. They’re all tan legs and lip gloss, looking like they need the attention. I watch them without really seeing.
Another sip. Another beat of silence.
Then the door swings open, and out strolls Jamie—my best friend, my headache—grinning like he just won the lottery.
Bella’s with him, ponytail bouncing, her mouth still swollen from whatever he’s been doing to her.
Her laugh is high and breathy as she trails after him, and when she spots me, she blows a kiss across the bar. Shameless.
I just stare back, deadpan.
She sways out the door, leaving perfume in her wake, and Jamie drops onto the stool beside me. He’s still flushed, still smug, grabbing the cap off his beer with his teeth before spitting it onto the floor.
“When the hell did you get here?” he asks, foam already dripping down his wrist as he takes a swallow.
I tip my bottle in his direction. “Couple minutes ago. Question is, aren’t you supposed to be working? Why are you getting head from the cheerleaders instead of pouring drinks?”
He smirks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Multitasking.”
I shake my head, lips quirking despite myself. “You’re a fucking disaster.”
“Thank you,” he says, clinking his bottle against mine.
“So when you said she slept with half the team––”
He glares at me as I grin, taking another sip, not finishing my sentence.
For a while we sit in silence, the bar humming around us, the low thrum of bad country music seeping from the jukebox as the girls pick another song. My shoulders ache from earlier, a phantom weight of the hammer still pressing down. The beer helps, but not enough.
Jamie studies me from the corner of his eye. “You good?”
I drag a hand through my hair, sighing. “Just Rico and his bullshit.”
He nods like he understands, though he doesn’t, not really. No one understands Rico unless they’ve been there, seen the gleam in his eyes when he cuts a man open. But Jamie doesn’t press.
Instead he leans in, lowering his voice. “I’ve got something that could make you feel better.”
I arch a brow. “Yeah?”
He grins, cocky as hell, and jerks his chin toward the back of the bar. “Come on.”
Against my better judgment, I follow. Through the haze of beer and neon, past tables cluttered with empty glasses, until we reach the far corner where the music gets louder, the air hotter.
And there they are.
The cheerleaders again, perched on stools and laughing too loud. New faces. Fresh meat. They’re dressed like they came here to be seen, short skirts, tank tops clinging to skin, perfume cutting through the sour beer smell.
Then I see her.
And my whole body stops.
Short red dress. Sneakers. Legs tucked beneath her on the stool like she’s trying to make herself smaller, but those green eyes—fuck—those eyes don’t let you look away. Wide, luminous, raw. They slice straight through the smoke, straight through me.
The one who I kidnapped and haven’t been able to stop thinking about since.
Shock slams into me, hard enough that I stumble back a step, my beer nearly slipping from my hand.
Why the hell is Chloe Ashford here?
Jamie grins, leaning in close. “You see the rack on that new blonde girl?”
I turn on him so fast he actually blinks. “Stay the fuck away from her.”
He laughs, confused. “What?”
“I’m serious, Jamie. Stay the fuck away… from her…”
He squints, still grinning, trying to read me. “Why? What’s the deal? You fucked her already?” He shrugs, casual. “You know I’ve got no problem sharing, man. Just give me the heads-up.”
I shake my head, jaw tight, heart slamming against my ribs. “It’s not like that, Jamie. It’s complicated––”
“Complicated?” He raises his brows, amused. “You?”
I can’t explain it here. Not with those green eyes burning into my back from across the room. Not with the weight of Rico still sitting on my shoulders, Victor’s voice still ringing in my ears.
“Let’s go,” I say, turning back toward the bar, needing distance before I do something stupid.
Jamie follows, still laughing under his breath, still full of questions. “What the hell is happening, Miles? I don’t get it. She’s hot, she’s new, and you’re acting like she’s radioactive. What, did she see something?”
I down the rest of my beer in one swallow, the burn sharp in my throat. “She’s fucking trouble, that’s what.”
He stares at me like I’ve lost my mind.
And maybe I have. Because all I can see when I close my eyes is her in that cheer uniform, tied up, and crying. Fucking crying. All I can remember is the way I spanked her, how good it had felt.
One summer later and the sight of her has me on edge.
She’s going to recognize me. I glance down at my arms. If not my eyes, then my tattoos.
Fuck!