Chapter 66
Sixty-Six
My eyes squeeze shut for just a few seconds, and when the lighter pops, I press the hot orange coils against the tobacco and suck until my lungs sting.
Fucking Remy. I don’t blame Jax for being angry, hurt, and tired.
I’m torqued about this too. Remy seems to impede on the few precious moments I steal with my girlfriend these days with growing frequency.
And yet, I can’t fault Sherry for calling me either.
Of course she’s losing her shit over her husband not coming home.
As much as he’s grappled with recovery, he hasn’t pulled an all-nighter since before leaving rehab.
That means he’s royally fucked up and partying it up somewhere, or he’s in trouble. Regardless, not good.
Clueless about where to find the man of the hour, I’m heading to Vinny’s. He should know the last drug dealers Remy tapped into, and maybe he’ll have other ideas on where to look.
My active mind pauses as I cross the San Mateo Bridge and take in the early morning sunlight dappling the bay.
A hit of calm penetrates my surface, clearing the debris so I can focus.
Keep my wits engaged. Jax warning me to be careful was spot on.
I’ve got no idea what I’m in for tracking douchebag down, but if it involves drugs, that’s a potential minefield of danger.
A part of me hopes it’s not serious, that he got wasted and passed out in his car somewhere (and hopefully not in a woman’s bed).
But with Remy, you can never predict what he’s going to do.
He’s so fucking flippant about repercussions.
A low growl of frustration lets loose, and I light up another smoke before tossing the existing one out the window.
Thanks to no small miracle, Vinny and I track down Remy in mid-afternoon.
We’ve spent hours going on a wild goose chase, starting with known connections and getting steered in various directions.
Finally, we got a lead the chef at the Montclair Country Club doubles as a dealer, some dude named Darryl.
When we pull up at his specified address, Remy’s unmistakable cherry red Camaro is parked in front of the apartment building.
It’s a decent neighborhood, thank fuck. Christmas wreaths hang on doors and holiday decorations adorn balconies. Still, my pulse trips. We heard mixed reports about Darryl. He can be a dick. Watch out if he’s tweaking. He carries a gun.
Fantastic.
We stand at the door, and Vinny raps his knuckles against it.
A girl with a pallid complexion opens it, assessing us with sunken, owlish eyes. She’s dressed in an oversized T-shirt that dwarfs her frame and reaches mid-thigh, practically swallowing her whole. “What do you want?”
Vinny turns on his charisma. “Hey, doll. Our good buddy’s here and we need to talk to him.”
“Who?”
“Remy. Redheaded guy, yay tall?” He holds his hand in the air about the right height. “Mind sending him out…or could we come in?”
She eyes us suspiciously. “Wait here,” she says, closing the door and locking it.
Vinny and I glance at each other, clueless about what’s coming next.
We don’t have to wonder long. The door whips open about a foot—enough for us to see a wiry dude on the shorter side with thinning hair and a scruffy goatee, easily late thirties or early forties.
He’s barefoot and in a bathrobe draped over nothing but green boxer shorts emblazoned with Santas.
He’s not a looker by any stretch, and I’m immediately wary about the hand I can’t see tucked behind that door.
He carries a gun.
“Who the hell are you?” the guy rasps. He sounds like he’s smoked for fifty years.
“Hey, man,” Vinny says, stretching out his hand. “I’m Vinny, a friend of Russell’s? You Darryl?”
“Who wants to know?” He makes no attempt to shake hands.
Red flags are waving left and right. He just told you his name, idiot, but he looks strung out so maybe he can’t put together two thoughts on the fly.
“Yeah, so I’m Vinny and this here is Mick. We’re buds with Remy and need to talk to him.” Vinny shoves the ignored hand in his pocket. “It’s important,” he tacks on.
“You cops?”
“No,” I reassure him. “But it’s in your best interest if you let us take our friend out of here. Some of his family is antsy to find him. We just want to get him home safely, that’s all.”
“Don’t fuck with me, or I’ll fuck you up,” he threatens.
I hold up my hands, playing the game. “Got it. We don’t want any trouble, man.”
The guy pins us with his glazed eyes before he slowly opens the door. “Alright then, you motherfuckers. You party?”
“Sure,” Vinny says, and I want to slap him in the head.
“But not right now,” I add. “We need to haul his drunk ass home.”
“Drunk?” Maybe-Darryl tilts his head to the side, wearing a smug smile, the kind where he knows shit that we don’t.
We follow him down a hallway. Holiday music plays in the background, and a funky, biting chemical odor I can’t place permeates the air.
It’s enough to make my eyes burn. We arrive at the living room, where half a dozen people are hanging, some on a long couch, two on the floor, plus one tweaker on all fours looking intently for something buried in the carpet, muttering frantically.
In the center is Remy, one hand gripping a glass pipe, the other holding his lighter flame under the bulbous end igniting something he’s steadily sucking down with concentrated focus, white smoke pluming from the open feeder.
“I know it’s here, I know it’s here. I…know it’s…here,” Crawling Guy chants. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
Dean Martin croons about letting it snow through budget speakers and it’s fucking surreal considering the tableau in front of me.
Remy doesn’t even notice us at first, he’s so consumed. When he does, his face registers bewilderment, then comprehension, before he breaks into the classic sheepish version of his grin.
“What’re you guys doing here?” he says. As if he doesn’t know.
Tension weighs on my shoulders, and every molecule in my body is wide awake and on high alert. “What are you smoking?” I say with absolute calm, even though I’m anything but.
“Crack,” maybe-Darryl answers. “Take a hit and stay a while.”
Fuck! My blood roils.
“Yeah,” Remy agrees. “This shit is magic.” He draws out that last word, and I want to wring his fucking neck. He looks strung out and it’s clear he’s stayed up all night, and this is what he’s doing?
“We need to go, Rem. Now,” I say tersely. The stench in here reeks of dead brain cells and lost dreams.
“Aww, really? I don’t want to.”
“WHERE IS IT?” Crawling Guy screeches.
“Chill, dude,” the man sitting on the floor says to me, apparently immune to his paranoid homie with his nose to the carpet behind him.
“You need to lighten up, man. You’re coming in here with some negative waves.
” He nods toward the pipe. “Take a load off and smoke some heaven. Seriously. Once you try crack, you’ll never go back. ”
My hand itches to punch this loser in the face. The muscle in my jaw pulses as I brace myself for any way this could escalate.
Probably sensing this could all go as far south as Cabo San Lucas, Vinny approaches Remy. “Hey buddy. Your wife is freaked, and the shit’s about to hit the fan.”
“You’re married?” the girl next to him says, and I grind my molars together.
He shrugs and smiles, then brings the pipe back to his mouth. “Yeah, okay, let me hit this one more time.”
“Remy,” I grit.
His shoulders slump. He hands the pipe to the dude on his other side as if he’s received a death sentence and stands, wobbling before he catches his balance.
I’m bracing for maybe-Darryl to fight us on this. He’s losing a customer, after all, which is all these drug dealing pricks care about.
On cue, the aging dickhead speaks, addressing Remy. “You good with this? I can easily dispose of your friends.”
Dispose? What the fuck does that mean?
Remy shakes his head. “Nah man. They’re my brothers. We’re golden.”
We are so not golden, brother.
“Alright. You know where to find me if you want more.”
“Thanks, man.” He claps maybe-Darryl on the shoulder, and I want to shove Remy’s face into the wall.
And his fucking dealer. All of them really…
because every single one needs an asshole-tearing wake-up call.
My heart’s pumping so fast I almost want to hurl.
My breath stutters, and it’s all I can do to prod Remy down the hall and turn my back on a guy tweaking on crack who reportedly has a gun.
The three of us make it outside, away from that acrid smell, those fucked up people, and the nightmare you’d never realize was playing out in this classic neighborhood with apartments and houses decked in Christmas cheer. All except for Darryl’s house. No joy in there, holiday or otherwise.
Vinny and I agree to take Remy back to Vinny’s. I take fuckhead in the Mustang and Vinny drives the Camaro. I’m so furious, my lips stay clamped shut aside from huffing down Marlboros. When Remy tries to speak, I glare at him and crank up the music until he stops attempting.
He always weasels his way out of shit, but not this time.
Not with me. I mean, Jesus fucking Christ, what is wrong with him?
He’s got everything he could ever want. A one-way ticket to paradise.
A wife that seems too good to be true. Parents that have gone to extreme lengths to help him overcome his weaknesses, addiction, irresponsible nature.
And me, who forfeited Christmas Eve with Jax for this. THIS. This?
Once at Vinny’s, we force Remy into the shower while we figure out what the hell to tell Sherry and how to manage this depressing fucking mess.
This is a new low, even for Remy, and I realize he’s done a banner job keeping me out of the loop.
He must have been using and hiding it from me, along with everyone else, and it’s escalated to this somehow.
I’m jumpy, my nerves frayed. And I’m fucking shook. I’m out of my depth, and Remy’s sure as shit out of his. This is dangerous, destructive, serious.
And only widens the gap in the floorboards I’m poised to fall through.