“Like that, is it?” So the girl’s their snitch. Shame. She really is too pretty for that lot, but if her loyalty is tied, then the trouble is most definitely not worth it. At least . . . I think not. Fuck, is it?
“Yeah, it’s like that,” she confirms. Her gaze lifts to mine, and I marvel just how beautiful she is all over again. “Thing is, I like my face how it is. I start keeping secrets,” she says, tipping her head toward the living room, “then I risk having one of them rearrange it for me.” She leans in close and winks. “I’d kind of like to avoid that scenario if it’s all good with you.”
My blood simmers beneath the surface, the thought of any one of those fuckers laying a hand on her awakening something dark and carnal inside. Not that I could ever act on it if she’s dead set on staying their girl. Work out how to fix that another night.
“Anyway, I better get these to the boys before they get warm.” She nods to the drinks tucked in her arm.
“And I better get back to enjoying my anonymous host’s generous hospitality,” I reply, lifting my beer.
“He’s not anonymous. Eddie’s right through there.” She nods towards the living room again. “But I’d just enjoy your drink in solitude if I were you. He’s not one who likes people he doesn’t know interrupting his down time.” She gives me a knowing smile and turns away, heading through the door and out of sight.
I clench the neck of my beer in my fist, still burning about the idea they’d beat her up simply for listening to me talk smack about them and not reporting back. They’re every part the sick fuckers I assumed neo-Nazis to be, and what’s more, my target’s sitting out there, one of them. I edge toward the doorway, intent on snatching a look at the guy who’s my reason for being here in the first place, when a nagging feeling in the pit of my gut stops me short.
How obvious would that look? Hot girl walks out with drinks in hand after taking longer than she should to walk to the fridge and back, and then I stick my ugly mug out the door. I’d be throwing her under the bus before I’ve even made ground with them. The better part of me, the piece still upholding of a sense of right and wrong, couldn’t live with that.
Her face isn’t one I want to see swollen with bruises—especially if I’m the reason behind it.
As though on cue, Easy enters the kitchen through the same door, eyeballing the room behind him as though confused why she was in here with me. He marches up to where I stand, frowning at the beer I’m holding.
“What you’re after,” he announces, holding a tiny snap-lock bag before me between two fingers.
I reach for the goods, only to have him snatch the tiny package out of my grasp.
“Show us the dough.”
His eyes track the movement of my hands as I produce my wallet and place three bills on the counter. He nods his head, taking the tens and dropping the bag on the counter. Average rate.
“Pleasure doing business with ya.” He whacks me a healthy slap on the back, and then thumbs at the goods. “Come find me when you’re done—let me know what ya think.”
I meet his keen stare, well aware of what he’s asking me. If I were a fraud, I’d pocket the dust and leave, much like I’d hoped to. But he’s challenging me, testing how addicted I am. If I were a true junkie, I’d be tipping this out while we spoke, diving in and throwing any rules of social convention aside.
I pick the baggie up, fumbling with my thick fingers to open the seal without spilling the lot. “Sure thing.”
No sooner has he left the room, than I find a clean spot on the counter and carefully tip half the contents out into a small pile. Using one of my credit cards, I cut the goods into two neat lines, albeit thin, and roll a twenty. One of the girls from the bonfire enters the room, heading straight for the fridge and ignoring the fact I’m about to down this shit in plain view. I freeze—the realization I’m standing in a crack house preparing to get high again smacks me in the face like a bucket of ice water. Of course she doesn’t care. Everybody does it in plain view. It’s not anything unusual in a place like this.
I’m what’s unusual in a place like this.
I’m stare at the dust, telling myself I should take it to shake this filthy feeling, of living my life as a fraud. But if I start actually justifying the use like that, when will it stop? Is this how Ty started? Longing a few precious moments where he didn’t detest himself so much?
Fuck it—it’s one night.
The hit is quicker each time I down this shit, finding its way through my system like an old friend visiting my home. By the time I’ve cleared away the residue and pocketed the second half for later, the drug is doing its job, giving me a comforting feeling of being enough. The admission pains me to make, but I can totally see why Ty got hooked on this shit. When your world is full of cheats and liars, finding something that genuinely makes you feel good about yourself is rare—the Holy Grail.
Some bury their pain with alcohol, others with the distraction of a good-looking woman, but a few will chase that satisfaction only a dance with the Devil’s disease can bring.
And I’m clearly becoming one of them.
FIGHT NIGHT
Ryan
Gunter’s still deep in conversation with Taylor, talking about some bullshit theory of the Nazi regime. Same old shit, every time. I nestle closer to his broad chest, tucking my hands between my head and his sternum, and watching Eddie as he explains the finer details of how to expand his network of mules to Easy. They’re discussing the viability of using body packers—junkies who stuff themselves full of drug packages to cart them through sticky areas like across a border. I hate the idea they’d use people like that, let alone the thought of what would happen to those people if things went wrong. A package bursts, the mule dies, and these assholes would leave their body to liquefy in the sweltering sun on a roadside somewhere, denying all association. What an end to a life.
Gunter’s arm shifts across my back, his shoulders moving with his gestures while he speaks. I close my eyes, the murmur of his deep voice beneath my ear as I listen to Eddie talk, and commit every detail of the conversation to memory. I’m invisible to them, a pretty face, nobody to be feared. But they’re wrong, so wrong, and by the time they realize that, they would have pushed me too far.
The only damn thing tethering me to these assholes is the knowledge Eddie can unlock the secrets of my past. I’ll forever be in Hank’s debt for picking me up that night, but without him around I’ve never felt any true obligation to stay living with his sons. I was always free to leave, but I choose to stay, because staying with Gunter means staying close to Eddie. Sure, it hurts a little when Gunter whispers the words ‘I love you’ for only me to hear. I’m lying to him, pretending I return the sentiment, but I don’t. I can’t. Gunter’s a brainwashed giant, incapable of understanding anything other than the pull of basic human instincts: eat, kill, sleep. He’s Eddie’s perfect foot soldier, believing in the rights of the white to reign supreme, and that’s just something I’ll never come to terms with.
Every person should be treated as an equal . . . except for those who believe otherwise.
I open my eyes when Gunter jolts forward, tipping me off balance. He breaks conversation when he realizes he’s almost dropped me on the floor, hoisting me onto his legs again with a strong arm around my waist. “Sorry, sugar.”
“It’s okay.” I give his chest a pat, and resume watching Eddie.
It’s easy to pretend I care about the big idiot. I’ll never love him like he wants, but I’ve always felt affection for Gunter. He’s like that over-sized dog, which as much as it irritates the hell out of you for stepping on your feet and getting in the way of your legs, you’ll always have a soft spot for it. Because how can you not when as huge and overbearing as they are, everything they do is done out of misplaced love for you?