“My—” I swallow, force my voice steady. “Family emergency. I need to step out.”
His mouth flattens into a hard line. For a second, I think he’ll call me on it. Then he just waves a hand, dismissing me like I’m nothing. “Go. But you’d better be ready for Saturday.”
“Yes, Coach.” I shoulder my bag and bolt before he changes his mind.
I catch the attention of the notorious dealer, Koa. He eyes me with that fucking look, so I stare back. Last year we made a dealthat I keep quiet with my shit, I swore to stay out of his way, and in result, we don’t have a problem. I stare back until the wall separates us.
The warehouse sits on the edge of East Pointe, tucked between shipping yards and abandoned factories that nobody questions. I pull up, kill the engine, and the night feels heavier here. Shadows press in close, the air thick with diesel and rot. A couple of guys lean against the side door, smoking, their eyes flicking over me.
“The boss is in a mood,” one says, smoke curling from his mouth. “Keep your head up.”
“Yeah.” My voice is low, rough.
I head inside, the concrete floor cold under my boots, every step echoing. The warehouse smells like oil and old blood, sharp enough to stick in your throat. The deeper I go, the quieter it gets, until it’s just me and the sound of my own breathing.
I remind myself I’m twenty. A man. Victor says it all the time—be a man, stand tall, don’t flinch. But the truth is, every time I walk into his world, I feel like a kid again. Waiting for the blow.
He appears from the shadows, tall, broad, dark hair messy the same way mine always is, steel-gray eyes that cut like knives. My uncle. Victor Thatcher. The man who raised me after my parents died, who carved me into what I am now.
“Do you have it?” His voice is low, controlled, like a predator who never needs to raise his tone.
I reach into my bag, pull out the envelope from the morning drop. Crisp bills inside. I hand it over without hesitation. His fingers brush mine as he takes it, a spark of cold running through me.
He weighs it in his hand, nods once. Then his eyes sharpen. “Good. Because we’ve got a problem.”
My stomach knots.
“Debt defaulter,” he says, lips curling. “Thinks he can hold out on me. Tonight, we remind him what happens when people forget who runs this city.”
His gaze pins me in place, steel boring into my chest. “Think you can do this.”
“Of course,” I nod.
2
Chloe
Cheerpracticeendstheway it always does—sweat dripping down my back, my throat dry, my legs aching but my heart still fluttering like I could do another hour if they asked. I’m laughing with the girls as we tumble out of the gym, the faint squeak of sneakers against polished floor fading behind us, pom-poms tucked into our bags, hair falling loose from high ponytails. North Pointe High gleams under the dying light, banners flapping along the front, proclaiming us champions of last year’s state finals. We’re the golden girls of this place. Everyone knows it. Everyone watches when we walk out.
My boyfriend, Nate, leans against his black truck waiting for me. His hair is damp from football practice, falling into his forehead, his jersey hanging loose, and that crooked smile of his makes my stomach flip. He pushes off the truck as soon as he sees me, weaving through the crowd of cheerleaders and players like he has tunnel vision for me alone.
“Hey, baby,” he says, catching my waist in his hands, pulling me up against his chest. His lips taste faintly of Gatorade and sweat, warm and familiar, when he kisses me. I sink into it, even though I can hear the girls giggling behind me. Nate doesn’t care. He never does. He’s all confidence, all promise, his mouth against mine like he owns me.
“See you tonight?” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to brush his thumb along my jaw.
“Maybe,” I tease. “Depends if Carmichael works me too hard at ballet.”
He groans, dramatic, pressing another kiss against my lips like he can’t get enough. “You’ll come. I’ll be waiting.”
I roll my eyes but I’m smiling as I tug away, waving to him as I walk toward the parking lot. My phone buzzes in my hand. I flip it open, snap a quick selfie—hair slightly messy, cheeks still pink from practice—and send it to Harper. She’ll nag if I don’t keep our streak alive. The little flame emoji sits at the top of our chat, day 157. We’re not about to break that for anything.
The late sun bounces off my car as I approach. Bright red. Sleek. My baby. A cherry-colored Audi convertible my parents surprised me with on my eighteenth birthday. I swear I love this car more than most people in my life. It gleams under the parking lot lights like it’s showing off for me, and I run my hand along the hood as I approach, smiling to myself.
But my screen flashes bright in my hand—battery icon red, 2% left. I curse under my breath. Of course. I meant to charge it during practice. Now it’s about to die when I need it most. I stuff it into my bag, annoyed, and climb into the driver’s seat, the leather warm against my thighs.
The first thing I do is turn on the radio, scrolling until Taylor Swift fills the car, the opening notes of1989pouring through the speakers. Comfort. Home. I fluff my hair out, shaking the blonde strands until they fall around my shoulders, then pull out my cherry lip gloss from my purse. It’s my favorite—shiny, sweet, the taste of something girly and light. I reapply, smacking my lips together, checking my reflection in the rearview mirror. My lashes look good, my lips look better. Perfect.
I put the car in gear, pulling out with a little more speed than necessary. I’ve always liked driving fast, the wind catching my hair, the blur of the world outside the window making me feel like I’m flying. The high school shrinks behind me as I head toward home, the looming silhouette of the bridge rising ahead.
