The guy on the other end confirms, like it’s nothing, like this isn’t the hinge my entire morning’s been spinning on. He talks too long about paperwork, tow schedules, where it’s parked. I mutter thanks, hang up before I let myself say anything more.
Then I see the time.
The glowing red digits stab through me like a knife. My stomach drops. My pulse skips.
Close to eight.
“Oh fuck,” I whisper to the empty car, shoving the phone back into my pocket.
Victor.
The meeting.
I was supposed to be there already.
All the heat, all the haze, drains out of me in an instant, drowned under a surge of panic. My uncle doesn’t forgive late. Doesn’t forgive anything. Not from me. Especially not from me.
I jam the key harder into the ignition even though the engine’s already running, slam the gearshift into drive. Tires squeal against wet asphalt as I yank out of the lot. The drizzle’s turned into real rain, the wipers beating fast, but my head is louder than the storm.
I can’t shake the thought that he’s going to kill me.
Every thought of Chloe drowns under the roar of the Impala and the pulse of dread building behind my eyes. The streets blur past in streaks of rain and neon, my knuckles bone-white around the wheel.
By the time I pull up to the warehouse lot, my hands won’t stop shaking. The steering wheel is slick from my grip, sweat sticking my palms even though the night is cold. The lot is half-lit, one buzzing streetlamp flickering on and off like it can’t make up its mind. Puddles slick the asphalt, black glass pooling in the dips of cracked concrete. The smell of oil and rain clings heavy in the air, coating my tongue with a bitter film.
Victor’s car sits out front like a sentinel, low and gleaming under the weak light. Rico’s slouched against it, a cigarette dangling from his lips, the ember glowing every time he takes a drag. Two other guys lean nearby, shoulders hunched, their voices low. A burst of laughter cuts through the damp air, sharp and careless.
But the second I slam my car door, the sound dies. All of them look up. The night folds in on itself.
Victor’s the first to move. He turns, slow, deliberate, like a predator that already knows the prey has nowhere to run. His voice is even, almost calm, but every word slices. “You’re late.”
I jog toward him, my breath catching on itself, excuses tripping out before I can think. “Sorry. Traffic. I—”
He doesn’t let me finish.
With just a flick of his hand, he waves the others off. No words, no explanation. Rico takes one last drag, drops the cigarette, grinds it out under his boot before he disappears into the shadows with the others. Their footsteps echo briefly, then fade, leaving me standing alone under the half-dead light. The night feels too still, too tight, like it’s waiting to watch me break.
Victor steps forward. He’s holding a bottle of tequila, half-empty, the glass sweating in his grip. His expression is unreadable, but my gut already knows what’s coming.
And then the world shatters sideways.
Glass explodes against the side of my head, the crack so hard I swear the sound splits the air. A flash of white explodes behind my eyes. The bottle bursts, shards tearing skin as liquor spills over me, burning like hell as it snakes down my temple and jaw. Pain sears through my skull, raw and immediate, sharp enough I can’t tell where the glass ends and the alcohol begins.
My ears ring so loud it drowns out the rain. My vision lurches, doubling, tilting, spinning. I stumble, my knees buckling, butVictor’s already got me. His fist in my shirt, yanking me forward, then slams my head down onto the scarred wooden table behind him. The impact jolts through my entire body. Tequila drips from my hair, mixing with blood, stinging like fire as it runs into my eye.
The wood is rough under my cheek, splintered and sticky from old spills. My ribs grind against the edge as his weight pins me there. The table creaks, threatening to give under the pressure, but he doesn’t ease up.
“When I tell you to be somewhere,” he hisses, his breath hot with liquor, “you better fucking be there.”
“Yes, boss,” I rasp, my throat raw. Blood runs into my mouth, thick and metallic, filling my teeth with the taste of iron.
He presses harder, and the edge of the table digs deep into my ribs. My body begs me to fight, to shove him off, to breathe, but I know better. I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I don’t twitch. The only sound is the creak of wood under his grip and the ragged pull of my own lungs.
My head swims, a storm of pain and chemicals. The pill I swallowed earlier buzzes like a hornet nest under my skin. Lack of sleep drags at my limbs, making everything heavier, slower. And through all of it—like a knife shoved where it doesn’t belong—Chloe. The memory of her lips, the taste of cherries still clinging even as blood drowns it out.
Victor finally lets go. He shoves me upright, and I stagger back, catching myself on the edge of the table before I collapse. My legs wobble. Blood trickles hot down my temple, dripping onto the floorboards. My vision swims in and out, the warehouse tilting on its axis, every sound muffled like my head’s underwater.
Victor doesn’t look at me again. His voice is flat now, businesslike, as if he didn’t just try to crack my skull open. The rage’s already burned out of him.“Get cleaned up. Then get the product from Rico. You’re running drops tonight.”
