“Yes, boss.” My voice cracks, thin, but I force it steady.
I straighten, though the effort sends black spots racing across my vision. My head throbs with every heartbeat, blood hot against my skin, tequila still burning where the shards cut deepest. My stomach heaves, but I swallow it down. No weakness. Not here. Not in front of him.
I glance toward the shadows where Rico vanished, wondering what the hell I missed while I was out drowning in Chloe, jerking off in my car like a goddamn idiot. The meeting was supposed to be about something, but I’ll have to ask him later. Right now all I can do is wipe the blood from my eyes, keep my feet under me, and pretend like I haven’t already fucked this entire day six ways from Sunday.
Victor turns away, already lighting another cigarette, already talking to one of the other men who slinks back into the circle. Like I’m dismissed. Like I’m nothing.
I press a hand to my head, the warmth sticky, my fingers slick with blood and liquor. My stomach lurches again, dizzy. I don’t know if it’s the hit or the exhaustion or the adrenaline still crashing through me.
I stumble toward the exit, toward Rico. My uncle’s words echo in my head, sharp and brutal. I’m late. I’m careless. I’m weak.
But over all of it, stronger than the pain, stronger than the shame, is the ghost of her mouth on mine. Chloe.
Her taste is still there, stubborn, clinging.
And it terrifies me more than Victor ever could.
Rico claps me on the shoulder, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face like he didn’t just watch Victor turn my skull into a broken bottle.
“You look like you had fun,” he says. His laugh is sharp, cruel, the kind that ricochets against the corrugated metal walls.
“Fuck off,” I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose. My fingers come away sticky, dark red smeared across my skin.
Rico nods toward the back, where crates are stacked like crooked teeth against the wall. “We gotta move quick. Boss wants the runs done tonight. That dumb fuck accountant? He didn’t just lose a little. He burned through enough that Victor’s short, and now we’re the ones paying for it.”
I glance at the crates, the product. Each one packed with powder that could buy a small country if sold clean. My stomach knots. “How much?”
Rico shrugs, but his grin falters. “Enough that we’re covering for weeks. We’ll be lucky if we’re standing by the end of this shit.”
The accountant’s face flashes in my mind, pale and sweating, screaming as his kneecaps shattered under my hammer. The way his voice cracked when he begged for time, swore he’d get it back. Victor doesn’t give second chances. Now we’re paying the price.
I get myself cleaned up as best as I can, and then we get to work.
By midnight, the van reeks of smoke, sweat, and chemical tang from the bricks we’re hauling. Rico drives, one hand draped lazy over the wheel, the other flicking through the radio like we’re on some fucking road trip instead of pushing enough product to buy ten lifetimes. My body hums with exhaustion, every nerve fried, but my head won’t stop replaying the night—Victor’s bottle exploding across my skull, Chloe’s lips, the way she bit me like she wanted to brand me too.
We hit drop after drop. Shady bars. Motel lots. The back alley of a strip club where the neon flickers like a dying heart. Money changes hands fast, no one lingering long enough to risk cops or rival eyes. Rico cracks jokes between stops, his voice grating, but it keeps me awake. The van rattles over potholes, the city swallowing us in its black lungs.
By two a.m., I’m numb. By three, my hands are shaking from more than just fatigue. By the time the last crate’s gone, it’s almost four. The streets are slick, deserted, the rain reduced to a mist that turns the asphalt into mirrors. Rico drops me at the lot where I left my car.
“You look like death,hermano,” he says, smirking.
I don’t answer. My body is hollow, my skull still split from Victor’s bottle, blood dried stiff in my hair. I should drive home, collapse into bed, let the blackout swallow me whole.
But I don’t.
Instead, I sit in the driver’s seat with the engine idling, phone heavy in my hand. My thumb hovers over a number I shouldn’t call, a line I shouldn’t cross. But I do it anyway. Jamie’s name lights the screen, and before I can think, I hit dial.
It rings once. Twice. Three times. My chest tightens. He answers, groggy, his voice rough from sleep. “Miles? The fuck—are you in trouble? Where are you?
“I’m fine.”
“Fucking hell, man. You scared me. Do you know what time it is?”
I close my eyes, lean my head back against the seat, and exhale like I’ve been holding my breath all night. “Yeah. I know. I just… I needed to talk.”
“Talk?” There’s a pause, the sound of sheets rustling. “Are you drunk?”
“No.” My laugh is bitter, hollow. “Worse.”
