I said nothing. But later, I would probably have some wildly vivid and terrible dreams. Was it hot in here? I was starting to sweat, so I tugged off my coat and draped it over the back of the couch.
He strolled after me, gun clutched in his hand at his side. I remained rooted in place even though the panic in my chest turned medically concerning. I wondered if anyone’s heart ever exploded from anxiety. Like a bomb detonating right there inside you.
The satisfied glint in his otherwise empty eyes was proof he’d heard my uneven breathing the closer he got. His feet bumped mine, and he bent, practically mocking me with his height, so he could stare directly into my eyes. “You know what happens to snitches?”
“They wind up in ditches,” I parroted.
He patted my cheek. “Double-cross me, and winding up in a ditch will be kind compared to what I’ll do.”
Before I could say or do anything, he pulled away. I used the brief moment his back was turned to drag in an unsteady breath. My hands were shaking, as were my knees, joints vibrating right there beneath my skin.
I flinched when he turned around, and it made him laugh. My eyes moved around the room, scanning for a weapon, but snapped back to him when he started to talk.
“I call. You deliver. No detours. No mistakes. No problem.”
He seriously wants me to deal drugs for him.
Listen, I might have had a lapse in judgment that one time, but it affected no one but me. Delivering whatever the hell he sold to other people—people who could get hurt or hurt someone else because they took it—that was a line I wouldn’t cross.
“No.”
He drew back as though I’d offended his mother. “No?”
Shaking my head, I moved to walk around the sofa, put a little distance between us. Maybe find something I could whack him in the head with. “I’m not dealing for you.”
“You act like you have a choice.”
“I do, and the answer is no.”
He grabbed my shoulder to spin me back, and I smacked his arm away, going on automatic defense. “Keep your hands off me.”
A small spark of surprise shot through his features, and tobe honest, it made my stomach hurt. It was obvious he really did see me as some pathetic weakling who would roll over and do what I was told.
I didn’t survive my parents, living on the street, and my own body just to roll over and play sketchy DoorDash for the neighborhood chemist.
“Listen, kid,” he growled, fisting his hand in my shirt and yanking me forward. The sudden jerk made my teeth slam into my tongue, but I showed no pain. I was good at that. “I own you now. You do what I say, when I say it.”
“And if I don’t?” I challenged, locking eyes with him.
His lips thinned, challenge sparking in his stare. “If you don’t, I’ll take you apart piece by piece and make you wish you’d never been born. And when I finally get tired of listening to you whimper, I’ll keep your skull as a cautionary tale to all those who come after you.”
“It’s just this job?”
He smirked like the threat had done its job. “Sure. Until the next one.”
“You gave me a couple pills. That’s hardly equivalent to a life of servitude.”
His face went blank, and I realized he didn’t understand what I’d said. He should really read more.
“I owe you one favor, not a lot of them,” I said plainly.
“You owe as many as I say you owe,” he barked. “But after this first job, you’ll get a cut for every run you make.” He sneered at my shoebox apartment. “It’s obvious you could use the money.”
“How much?” I asked as if I was considering.
“Ten percent and not a penny more,” he answered. “And you keep your mouth shut. I hear even a whisper about anything, and I’ll cut out your tongue.”
I’d had a lot of opportunity to do some sketchy stuff in the last few years. Living on the streets was the land of opportunity if you wanted to sell your body, your morals, or your soul.
