Page 92 of Ricochet

Behind a watery shield of tears, her eyes softened to defeat. “Yeah. I understand. And that probably makes me as fucked up as you are.”

CHAPTER 39

Chief Cox

Cox pulled into the circle drive of Brandon Malone’s newly renovated mansion. It chapped his ass, the way drug lords lived better than the goddamn Chief of Police. He hobbled up the stairs to the front door, cringing at the guttural growls that seeped through as a warning. Malone owned three Great Danes, and Cox had wanted to shoot the horny fucking leg-bangers the first time he met them.

The doorbell chimed, exciting the dogs into a frenzy of barking, until the butler came to the door, holding one of the devils by the collar while it lurched and bared its teeth.

“Here to see Brandon.”

“Certainly, Chief Cox. Right this way.” The butler barked a command at the dogs, and all three of them retreated to the wall of the foyer, where they sat stiff and statuesque.

Once inside, Cox followed the butler toward the back of the mansion, admiring crystal chandeliers, expensive paintings, imported tapestries, marble staircases, all the shit Cox couldn’t afford on his salary. The scenery morphed into framed Pistons jerseys, signed Tigers baseballs and Red Wings pucks, held in glass curio cabinets—a variety of sports paraphernalia that made up Brandon’s game room.

Brandon sat amongst a bevy of black males around a sectional couch—some drinking, some smoking, some snorting—and Cox took a seat beside them. Football played on the theater-sized television screen, and women, clad in clothes so tight he could see their nipples through the fabric, lounged around and between them.

“Chief Cox. I hope you have something to share about my brother,” Brandon said, taking a hit of his cigarillo.

With a stoic expression, Cox responded, “Your brother was found this morning at the old train station. He’d been cut multiple times and left to bleed out. Rats consumed most of his entrails.”

Brandon shot forward in his seat, knocking the woman draped across his lap onto the floor. His nostrils flared as he brought both fists to his temples, pounding there. “Who is this mothafucka?” His voice bellowed, drowning out the commentator on screen. “He just messed with the wrong fucking family!”

While Brandon sat rocking, damn near sucking his thumb, in a tantrum, Cox leaned forward in his chair. He’d have to choose his words carefully. Though Brandon answered to Cox, and was paid through Cox, losing his brother could’ve sent him on a tailspin into madness. Enough to do something stupid like shoot the messenger. “We got a tip we’re following. In the meantime, I need to know something. Three years ago, your crew at the time broke into a house on Theodore Street. Burned it down. You remember that?”

Frowning, Brandon threw his hands out to the side. “Yeah, so fucking what?”

“The man who lived in that house. Nick Ryder. Did you kill him?”

“Shot the mothafucka in the skull. Yeah, we killed him. He burned with that house.”

“You’re certain?”

“I’m certain.” He straightened, throwing his arms out again. “’The fuck does this have to do with my brother?”

“Because I think your brother was killed in retaliation for what you did that night, by someone who knew this Nick.”

“Who is it? I want his name.”

“I don’t have a name yet,” Cox lied, pushing off the couch. “But I will tell you this. If you’re lying to me, if he’s not dead , I will take you down, and what happened to your brother will be a mercy kill for what is done to you.”

Springing to his feet, Brandon drew a pistol from his hip. “You think you can talk to me like that? I’ll smoke your fuckin white ass right here!”

“Whoa!” One of his cronies laughed, their eyes rolling back, obviously high, to the point Cox was surprised the fucker had even caught what was going on.

“And you’ll be taking it up the ass in your prison cell for the rest of your life, you fucking thug piece of shit.” Cox pointed, despite the gun still cocked in Brandon’s grip. “Don’t forget who signs your fuckin’ paycheck.”

Brandon sniffed, his jaw shifting as he swiped the back of his hand across his nose and lowered the gun.

“You ever pull a gun on me again, and the last thing you’ll see will be the tip of my bullet before your skull is split in half.” Bending, Cox grabbed a rolled up bill sitting on the glass coffee table and snorted the line of coke one of the assholes beside him had set before heading for the door. “You cocksuckers have yourself a nice day.”

CHAPTER 40

Aubree

Lying on a bed of pillows alongside where flames crackled in the old brick fireplace of Nick’s bedroom, my eyelids grew heavy as his naked body pressed into mine. “So, this place … have you lived here long?”

“Only a couple months.”