Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 79504 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79504 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
“Let one of the guys here touch her and see what happens.” Briar’s voice is calm, emotionless, but I feel the warning down to my bones.
“Let’s go back to the house,” Molly urges as she grabs my arm and drags me toward the back door.
I feel Briar’s eyes on us the entire time.
Chapter 13
Lynch
Doing my best to hide my yawn behind my hand, I widen and roll my eyes in an attempt to stay awake.
There are five people in this very small room. One has no choice but to be here, but his buddies are shaking in fear in the corner near the point of pissing on themselves.
“Please don’t.”
The begging is followed by another scream and plea for mercy. This kind of thing normally entertains me. Watching my brother cut into some asshole who has fucked up would normally make my dick hard. It would make me want to beg him to hurry so I could find some local chick to suck my dick, but tonight I’m just not feeling it. I’m not entertained watching TJ mutilate our recently fired employee. I’m not enticed by fresh pussy here in Detroit. The only thing familiar right now is the half-mast cock in my jeans, and that has nothing to do with the current situation. My dick can’t even concentrate on the matter at hand because it’s focused on that damn girl back in Sutton.
“I won’t ask you again,” TJ warns as he drags his knife down the uninjured arm of the man tied to the wall.
Fresh blood blooms on his flesh under the blade before spilling down his arm to pool in his armpit.
“I s-saw on Netflix,” the guy stutters.
I roll my eyes before the guy even continues because if it’s on TV, it must be true.
“Th-the show,” he continues, “It said that junkies flock to your dope when someone overdoses. I thought it would be good for business.”
“You tampered with my dope?” I push myself off the wall I’ve been leaning against since we carried this sad sack of shit from the front door. His bedroom seems like the perfect place to carry out his punishment. This is the first I’m hearing about this. I thought he was dealing to people he shouldn’t. “In what fucking universe would you ever think it was okay to make your own fucking business plan?”
TJ steps back as I step closer.
“What did you do to my product?”
“F-fent,” he stutters. “We d-dosed a few cuts with fent.”
My tongue rolls over my bottom lip in a bid to gain my quickly failing temper. “You put Fentanyl in my heroine?”
“You d-don’t understand.” The guy tries to cower away when I step closer, but the wall at his back prevents any real movement. “It’s a fucking p-perfect plan.”
“You don’t make decisions,” TJ sneers from behind me. “You sell our dope exactly how we tell you to.”
Holding my hand up to silence him, I narrow my focus on this stupid fucking dealer.
“L-look. An OD is good for b-business. The junkies are always skating that fine line b-between life and d-death. W-with Narcan so common these days, h-hardly anyone ever d-dies.”
“Hardly?” I clarify.
His dirty head bobs up and down as a weak smile crosses his face. This filthy motherfucker actually thinks he’s convinced me to change my business practices. His line of reasoning may make partial sense, but you can’t think things all the way through when you’re using more product than you’re selling. Lucky for me, a joint every once in a while is all I touch.
“The boy that died is connected to a very powerful family in Chicago. Samuel Litton was a star athlete—”
“He was a junkie just like everyone else that comes by the house,” one of the guys in the corner interjects.
TJ slices his knife across the throat of the runner that just interrupted me, silencing him forever.
“Greg,” I urge when his eyes widen as he stares down at his dead friend. “Pay attention to me.”
Greg’s eyes snap in my direction. “Y-yes, sir.”
Damn, if only he’d had enough manners not to fuck with my product.
“Regardless if the kid came here looking for H, he sure as fuck wasn’t looking for something laced with fent.”
“H-he was only looking for a little powder,” Greg confesses, and I have to wonder if blood loss from his various wounds is making him delirious. It’s amazing how quickly he went from refusing to talk, trying to look like a badass in front of his runners, to spilling his fucking guts.
“He came looking for powder,” I verify. Of course, he was. A kid of Litton’s breeding can afford any damn thing he wants. There’s a low chance he’d ever done H before in his life. “But you gave him fent-laced heroine?”
“N-not on p-purpose. Tim dropped the shoe box. W-we didn’t color code the baggies.”