them covered in red, puckered marks.
Shit.
Track marks.
Greasy Guy was strung-out.
Shit galore.
“Mona isn’t here,” I tried again, my heart kicking into high gear, which caused the ache in my temple to feel like a miniature jackhammer.
He turned to me, his jaw working. “She owes me.”
Shit galore everywhere and on my shoes.
Greasy Guy turned to me, and his eyes were a pale blue, unfocused. I wasn’t sure he even saw me. “She’s got shit here. I know she does.”
My eyes widened. There had so better be no shit here.
Without saying another word, he brushed past me, heading for the bedroom. My heart lurched in my chest. “What are you doing?” I demanded.
He didn’t respond as he went straight for the bed, ripping off the clean sheets and blankets.
“Hey!” I shouted.
Still, he ignored me as he slipped his hands under the mattress and then flipped it over. When he found nothing, he let out a string of curses.
Oh, this was so not good and quickly spiraling out of control.
I started toward him, but he threw out a jacked-up arm and growled, “Stay the fuck back.”
My stomach tumbled, and I stayed the fuck back as he went to the dresser, pulled out my folded clothes, and then went over to the closet. Out of some small miracle, he didn’t go for my purse after demolishing the room I’d straightened.
Then he stopped at the entrance to the bathroom, his back straightening. A strange look crossed his face. “Damnit.” Greasy Guy turned and jogged out of the bedroom, aiming for the stairs.
Oh no. Where in the hell did he think he was going? Hands shaking, I whirled around and got in front of him, blocking the stairs. “I’m sorry, but she’s not here. I don’t know where she is or what you’re looking for, but you need to—”
He planted a hand in the center of my chest, pushing me back, and then he got right up in my face. His teeth were yellow, some completely rotten out, and his breath smelled like days-old garbage. Bile rose in my throat.
“Look, I don’t know who you are and I don’t give a fuck. But I don’t have a problem with you,” he said. “So, don’t make me have a problem with you. Okay?”
I forced a jerky nod. I did not want to have a problem with him. “Got it.”
He stared at me a moment, and then his gaze narrowed over my left cheek. “You’re Mona’s kid, aren’t you?”
I didn’t answer because I wasn’t sure if that would mean I’d have a problem with him if I did.
“Shit sucks for you,” he said, and then dropped his hand. Greasy Guy climbed the stairs.
Against common sense, I followed him up the stairs and into the loft bedroom—my old bedroom. Greasy Guy knew what he was looking for. He went straight to the closet and ripped the door open so hard I was surprised it didn’t come off the hinges. Then he dropped to his knees and leaned into the tight space. Holding my breath, I crept behind him, debating if I should go for the lamp on the nightstand and knock him out.
Greasy Guy reached in, brushing shoe boxes out of the way, and then I couldn’t see what he was doing when he grunted and jerked back. He tossed a piece of the wall aside—a piece that had been cut out, which probably hid a cubbyhole.
Oh no.
“Fuck yeah,” Greasy Man breathed as he scuttled back out of the closet, stumbling to his feet. “Jackpot. Motherfucking jackpot.”
I didn’t want to look, but I had to. Greasy Guy was holding, not one, but at least eight Ziploc bags in his hands—bags full of something off-brown that reminded me of clumpy brown sugar.
“Oh my God,” I whispered.
Greasy Guy didn’t hear me. He was staring at the bags in his hands like he was seconds away from ripping one open and shoving his face into the crap.
My knees felt weak. There had been drugs in the house, drugs hidden in a secret spot in the closet of my old bedroom. Not pot or something else relatively harmless, but something I bet was real bad and real costly.
Greasy Guy seemed to forget that I existed, which was okey-dokey fine with me. He headed down the stairs, and then a few seconds later, I heard the front door slam shut, causing me to jump.
I don’t know how long I stood in the bedroom, staring at the open closet door before I forced my feet to move. I went downstairs and into the bedroom, dragging my cell phone out of my purse. My hand shook as I called Clyde.
He answered on the third ring. “You okay, baby girl?”
It was late, and he was probably still at the bar. “Some guy was here.”
There was a pause, and then his voice got real low and real serious. “What happened?”
I told him everything in a rush, and then he told me to make sure the door was locked—good point—and to hold still. He was coming over. There wasn’t anything he could do now, but I appreciated it. Admittedly, I was freaked-out. Way freaked-out.
I made sure the closet door in my old bedroom was closed, reapplied my makeup even though it was only Clyde, and then the next twenty minutes or so, I sat on the couch, clutching the phone to my chest until there was a quick, loud knock on the front door.
I checked the peephole again, and this time I saw someone out there—someone that sent my already overworked heart into cardiac arrest territory.
Jax was standing on the other side of the door.
“What the hell were you thinking?” was the first thing out of Jax’s mouth when I opened the front door.
I had a better question. “What are you doing here? I called Clyde.”
“And Clyde told me, so I’m here.” He pushed inside, pulled the door from my grasp, and pushed it shut, locking it. “You didn’t answer my question.”
Having not come to terms with the fact that it was Jax that was suddenly standing in the foyer, I blinked slowly. “What question?”
“Why in the hell did you answer the door in the middle of the night?”
“Oh. I checked the peephole first, you know.”
Jax stared at me.
“And I didn’t see anyone,” I added in my defense.
He folded well-defined arms across his chest.
