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“You might, but I don’t. I need to collect early.”
“I don’t have all of it,” I whispered, hating that he would take his payment out on my body if I couldn’t deliver. I wasn’t a whore, but when my brother had died, and I’d taken on the garage and his debt, I had no idea what I was getting into with Maddox Lynham. The mere thought of having to submit to that man—of having him touch me again—made me want to puke.
He was deathly quiet for a long time, and our past encounters came flooding back to me. My body ached from phantom pain, flaring hotter and hotter the longer he drew out the silence. “You don’t want to know what happens if you can’t pay this quarter, Alex. Your past experiences will look like a fucking spa visit compared to what will happen to you if you don’t get me that money.”
He hung up, and I was left frozen on the spot, staring at the hallway wall, until Bliss pulled open the door.
“If you don’t hurry up, I’m going to drink your margarita and put onMagic Mikeagain. Can someone say Channing Tatum’s abs?” she sing-songed, chuckling at her threat.
When I kept my back to her, Bliss’s laughter died.
She touched my shoulder, and an unbidden sob escaped me. “Alex?” Bliss spun me around and I tried to hide the tears, but it was pointless. She had seen them. She knew I’d been crying. “Who the hell was on the phone?” Her tone was serious, but it was her eyes that threw me. She looked like she was ready to kill someone for me.
Wiping the tears from my cheeks, I tried for a smile. “Nobody.”
She wasn’t buying theeverything’s-a-okayact. Narrowing her eyes, she demanded, “Tell me whose ass I have to go kick.”
Her fierceness made me love her even more. “It’s nothing. Really.” I wiped away the last of the tears—the evidence that the clock was ticking, drawing me closer to something completely out of my control. Taking in a deep breath and letting it out, I asked, “Can we just get drunk?”
Bliss’s concerned expression didn’t shift right away, and I braced for the onslaught of questions. Dragging Bliss into my problems wasn’t the solution here. I let out another breath as a grin slowly began to form on her glossy lips. I thanked whichever god was looking out for me that she decided to drop it.
“Only because watchingMagic Mikeis more fun with alcohol.”
The next morning, I woke with a pounding head and a mouth so dry it was like I’d been in the desert for years without water.
Damn Bliss and her encouragement.
After we’d finished the bottle of tequila she’d brought, we moved on to all the random half-drunk bottles of liquor I had around the apartment, mixing them with soda until we ran out of that too. Then we just shot them straight. With a groan, I rolled over to find Bliss fast asleep on the other side of the mattress.
“No more Sambuca,” she mumbled, her eyes firmly shut. “It’s the devil.”
“Agreed.” I couldn’t even remember why I had a bottle of the black liquor in my possession in the first place.
“I need coffee,” she added, drawing the quilt up over her head. “And turn off the sun. It’s too bright.”
Coffee sounded like an amazing idea. Scooting to the edge of the bed, I swung my legs off and sat upright. My whole world spun for a moment, and I waited for the tilt-a-whirl to stop before shuffling into the kitchen. After checking a few cupboards, I found that—like decent alcohol and appropriate mixers—I was out of coffee too.
“No coffee,” I called to Bliss.
She groaned loudly. “I’m dying, though.”
Opening the fridge, I peered inside to see if coffee would miraculously appear in there.
It did not.
I had no choice.
I had to go out and get some.
Pulling on some clean clothes, I told Bliss where I was going and stumbled downstairs. When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I weaved between the two cars parked in my garage workshop and opened the side door, stepping out into the too-bright summer sun. Shielding my eyes, I slid my sunglasses on, then started down the cracked sidewalk. As I walked past the vacant store fronts and empty supplier buildings on Oakwood, a familiar sensation of awareness made me twitch.
Peering over my shoulder, I glimpsed the sun catching on the fuel tank of a parked red-and-black Harley Davidson Fat Boy. Nope. I wasnotin the right frame of mind to see him. Picking up the pace, I hurried down the hot pavement. The Harley roared to life a moment later, the rumble of the engine making me sweat. The motorcycle pulled to a stop a dozen feet ahead of me, and I ducked my head as I hurried past.
“Alexis,” a familiar voice called.
But I refused to stop.
“Alexis, come on,” he said, shutting off his bike and extending the kick stand. “Stop.”
