Page 62 of Riding Dirty

I don’t say anything else but reach for one of the tools, which, thankfully, Hippie has brought over. A knife. It’s not one I use often, but he knows it’s what I’m looking for tonight. Pressing my lips together, I suck in, which makes a noise that I’m sure is annoying as fuck, because it would annoy me.

“I don’t,” he rasps.

Liar.

I don’t call him on it, but I know what he is. I press the tip of the knife against the center of his throat, then glide it down to the hollow as I tilt my head to the side, my eyes focused on his.

“I’m not killing you, even though that’s what I want.”

“Why?” he exhales.

“Because you owe me seven million bucks, asshole, and dead fuckers don’t pay.” Turning my head, I look at Blast. “Untie his arms. He’s losing a finger. And he’ll lose another one if he doesn’t pay the next installment on time.”

“No,” he calls out. “Why can’t you just kill me? And how do I know when and what to pay?”

He’s panicked, which is kind of funny because he thought he was the fucking shit not minutes ago. When his hands are released, I reach for his wrist, gripping it tightly, then I pinch his index finger between my fingers, holding it out so I can cut it off.

“We’ll figure out a payment plan,” I say before I slide the digit off.

He screams, and blood pours from his hand. Standing, I take a step backward as I watch Two-Pump cover him up, keeping the wound from being exposed. My lips twitch into a smirk as I look down at him.

“Hippie will let you know what you owe, when you owe it,” I state. “Just remember, another finger goes if you don’t pay me.”

“And if I die?” he whimpers, sniffling as tears fall down his cheeks.

“We’ll find someone else to pay us.”

“Someone else?” he asks, his bottom lip trembling as his tears cease.

“Family. Somewhere. Don’t worry, we’ll get our money.”

I turn to walk away from him, but when he snorts, I spin back around. He’s got a smile on his face. A seriously fucking bullshit smirk. All of my control breaks. Every goddamn ounce of it. That fucking smirk sends me all the way over the edge.

This motherfucker with blood dripping down his hand, who was just crying like a bitch seconds ago, is smirking at me right now?

No. Fuck that.

I pounce, and the chair topples over with me on top. He doesn’t even have time to lift his hands in defense, and I don’t skip a fucking beat. Immediately, I ball my fingers into a fist. Nobody stops me, maybe because they all want him gone, too.

It would be one less fucking thing to worry about. I hit him hard, pummeling him without holding back, without stopping. Blood sprays everywhere—all over my face, all over the floor around us. And I don’t stop until his face is nothing but an unrecognizable pile of flesh.

“Brother, I think he might be dead,” Two-Pump chuckles.

Turning my head, I look over to him. “You think?” I’m breathing heavily and sweating as if I’ve just run a goddamn marathon.

“Guess we don’t need that money after all,” Blast mutters.

“Not all money is worth the cost. Had a feeling this was going to be one of those cases,” Hippie states matter-of-factly.

He’s right. I don’t think we were ever going to see any money from this fuck. And that’s what I’ll tell myself until the day I fucking die. Because I won’t admit I lost complete fucking control.

Not in this.

Not ever.

I can lose control with a woman, I can lose control with drinking, with gambling, whatever the fuck, but not when it comes to my work. Not when it comes to the job.

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