Page 102 of Sling’s Awakening

“That does make this difficult. I must say, in my fifteen years of being on the force, I’ve never seen someone smuggle drugs in through a liquor shipment. Is the liquor company in on it?” he asks.

I shake my head as I try to process everything he’s throwing at me. “I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about. I think you have the wrong person. You need to be talking to my boss. Russ is the one who does cocaine.”

I wasn’t raised to be a snitch, but fuck him for throwing me under the bus like this. I fully believe he knew damn well something like this was about to happen, with how on edge he’s been.

“I did have the pleasure of talking to your boss, and he also told me he has no idea and should ask you.” The detective flips another page over in the open folder. “He was very upset when he called us to report you.”

Of course he did.

I inhale deeply and hold it before releasing slowly, trying my best to calm myself down from hearing that Russ had all but set me up, but it isn’t working.

I sigh as I slump in my seat, exhausted. None of this seems to be going in my favor. I’m met with wall after wall.

Tears are pricking at the corners of my eyes again out of frustration. “I don’t know anything about it. You can drug test me. I won’t test positive for cocaine.”

“Dealers don’t usually use their own supply.”

A manic laugh bursts out of me. “You should tell Russ that.”

This whole thing is absolutely insane. I can’t believe this is happening to me.

“Were you selling the bottles to customers at the club?” he asks, ignoring my little outburst.

“That would be a Russ question. I have no idea what he was doing with them. For weeks, I had told him the inventory was off, and he kept blowing me off as if I were crazy. Now I know he set me up.”

The detective looks up at me through hooded eyes. “You think your boss set you up?”

I nod. “Yes.”

He writes something down on the paper in front of him, making me fidget in my seat. I try to be discreet and lean forward in my seat to get a glimpse of what he’s writing, but it looks like chicken scratch.

“Is it possible to have my phone? I would like to make my one phone call, and I don’t have the number memorized.”

The only phone number I have memorized is the house phone I had growing up that no longer exists.

The detective studies me before turning his attention back to his notes, asking, “Who are you wanting to call? I can look it up for you.”

“Bennett Huxley.”

Knowing him, his number is probably blocked.

He’s going to lose his shit when he realizes I never made it home.

The detective drops his pen on the table and looks at me. “Are you talking about Sling?”

I don’t know whether I should say yes or not.

My gaze slides to the wall of mirrors where I know the rest of his team is behind watching, psychoanalyzing every movement I make and every word that comes out of my mouth. I don’t want to drag Sling into this and get him into more trouble than he’s already in, but something in my gut is telling me to say yes.

He has a reputation in this city, and I need to either get behind it or walk away.

“Yes,” I say, my tone firm and confident.

He’s my man and I know however much shit he’s in, he’ll come for me.

The detective sighs and slaps the folder closed. He pushes his chair out, getting up without saying a word and leaving the room.

Once again, I’m alone, sitting in the cold, dreary room.