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“What the hell just happened?” I whisper to myself, fumbling for my keys. “Why do I feel like a whore when Maddox was showing his dick off like a horse at a farmer’s market?”
Anger takes the place of whatever I might have imagined I felt for him. There’s no connection there. How could there be? It would be impossible to feel anything for someone who has a fucking stone heart.
This encounter has taught me that maybe Bronson was right after all. Maybe these guys will use me until I’m of no use, and then toss me away. There was a moment where I actually felt bad for snooping on them, but not anymore, not if this is how Maddox treats me.
I know things will only get worse. First my mouth, then my ass, then what?
My life?
Will he chain me down in his room as his own personal servant to tend to his needs for the rest of my fucking existence?
Why does part of me get excited at the thought?
“You’re a sick fuck, Rory,” I mutter to myself as I enter the address to a coffee shop down the street from the police station before putting the car in gear. “Maybe you deserve them as much as they deserve you. Match made in fucking heaven.”
The drive is over before it even starts, and I have absolutely no memory of it. I park my car at the coffee shop and walk down the sidewalk. I ignore the catcalls from a group of men driving past me in a hooptie, asking me if I need a ride, and I ignore the creepy man following me in the shadows. Walking a little faster, I pull my switchblade from my purse. I feel better, safer with the handle warming in my fist. Should anyone want to start something, I know damn well I’ll be the one to finish it.
The glass doors of the station are almost welcoming at this late hour, so I hustle inside, finding the place almost empty. There’s a woman being brought in at the front, her hands secured behind her back.
“Grand theft auto,” I hear the officer tell the man behind the desk, who takes her name and gives the officer a cell number to take her to. While I wait for my turn, I pour myself a cup of shitty coffee into a tiny Styrofoam cup and down it as quickly as possible.
“May I help you?” the man asks, his cold eyes betraying his professional tone. I’ve seen that look a hundred times. It’s the look someone gives you when they think they’re better than you. When they think you’re nothing, a thing to be forgotten, to throw away.
“Yes. I need to see Bronson. Is he here?” I question with as much enthusiasm as an old box of pizza.
“DetectiveBronson is here, as a matter of fact,” he replies, emphasizing Bronson’s title. I roll my eyes and cross my arms under my chest, which probably isn’t a good thing, seeing as this outfit is revealing enough without pushing up the girls.
When the fucker doesn’t move, I drop a hand to my hip and flick my gaze to the locked set of doors leading to the offices. “Well, could you buzz him or something for me?” I snap. The man narrows his eyes but leans down and presses something on his desk.
“What is it?” Bronson’s irritated voice comes through with a staticky edge.
“You’ve got a late-night visitor,” the man answers. “Can I let her in?”
Just then, a camera perched on the ceiling moves, its lens narrowing in on me. I smile and flip it off.
“Let her in,” Bronson says then the static clicks off.
A buzzing sounds, and I walk to the doors, taking the initiative to let myself through. It’s nice to escort myself and not be in handcuffs as I walk down the mundane hallway. Stained, wooden doors line the corridor, each bearing the name of its owner in white block letters on a black plaque between two metal brackets.
I read the names as I walk, my heels clicking as I move in the quiet station. Bronson’s door is at the end of the hall, and I knock on it three times.
“It’s open,” he calls, so I turn the handle and let myself in. Only now do I glance at the clock and see it’s well after midnight.
“What can I do for you, Ms. O’Brien?” he inquires, not even lifting his head from whatever paper he’s reading on his desk. By the looks of the trash surrounding him—three Starbucks venti cups, an empty bag of nacho cheese Doritos, an apple core, and a crumpled up Chick-Fil-A bag—he’s been here all day.
“I have something,” I announce proudly, moving to sit in the chair across from his with a smug ass grin on my face.
At my admission, he finally glances up, but my grin falters when he blatantly appraises me, looking appalled. “And what was the cost of acquiring this item, Ms. O’Brien?”
Shame fills me, and I almost crush the USB in my hand. “Nothing I wouldn’t do again to assist the esteemed Boston PD,” I snark, pushing the USB across the desk.
He reaches over and pulls it closer before reaching for a key inside a cup of pens. He unlocks the drawer to his right and places it inside then locks it back up. “Thank you for your service. Should this prove to be helpful in the indictment of the Dixen brothers, we here at the Boston PD will be most grateful, as will your brother.”
The irony is not lost on me. Both sides have me by the balls, or ovaries, or tits…whatever. The Dixen brothers own me, but Bronson could pull the plug on my brother at any time. I can’t lose sight of that fact again.
“I’ll be on my way then,” I say, getting to my feet. Pulling the door open, I step out into the hallway.
Just before the door closes, Bronson mutters, “You have cum in your hair. Have a nice night.”
God-fucking-dammit!
“Suck a dick,” I growl, storming down the hallway and back to my car, desperate to take a shower and rinse away every reminder of this shitty fucking day.
