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He makes small talk as he pulls away from the curb, but I’m not really listening. My fury and protectiveness got me into the cab, but it takes a while to drive to the wholesale district, which means there’s ample time for my anger to be replaced by a whole shitload of anxiety. Am I really going to go confront a drug lord in his warehouse on the word of my sleazy ex?
Damn it, I am. There’s no way around it.
If I don’t, they’re just going to keep going after Cassidy, and I can’t watch her back every second of every day. Fuck Jason and his lying mouth. The thought gives life to another wave of fury.
Good,keep the anger pumping.Swallow the fear… that’s better.
After several more minutes, the cab stops in front of a grungy little warehouse that’s painted black. The windows are tinted so dark that if the sun wasn’t reflecting off them, I wouldn’t even know they were there. There’s no name on the building, just a dark red symbol that looks like something Jason would put on a hoodie and call it satanic. I roll my eyes. Definitely the right place. I pay the driver, who gives me a concerned look as he takes my cash.
“You’re workingthere? Uh, you sure about that, hon?”
“It’s fine,” I tell him. “I’m not working, I just have to talk to someone. But—”
I pause, thinking. It might not be the worst idea in the world to have someone around in case this goes sideways. This might take a while, though, and if the meter is running the whole time, I’ll be eating ramen for a month.
He watches my face for a minute, then nods decisively.
“Time for me to take my lunch,” he says meaningfully. “That taco place across the street looks all right.”
After the fucking day I’ve been having, that little gesture of kindness is enough to choke me up a bit, but I have to swallow it down. This isn’t the time to get emotional. Instead, I shoot him a grateful smile and slip out of the cab, striding toward the creepy building.
One deep breath to steady myself—count down from three—here I go.
The door is locked, but there’s a buzzer with an intercom system next to it, so I push the button on the buzzer.
A voice crackles over the intercom. “Name?”
“Don’t have one,” I reply, keeping my voice as stony as possible. I can’t let them know I’m scared shitless.
“Business?” the voice huffs.
“Jason Dodd.”
Yeah, I’ll throw him under the bus if it means I can protect my sister. He deserves whatever comes his way, anyway.
There’s a slight pause, then the door clicks. My heart stutters in my chest. I’m actually a little surprised that worked.
I’m half expecting to get shot to death, but I didn’t come this far to chicken out now, so I step inside. The lobby is as dark as the outside, and twice as creepy. It’s all black and red with shimmering satin drapes and big ugly idols squatting in the corners. There’s an entryway into the main warehouse, but no door. I take a few nervous steps toward it, wondering where the people are.
Just before I reach the archway, a tall, skinny man with dramatically long legs and a mane of glossy black hair slides into view. He props himself against the doorframe and looks me up and down slowly.
“You don’t look like the kind of dumb slut who would deal with Jason.”
Touché.I deserve that for having dated him in the first place and starting all this. “Neither do you,” I fire back.
He smirks at me appreciatively, and it doesn’t make me feel any better. There’s something about him I don’t like—apart from the obvious—that I can’t really put my finger on. He’s dangerous, that much is certain, but there’s a depth to that danger that I’ve never come across before. As though it’s not just mylifehe could end, but my soul too.
Stop it, Soph. Don’t freak yourself out any worse than you already are.
He stops leaning on the wall and invites me through the door with a gesture. There’s something about the way he moves that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Maybe he’s just read too many vampire novels. Or maybe I have.
“Come in,” he says. “Although I can’t imagine what’s left to discuss.”
I don’t want him behind me, but he leaves me no choice. Making sure to stay to the left of him to keep him in my peripheral vision, I walk into the next room. It’s set up like a hookah lounge at first glance.
Two curved couches—red, of course, except for their feet which are black and clawed—sit on either side of a hexagonal coffee table. It’s black and glossy enough to be a mirror, reflecting the exposed pipes of the ventilation system on the ceiling. An elaborate hookah sits in the center of the table, either unused or obsessively cleaned.
There’s a bar behind this setup, an excessively ornate one with lots of ugly figures carved into it. The space is sectioned off from the main warehouse with lots of heavy drapery which almost hides the freestanding cubicle panels which, I suppose, make up the actual walls.
