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“Looks like he was fucking her mom and supplying dope to her.”
I cleared my throat and tried not to let my rage bubble over.
“I’m not sure what the rest of the connection is with the girl, but I can assume.”
I ground my teeth.
“She bought a bus ticket with cash, and the place she’s holed up in is dealing with her rent under the table, obviously cash only.”
I scratched my jaw, thinking all this over.
“She has a part-time job, not even one she’s had for a while. And she hasn’t gotten paid from Richie yet, so—”
“She stole money from him,” I finished his thought and stared into Shyne’s eyes, and he nodded once.
“That was my assumption too. But I can put some feelers out in her hometown and find out for sure.”
I shook my head. “Nah. No need. Doesn’t fucking matter if this guy wants to be trouble. I’ll deal with it.”
“We got your back, Prez.”
I grunted in approval.
I stared at the computer screen, knowing this asshole was going to be a problem. He wouldn’t give up, not with the knowledge he was used to getting what he wanted, that the circles he ran in probably called him boss. It didn’t matter, because I’d crush him. My fucking MC would destroy him.
He clearly thought he had some kind of power or claim over Poppy.
But what he didn’t know was I was one evil motherfucker when it came to being proprietary, and that possession was all for Poppy. If he wanted to go up against me, trying to take something from me that I wanted, deemed as mine, there would be one outcome.
Him in the fucking ground.
Chapter Eight
Poppy
“Thanks again for the help, Richie,” I said and lifted my hand to wave goodbye. I had a pocketful of decent tips, which made up for the fact that my feet were killing me, my lower back aching, and I had a tension headache.
But it was nothing a hot bubble bath couldn’t cure.
I closed the door behind me, all the drunks straggling behind from last call. One of them had his arm propped up on the wall as he threw up, and another one was all but having sex with a skanky-looking broad up against a truck.
Just another night at the bar.
I reached in my purse before I moved away from the bar, just double checking I still had my pistol. It had been my mother’s, one she kept under the bed, one she didn’t even keep loaded. Hell, she kept the box of bullets right beside it. Not like she would’ve known how to use the damn thing anyway, because she was wasted out of her mind every single night.
Maybe I should’ve left it with her. Maybe she was the one who really needed it.
None of that mattered anyway. She hadn’t given two shits about me when I lived with her, so I shouldn’t care about what was going on in her life now or if she was okay.
Part of me wanted to check up on her, call her and see if she was all right. She was my mother, after all, even if the only thing she ever did that classified her as a mom was give birth to me.
But it wasn’t like she’d be coherent enough to actually talk to me. She was out of her mind, high most days, sleeping her life away in that shitty little trailer we called home. The money she’d gotten from disability and government assistance checks helped pay for her nasty habit, inflamed it like gasoline to an open fire.
Growing up, I’d have to scour for food and money, loose change between the torn and stained tweed couch cushions, praying I found a dollar to buy a hamburger from the fast food restaurant down the street.
When I was old enough, I’d gotten a part-time job. That had helped pay for my food, and it was then, as I stared at my measly little check, that I knew my life was truly fucked up. Of course, I’d known already, but seeing what I’d earned, knowing I had to use it to eat, to buy clean underwear and socks, told me how shitty my mother really was.
And it was depressing. It was life-sucking. It also made me stronger and turned me into the woman I was today.
