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“Don’t make me do it, Nyx,” Chet demanded, looking down at me. I saw a hint of the Chet I knew, the one who asked me about my day, who told me I could confide in him, who brought me chocolate when I was being bitchy and he assumed—often rightly—that I was PMSing.
That said, it was just a hint.
The more dominant look on his face was a grim sort of determination.
He needed to go through me to get to his friend, to save him and his reputation, to try to save himself from torture and murder.
He would lay me to waste without a second thought.
“When have you ever known me to make shit easy?” I asked, tone cold. Almost as cold as the blood was turning in my veins as I saw him flex his hands a few times before balling one into a fist.
As he stalked toward me, reaching down to grab a handful of my hair, yanking me up and holding me in place by it as he cocked his arm back, I heard it.
The rumble of a bike to life.
Hope swelled for the briefest of seconds before I realized something.
It was going in the wrong direction.
Toward, if I was right about my location, my apartment building, not town.
Not to save me.
Not yet at least.
The hope snuffed out just as the fist collided with my jaw, making pain shoot out across my face, twinging off nerve endings, and making a slight taste of blood meet my tastebuds—tangy and metallic.
My tongue touched my back tooth, feeling it wiggle slightly.
If there was anything worse than being tortured, it was having to go to the goddamn dentist afterward.
Root canals and soft food diets.
Ugh.
My mind was still on that as Chet’s hand twisted in my hair, making sparks shoot out across my scalp as another punch landed, this time cracking off my cheekbone, the pain making me worry about my eye socket for a moment before I managed to take a few breaths, calmed myself down a bit.
It was bad.
Worse, even, than I had been anticipating.
The entire side of my face felt like a swollen, bruised wound.
And he was just getting started.
“Where are my fucking drugs?” he growled.
“I don’t know,” I told him, glaring at him as he snarled down at me.
It was, you know, the truth. Partially. I had no fucking idea where those bricks of heroin that the Erion guy stole were. On the streets somewhere, most likely. Up the noses or in the veins of people who had an alarmingly low chance of ever getting clean.
It was going to take a fuckuva lot more pain to make me give up my mom’s address.
I was actually kind of surprised at how fiercely I wanted to protect her at that moment, considering how strained our relationship was.
I guess, at the end of the day, she was my mom.
And what I’d told Slash was the truth.
