Page 34 of Debt of My Soul

“It’s not about what Adam said anyway. It’s the reaction of the town, the stories about what you all push and sell. You’re thugs, plain and simple.”

I’m shaking. Questioning my decision to answer him without any sort of filter.

His pupils darken, and anger radiates from his heaving chest. He bends down, grabs the tire, and I catch a glimpse of black ink peeking out from beneath his shirt, hovering above his belt line. He moves to the trunk and tosses the tire in with zero finesse or care before striding back to the car and opening the back door.

He pauses. Glaring eyes meet mine. “Fleur, don’t drive on the Trace this late again.”

Chapter 15

Liam

The trip outside Ruin took me two hours. My meet was the second dead drop this month, and despite the long trip, riding the Trace let me reflect on our run-in with Fleur here two weeks ago.

I haven’t seen her since.

Glancing down at my fingers on my right hand, drawing pencil residue streaks across the outside of my pinky. Evidence of a painful week.

I started in high school. A talent I apparently inherited from my mother, whose watercolors hang in most government buildings in Mississippi. She told me once it was her escape, a haven from the world of motherhood and the emotional drain it took on her. Her own parents had paid for her lessons while growing up and it paid off. She was brilliant—is brilliant.

If only she were proud her talent passed to me instead of Adam. It’s him she wishes she had that connection with. Not me.

I’ve been drawing more than ever this week, compelled by my run-in with Fleur and her mouth, but perpetuated as a way to clean my soul. In the years I’ve worked for Darrin, I’ve been more and more complacent. Each time the boys harass a womanfor a “good time”—despite my attempts to interrupt. Each kill. Each shipment. All of it goes against my nature.

That’s the thing about selling your soul; no matter the reason, it comes at a cost. A debt to a higher power that none can repay.

The audacity of her to speak to me like she did—shit. That’s the first thing Blitz informed Darrin about when we returned to the compound that evening. All about Adam’s new friend and how feisty she is. Still didn’t hide the fact she was nervous, terrified even. I saw each shiver. Her knees trembled, but she masked her fear with casual glances toward the car, where some of the most dangerous men at our disposal waited. And they noticed.

I could almost see the wheels turning in Darrin’s head, although he didn’t voice them out loud, about Fleur. His silence is even more intimidating than words. Thin lips formed a line, brows furrowing as Trip and Blitz both went on and on about the girl.

It crossed my mind to call Adam, to inform him Darrin caught wind of her name, but the ache of bitterness kept me from dialing his number. He never did truly grasp what it was like to lose something.

A snarl leaves my lips, flying into my helmet as I correct my bike from almost crossing the centerline. The need to get back drives me to run twenty over the speed limit. What I don’t need is Darrin asking questions.

Dusk settles over the remote compound as I pull in. Four box trucks are backed into the warehouse, offloading a recent shipment. But this is more than I originally anticipated. Twice the amount I had accounted for. Twice. Shit.

Snape waves me over to the clubhouse after I park. The weather is cooler this evening, but a nervous energy heats my body, enough that I need to remove my jacket.

The compound is buzzing. It’s more than the typical high we get when a new shipment comes in to be divided out to dealers. This is different. More predatory, and I can see that in Snape’s eyes as I near him. The gleam in them is haunting.

“Whatch’a say, Snape?” I ask, ready to blow past him into the clubhouse kitchen for a beer.

“Boss is fixin’ to send a message.”

I pause, one boot raised over the door’s threshold. “When? Who?” I snap my gaze toward Snape, who licks his lips the way he always does when someone is about to have their ass handed to them.

“That guy from a few weeks ago who showed up at the gate. He’s been taking what he’s supposed to be dealing.”

I snort. “How? He can’t possibly take everything he’s supposed to be dealing … he’d die.”

Jackpot is almost fifty times more potent than heroin. The irony that a drug offering powerful relief for those with terminal cancer can also be so lethal isn’t lost on us.

Respect the product.

Darrin’s words.

But Jackpot is more than highly addictive, it’s lucrative. Cheaper than other opioids and easier to smuggle because small amounts are so powerful. The baggies of powder our dealers carry are about equal to a brick of cocaine with the same profit margin. Losing one or two customers to an overdose isn’t detrimental to the bottom line.

I’ve never done the stuff. Never plan to.

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