Page 40 of Chief's Addiction

“Thanks, Zero,” Mason said before ending the call.

He turned to me, a worried look on his face. “Let’s go check on your kid, baby.”

Chapter 9

Chief

I pulled Cora’s truck to the curb, killing the engine as I took in the full scope of the disaster in front of us.

“Jesus Christ.” The Wilkins’ place was a goddamn nightmare. The kind of hellhole that nobody, especially a kid, should be living in.

The yard, if you could call the overgrown patch of weeds and trash a yard, looked like a junkyard had vomited all over it. There were broken appliances, beer cans, and what appeared to be the rusted remains of an old motorcycle littered across the brown grass. The house itself was a single-story shitbox with a sagging roof, peeling paint, and at least two windows covered in duct tape and plastic.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” I glanced over at Cora. “This is where your kid’s been living?”

Her face had gone pale as she stared at the house. “I had no idea it was this bad,” she whispered. “My god, Mason.”

I reached over and squeezed her hand. “Stay in the truck. I’ll handle this.”

“No.” She shook her head vehemently. “He knows me. He’ll be scared if it’s just you barging in there.”

She had a point.

“Fine, but stay behind me,” I insisted, already climbing out of the truck.

We picked our way across the yard, avoiding broken glass and what might have been dog shit, though I didn’t see a dog anywhere.

“This place should be condemned,” I muttered as the wood groaned under our weight when we started up the front porch steps.

As we approached the flimsy front door, a man’s slurred voice carried through.“—ungrateful little shit! Where the fuck have you been?”

“I was just—”someone started to reply, only to be cut off by what sounded like a fist connecting with flesh.

Cora gasped beside me, her hand flying to her mouth. “Beckett.”

There was a crash inside, then glass breaking which was quickly followed by the unmistakable sounds of a scuffle.

Fuck this shit.

I didn’t hesitate. Stepping in front of Cora, I lifted my leg and drove my boot into the door right beside the handle. The wood splintered with a satisfying crack and the door flew inward, banging against the wall.

I stormed inside and stopped dead in my tracks.

What the fuck?

I lifted a hand to cover my nose. “Jesus!” I hissed. The stench of stale cigarettes and booze was strong.

The next thing I noticed was the teen boy on the floor, arms raised defensively in front of his face. And standing over him was a hairy potbellied fucker in a stained wife-beater with his meaty fist drawn back, ready to deliver another blow.

My blood started to boil.

The man’s head snapped around in our direction, his bloodshot eyes widening.

“What the fuck?” he slurred, finally registering that I’d just kicked in his fucking door.

My eyes darted between the kid on the floor and the asshole ready to lay a beating on him.

Without thinking, I closed the distance between us, wrapped my hand around his throat, and slammed him against the wall.

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