Page 50 of Overdose
She does, reluctantly.
“Dagger…”
I lean in and kiss her—deep, slow, possessive. She melts, just for a second.
“I’ll swing by when I’m done,” I promise.
“You better.”
I smirk and tug the end of one of her braids, watching her swat at me with that pretty little scowl she wears so well. Then I step back, let the space grow between us even though every part of me wants to stay.
As I turn, my gaze lifts to the DJ booth out of habit expecting to see him there, watching. But it’s not Noir behind the table. Some other guy’s taken over, head bobbing to the beat, lights strobing across his face.
Weird.
But whatever. Not my problem tonight.
I push the door open and step into the night, air cooler than the heat still clinging to my skin. My boots hit pavement. I swing a leg over my bike, tug on my helmet, then my gloves. A couple of my guys are leaning against the fence—Slick and Javi. I bump knuckles with each, no words needed.
They know the drill.
But my mind’s already somewhere else.
Another dead dealer. Second one this week. Same calling card—skull carved into his fucking chest, stash ripped clean.
Whoever’s behind it, they’re making a statement.
And it’s aimed at us.
I gun the engine, steel and fury in my veins, and peel off into the dark—toward the clubhouse, toward answers, toward blood.
Something’s coming.
And I’m ready for it.
Ten
Blair
I’m not high anymore.
Which should be good. That’s what they all want, right? Clear eyes, steady pulse, no one foaming at the mouth.
But if I’m being honest—which is rare and overrated—I fucking hate it.
Everything's louder now. Sharper. Like my skull’s an empty hallway echoing with the things I don’t want to think about. Like Noir’s voice. Like Dagger’s hands. Like Brynn, always fucking Brynn, bleeding through the static like a song I can’t delete.
I’m slumped on a barstool, arms folded on the sticky counter, chin digging into my forearm like I’m auditioning for Most Pathetic Bitch of the Year. Cass is behind the bar, moving like she’s trying to break a personal record—shots poured, bottles flipped, eyes rolled. She already tried to send me home in an Uber. Twice.
I begged.
Said I’d stay. Help, even, since she’s running solo tonight and half the warehouse seems committed to dying of dehydration or Jäger-induced stupidity.
She didn’t look thrilled.
But she didn’t fight me either.
Guess pity beats protocol when your only backup’s a girl who can barely remember her last name and once took a nap in a walk-in freezer.
