Page 64 of Overdose
“I gave you that to clean up with,” I say, deadpan.
She smirks, rolling her shoulders like she owns the whole fucking room. “Yeah, well, I like the way your cum feels inside me.” Her eyes flick down to her thighs. “Feels like a souvenir. Besides…” She swings her legs off the bed slowly. “I’ve got quite the collection going. Might as well make it a full wardrobe.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
My cock kicks again at that. Hard.
But I don’t move. Not yet. Because if I do, I’ll forget the real shit that’s breathing down our necks.
Dante. The threats. The bodies piling up.
I grab my hoodie. She grabs her bag.
We head out the back, and the second I see my bike, all I can think is:Get her to the motel. Get this handled. Then burn the whole fucking world down if I have to.
Because she’s mine now, and I’m done fucking sharing.
Especially not with the fucking devil.
Twelve
Noir
The blood’s still warm.
It creeps in slow, sticky rivers down his ribs, pooling at the edge of the mattress like it’s trying to slip away. Like even it doesn’t want to be here. I don’t flinch. Don’t gag. Don’t even blink. Shit like this stopped feeling dramatic a long time ago. It’s not poetic. It’s not deep. It’s just a body now—meat and muscle and bone cooling in the dark.
Another message.
Another problem erased.
I crouch, pressing my blade to the skin above his sternum, dragging it slow. Skull—jagged, rough, cut deep enough to scar the room even after the body's gone. This part’s never about the corpse. It’s about whoever finds him. Whoever starts to connect the dots. Whoever knows who this guy worked for.
I wasn’t planning to hit him tonight. Was just tailing the bastard. Tracking him. Seeing where he went, who he spoke to, what doors he unlocked. Waiting for something better. Something bigger.
But of course the fucker spotted me.
A glance over the shoulder that lasted half a second too long. A twitch in his hand like he knew I was there. Like instinctkicked in and told him something wasn’t right. He started moving faster, reaching for whatever piece of false comfort he kept stashed in his jacket.
I didn’t wait.
Couldn’t.
One wrong move, one call, and the whole thing would’ve gone sideways. So I took him out. Fast. Quiet. Before he could raise the alarm. Now he’s laid out on a piss-stained mattress in the same shitty motel from the other night. Same cracked walls. Same flickering light. Same place Blair’s probably curled up a few units over, breathing soft and steady while I clean house.
He was one of Dagger’s mid-level guys. Flashy. The type who thought designer belts and rented wheels meant untouchable. But now he’s got a skull carved into his chest and a duffle bag slumped at his feet—one more cracked tooth in the jaw of Dagger’s crew.
Another message. Loud and fucking clear.
I unzip the bag. Pink pills shimmer under cheap light. Packaged in holographic pouches like party favors. Cyanide dressed up in glitter and gloss. Pretty, lethal and too fucking familiar.
I dump them into my own pack, double-check the seals, then sling it over my shoulder.
It was never about the drugs.
It’s about the debt.
And how deep I’m willing to dig it into Dagger’s spine before he snaps.
