Page 106 of Arran's Obsession

Ahead, Jamieson signalled right, entering a wide street with a graffitied shop on the corner marking the start of Four Miler territory. The drug runners. The very people Gen’s father had gone to for reasons best known to himself. He wasn’t here, but she intended to walk straight up to one of the residences.

I pulled over, fighting a war inside myself to take her out of there. But Shade was right. I’d torch our relationship if I forced her hand.

“I made her vulnerable,” I said into the line. “I’ve made her a target.”

Shade’s voice returned. “Women are always targets. She’ll take on your enemies but also your friends, too.”

For this battle, I wasn’t sure I could just sit back and watch.

Chapter 31

Genevieve

From the warm bag, I extracted the food parcel. It was small, as most were in the early part of the week. Just a couple of inexpensive pasta dishes.

“That house there.” Jamieson pointed across the path to a plain, concrete-block residence.

I swallowed and popped my door.

Off the main road, it was quiet here. Eerily so, with few lights on, the streetlamp overhead dark and buzzing with a fault. Whichever gang had claimed this area was hiding behind crumbling rows of cheap houses. Drug dealers, maybe. The other choice was guns. Not that I knew shit about the gangs beyond what Arran had told me.

Aside from Dad being seen with them.

A raindrop landed on my neck, and I jumped, hurrying across the pavement. The weather had eased, but I wasn’t about to linger more than I needed to.

Being here felt wrong. The sense I’d got at the start of my shift of being a fish out of water intensified. Arran’s point made sense—being connected to him made me a target. Once word got out and my face was associated with his, I wouldn’t be able to do this anymore.

I touched the gate handle, a trickle of fear slowing me. The house ahead was completely dark, not even the flicker of the TV to indicate someone was home.

“I don’t like it,” Jamieson said softly. “This was a mistake.”

A mistake borne of my stubbornness. I wanted to be like my mother, independent and strongminded, but she’d got tangled in gangs and ended up dead. I could have laughed if it wasn’t so tragic. Why hadn’t my mind supplied that extra detail when I was facing off with my very own personal gang leader?

“I don’t think I should ring the doorbell,” I replied. “I’ll leave it outside then they’ll get a notification that it’s been delivered.”

“Thank fuck for that. Give me the bag.”

I handed it to him, and the Scotsman leaned over the gate, setting it on the path.

There, delivered. I could mark it off on the app and move on. There was only an hour left of the shift.

I wasn’t sure I could do this anymore.

Footsteps sounded. Further down the street, a man appeared. He stopped in the shadows, watching us. Waiting. My stomach tightened.

“Who the fuck are you?” he called out.

Without hesitation, Jamieson stepped in front of me, facing the danger. “Get in the car,” he said in that same soft but deadly tone. To the man, he lifted a hand. “Just delivering food.”

“In a fucking Aston Martin?” he intoned.

“Borrowed because of the rain.” Jamieson forced lightness into his tone, backing up.

“Very generous friends you’ve got to let that kind of car down this side of the tracks.” The man strolled closer. “The state of that, brother. What, a hundred K? Two?”

I peered around Jamieson. The car enthusiast was older, maybe fifties. My father’s generation.

“Do you know where you are?” the older man said, louder. “This is Four Miler territory. You need to make your colours clear.”

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