Page 2 of Cruel Hearts

Tears burn my throat. If I can’t find her, I’m fucked.

The straps on my worn backpack slide off my shoulders, and I stop for just a moment to tighten them. I can’t lose the bag or what’s inside. Finally, I have proof. Once I get it to Zane, I can leave King’s Crossing forever.

The warehouse where Quinn works sits in the distance. An enormous sign advertising Mick’s Auto Body is attached to the side disguising what really goes on under the roof.

Gravel crunches under my shoes, but I can’t be any quieter. There’s no one around—at least, it doesn’t feel like there is. A dog’s barking echos across the industrial park and a few more howl in response. Then someone shouts, “Jesus Christ, be quiet!”

I smile. My first real one in a long time.

It fades just as quickly as it appeared. I can’t let my guard down.

Ever.

I try a side door, and surprised it isn’t locked, I let myself into the warehouse. The door hinges squeal loudly as it thumps closed, and I cringe. Everyone in a five-block radius heard that. Crap. I’m betting my life Quinn’s still manufacturing knock-off purses, and she’s my only hope.

Security lights waver over the huge workspace. Workstation after workstation fill the concrete floor where the girls sew the purses together. But there’s no one here.

Or so I think until I feel the cold barrel of a gun pressed to my neck.

“What do we got here?” a man says close to my ear, reeking of cigarette smoke, his putrid breath fanning my face. If I could see him in the light, I wouldn’t be surprised if his teeth are rotting out of his head.

No one said counterfeiting Chanel purses was glamorous.

My throat constricts. My five years under Ashton Black’s thumb better not amount to being shot to hell because some trigger-happy SOB takes me out before I can do what I need to do.

“I’m looking for Quinn Sawyer,” I say, my voice barely a whisper.

He shoves the barrel harder into my skin. “Who wants to know?”

“My name is Stella. We were in foster care together.”

The asshole lowers the gun, and a sigh of relief rushes out of me.

“She told me about you. Couldn’t shut up. Said if I heard from you to let her know. Come on.”

The man’s obese, a dirty t-shirt straining over his belly, work pants falling, revealing the crack of his ass. He seems familiar, and I trust him. He leads me to an office and I stand next to a scarred metal desk, the fluorescent bulbs flickering above us. I squint, subtracting five years off his features and sixty pounds from his body. This could be the same guy Quinn worked with.

“Here, drink this.” He pushes a couple fingers of amber liquid in a dirty glass at me. I don’t want it, but I’m strung tighter than a guitar string. I found Quinn, and she’ll help. I need to relax. Things won’t be okay, but I’m not alone anymore. I sip the drink, and the guy glares at me.

“Do you know where she is?” I ask.

“She don’t work here no more, but she told me if you ever came back to give you whatever you wanted. I’ll let her know you’re here, and you can get some sleep while you wait. You look like shit.”

“Wait?” I ask numbly, his insult not upsetting me. I probably do look like crap after hiding on the streets all night.

“Boss promoted her. She runs a shop in New York City.”

Shit. This isn’t what I need, but I should have expected it. Quinn Sawyer, head of her own counterfeiting operation. In a strange way, I’m proud of her, and it could be to my advantage. After I’m done here, she can help me hide in New York.

I finish the drink and warmth travels through my body. I’m so tired. My feet drag as he leads me downstairs and througha maze to the room I vaguely remember when I visited Quinn before. When I first met Zane.

“You can sleep here.”

Hunger gnaws at my stomach. I haven’t eaten since dinner yesterday, but I don’t ask for food. I don’t want anything he’d give me.

Ash didn’t turn me into a snob, but I’d rather not die of food poisoning, either.

He steps into the hallway. “You on the run?” he asks, his voice full of suspicion.

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