Page 97 of Tormented

Cash’s eyes flick over to Abbey again. “Just you, Sawyer, yeah?”

“Both of us.” I point toward my girl. “She’s under watch.”

Abbey snorts. Damn it. I march over and wrap a hand around her throat, leaning in close for show.

“Fuckin’ shut your mouth, whore,” I grind out through gritted teeth, adding quiet enough that only she can hear, “He thinks you’re merch, too.”

She nods in my hold, coughing when I let go. I’d feel bad about it, but I reckon her panties are good and wet now.

“Come in, then,” Cash instructs. “I’ll take you to the storeroom.”

His movements get jerkier the deeper we go into the house. Filthy would be a light way of describing how he’s kept the place. There’s rotten food in the kitchen, what smells like stale piss in the living room, and a fucking rat hauling ass with a half-wrapped burrito in the hall.

Ignoring the stench, and the train wreck that is the house, I keep watch on the mark as we head toward the linen cupboard. Strange? Yeah. But I’ve been told what’s behind that door.

Abbey hasn’t.

Cash’s head swivels from side to side as we near the slatted timber doors, as though he’s looking for makeshift weapons. I glance at Abbey, noting the furrow to her brow as she follows, arms folded as though trying to keep from touching anything by accident.

“Look,” Cash blurts, body-blocking the doors. “I can do a two for one. I can replace and upgrade.”

“I’m not the one you should have talked to, Cash.”

“Let me call him.”

“You’ve had three missed drops, and eight weeks to make that call.”

His gaze hasn’t shifted from mine; the man’s desperate. “Please.”

“Tick, tock.” I smile. “Time’s up.”

Game on, motherfucker . . . .

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