Page 123 of Lotus

House.

It’s not a home—it hasn’t been a home since the day they were stolen from me. One wrong deal and my life was taken by the barrel of some anonymous prick’s forty-five revolver.

My wife. My son. Even my fucking parakeet.

I told myself I was done—hell, I was more than done. I was one shot of Jim Beam away from taking my own pistol to the back of my throat. Some days I regret being such a goddamn coward.

Shaking my head, I signal him towards the exit. “I won’t do it. Take your offer and shove it up your pretentious ass.”

He puckers his lips through a smirk, mutely judging me from top to bottom. “You think I’m young and stupid.”

“That, amongst other things. Mostly, I think you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“I like this tree.”

“This tree can’t be bought.”

A long sigh filters over to me. “How much did you get for your last hit?”

“You mean, how much did Ilose?” I shoot back. “Fuck you. Go.”

“Ten, twenty, thirty?”

My jaw clenches. “Twenty-five.”

“That’s a lot of money,” he nods, pacing my dirty floors in his shiny shoes. He slips his hands into his pockets, quiet for a few beats, deliberating his next move. “I heard your wife was the primary breadwinner. I’m sure her death left quite the financial burden on you.”

“I get by,” I bite out, unimpressed.

“Their funerals probably set you back, yes?”

I’m about to lunge at him, but he steps away, hands up, palms forward. “Whoa, hey, I’m just trying to work through this with you. It looks like times are tough. I want to help.”

“You want to help yourself.”

A flippant shrug. “I’m a huge fan of mutually beneficial arrangements. It’s the businessman in me.”

“Can’t be that great of a businessman if you’re standing in front of me right now.”

His lips twitch as he scratches at his lightly stubbled cheek. “I have my shortcomings. Someone saw something they shouldn’t have.”

“And now you’re asking me to fix your problem.”

“I’mpayingyou to fix my problem.”

Blowing out a slow breath, I dip my chin to my chest and pinch the bridge of my nose, my heartbeat accelerating at the prospect of a hit. I used to live for this shit—the hunt, the adrenaline rush, the cash. I lived for it until it put my family in the ground.

Butfuck, what the hell have I got to lose now? They’re gone. I’m broke, bored off my ass, and I don’t really give a shit if I get thrown in jail or wind up dead. The prospect of both sends a tingle of anticipation up my spine.

With a swift shake of my head, a reluctant compliance, I turn to face the stranger who greets me with a smug grin and eyes glittering with secrets. “Give me a number.”

“Fifty,” he answers with the upmost nonchalance.

Jesus Christ.

I don’t need to weigh my options—he knows I’m in. “Details.”

“See, that’s where things get a bit controversial,” he states as he resumes his pacing, plucking a cigar from his back pocket and offering me one. At my acceptance, he lights us both up and mumbles through the fermented tobacco. “My stepson.”

---