Page 51 of Sugar Coated Secrets

Something snaps inside me. I continue raining blows on his face, and he takes it. I’m losing control, but he deserves it. They all do. I’m surprised he doesn’t fight back. Trent is not one to back down from a fight, even if he deserves it.

His back is against the front of Dulce’s van, trying to keep from falling. “Don’t stop,” he manages to say through a bubble of bloody spit. Some land on my chin, but I don’t wipe it off.

I land a few more punches. I split his brow. His lip. I’m out of breath. My arms feel like lead, so I drop them. My knuckles are split open. Sweat drips down my face, but I welcome the sting in my eyes. I watch his face swell in the scorching heat like a dead body would. His face is almost unrecognizable.

“Give me Chris’s address,” I demand between breaths. He attempts to spit on the concrete, but instead, a glob of blood-tinged saliva slides down his chin. Through the tiny slits in his swollen eyes, I can see that he understands.

I walk to the driver’s side of the Porsche, and I’m surprised he can get inside the passenger seat after locking the side door. He presses an app on his phone. The garage door automatically closes.

I reach behind the seat. “Don’t get dirt, grease, or blood on the car,” I tell him, tossing the towel in his face. “It’s a rental.”

I program in the address Trent gives me to Chris’s place.

“I’m sorry, man. I swear I didn’t touch her. It wasn’t me,” he says as I speed down the road.

It doesn’t take long before the GPS has me turning down a road with a large two-story house at the end. The grass looks three weeks overdue for a cut. The windows don’t have blinds. It looks like a family moved in but didn't have money to cover the windows and decided to put sheets in different colors so no one could look inside.

I get out of the car, not bothering to wait for Trent. I don’t care if he comes with me or not. As I walk up the steps to thefront door, it sounds like a small party inside, with loud music blaring. In the dim glow from the outdoor light that’s half full of dead bugs, I see a doorbell with a missing button. I bang on the wood door with scuffs and peeling paint.

I’m about to knock on the door again when the door opens a bit. A woman's head pokes out, looking like a bird. A bad dye job on the woman's burnt hair has resulted in mottling between dark brown and green.

Her eyes widen, her pupils dilate, and she blinks like a lizard a couple of times. It takes her a few seconds for her eyes to focus on me.

She gives me a once-over. “Who are you?” she asks.

“Where’s Chris?”

She leans on the door and smiles. Her yellow teeth and the black tartar surrounding her gums make me want to throw up.

“Around, inside, outside,” she says, and then lets out a drug-induced laugh, causing her to shift on her feet. The smell of stale smoke, beer, and rotten wood makes my throat thick with bile.

I swallow it down. “Get Chris,” I grind out, barely restraining myself from charging the door and pushing the bitch out of my way.

“Chris!” she yells as loudly as her raspy smoker’s voice can manage.

“Who is it?” he fires back, stumbling toward the door.

A hand with dirty fingernails grips the door above her head, and he comes into view. His armpit hairs are inches from her face, but she doesn’t move. From the looks on both of them, I’m positive they haven’t showered in days.

I have never seen Chris in this state. It almost makes me feel sorry for him. If it weren’t for what he did to Dulce, I would try to figure out a way to help him.

When he recognizes me, his eyes widen, glassy and unfocused. “Look who decided to visit!” he says with a wide, crazed smile. “Ford Keller.”

The woman’s eyes go wide like she won a prize. “The racecar driver friend you told me about,” she says, then cackles.

“The one and only,” Chris says, moving to the side. “Come in.” A shadow runs over the wall, and I know it's Trent standing behind me. “Holy shit, Trent. What the fuck happened to you?”

I don’t turn around because I don’t need to. After staring at Trent some more, Chris raises his brow at me. “You did that?”

I don’t respond, and neither does Trent. After a few tense seconds, Chris nods.

“Because he owes you money, Ford.”

I wish it was that easy.

“What do you think?” I ask, looking at him with a hard expression.

He shrugs his shoulders like a little kid. “I don’t know,” he says and then laughs. I watch as he scratches the meth sores on his arms, near the faded tattoos on scraped skin that looks like they were homemade from a tattoo kit you ordered online.

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