Page 36 of Debt of My Soul

A squeaking sound shatters the silence as the man’s arms slide off the table, going limp at his sides. It’s only then that Darrin looks down at the man, and he turns his head. Red and purple splotches decorate his face through the white powder covering it. Eyes unseeing and open. Darrin stares down at the man with zero emotion. His mouth turns into a nonchalant downward curve, and he shrugs, rolling his shoulders.

“Goff, deal with this. Blitz, put the girl in the clubhouse.”

Neither of them moves.

“Now!” Darrin barks. “All of you, back to work.” Packers jump into action, pulling out their chairs and aligning themselves back on either side of the tables. Scales start weighing, bags are packed, and shipments sorted.

I move to Darrin, treading carefully with the hatred in his expression. “Where’s this shipment headed?” I ask.

Darrin raises his chin. While Darrin meets my height, he’s all lean muscle—thinner. The hallows of his cheeks are more gaunt than I’ve seen before. He ignores my question.

“We have security items to discuss. Raven, another drug lord across the state line in Alabama, is encroaching on our territory. We meet in the clubhouse in an hour.”

I nod, a swallow working its way down my throat. Spinning on my heels, I turn to the door and leave the warehouse. Fresh night air slams into me, and I gulp it down while power walking to my cabin.

Each step is quicker than the last. Stars overhead shine through the trees, speckles of constellations and far-off wishes never granted. Never for me.

Despite the cooler summer air and the breeze kicking up through the trees, sweat beads on my upper lip and I swipe at it. Week-old stubble grazes my hands, and I bat away another drop of perspiration dripping down the side of my temple.

Plowing into my front door, I slam it. My breathing becomes heavier, and a strangled choking noise wrestles itself from my mouth. I cover my lips, taking several steps forward, and stop at my small drawing desk.

In one fell swoop, I toss the materials there. Hands destroying the neatly arranged cups of items and filled pads. Charcoal sticks and drawing pencils clank to the floor while sketch pad papers float in the air. They dip and glide as sketches disappear in the dark cabin and cover the wooden floor.

I stare down at them. Ash-colored eyes stare back at me, boring into me until a sour, bitter tang in my mouth drives me for water.

I fill a cup and down the whole glass in two gulps, then place the empty glass in the sink and rest my arms on the counter. My gaze flicks to the door of the cabin, then flutters closed as I take a deep breath in through my nose and blow out. My stomach churns, but I steel my grimace, striding back to the door.

Pencils crunch and charcoal breaks under my boot, and I spare one last glance. My boot print stomps out those silver eyes before I stalk through the door.

Chapter 16

Fleur

“So you and Adam are …” River asks, placing several oranges in her reusable bag. We move away, on to the next booth ripe for the picking.

I’d seen signs for the Ruin Farmer’s Market for a month or two since I moved here and always wanted to go. Finally, a Saturday arrived when Adam wasn’t working at the house, and I committed to going. Unfortunately, he had something else to do today.

But it was the perfect opportunity to have River over to the farmhouse to look at the progress before she drove us to the farmer’s market.

It’s everything I imagine a small-town market to be, and I have to bury the feeling of wanting to capture this in a photo.

Held in the library’s parking lot, local farmers, vendors, artists, and more have tents set up here. People roam freely over the array of homemade items. Even the local coffee shop has a table, the aroma of freshly ground beans overpowering many of the smells.

Piles of heirloom tomatoes, plump fruits, and crisp heads of lettuce are all plucked from their stands by a large number ofcommunity people, and it’s almost like a race to see who can get the most before noon. I swear the whole town must be here.

River picks up a woven basket next to the table of handcrafted soaps I’m currently sniffing. She eyeballs me, not forgetting I haven’t answered her almost question.

“Adam and I what?” I ask, stalling to answer.

She rolls her eyes at me. “Oh, come on, Fleur. Are y’all together or what?”

Together. I hate that word. I was together with Chris for nine years.

Being together didn’t stop him.

I pause with the lavender and thyme soap to my nose and immediately place it back on the table. I don’t do lavender. “We haven’t exactly had that conversation. Right now, I’m enjoying getting to know him. But I just got out of a long relationship that ended badly. I’d have to have someone sweep me off my feet in order to move on so soon.”

“I see,” she says, paying an older lady for the basket.

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