Page 30 of Warrior
Nyx would be glad to see it go, too.
So would Saint, even if Kade and him are suddenly besties.
I put up the kickstand and shift into gear. The bike’s vibrations seem more like an earthquake today, and I tighten my grip. Thelastthing I need is to fall off.
The first thing I need is…
Not a cinnamon roll.
My stomach cramps, and sweat breaks out across my body. I hit the throttle until I’m flying, my hair streaming behind me from under my helmet. I get to Bow & Arrow and unlock theback door, hurrying up the stairs to my apartment. It auto-locks behind me, luckily, so I don’t need to wait. I just listen for the resultingslam, echoing up to me.
I get into my apartment and twist that lock. My hands are shaking. I shed my leather jacket, toss the folder from my waistband onto the counter by the sink, and drop into a chair at the kitchen table. Onto it goes the syringe, the alcohol swab, the elastic. I barely get the elastic on, tightening the knot with my teeth.
The swab comes next. I rip it open and rub it across the crook of my elbow. It’s a patchwork of bruises and two prominent needle marks, marked by deeper, purple bruises.
I should find a better place to inject.
No, I shouldn’t. I should just stop.
And yet…
Here I go again.
The prick of pain when the needle slides in almost has me groaning. The anticipation climbs, until I need to pause and wipe my sweaty palm on my thigh.
I pull it back a little, waiting for the drops of blood. They swirl and mix with the liquid heroin, and I just stare at how my blood tumbles through it. I want it so bad, but I force myself to count to five.
Then I depress the plunger.
I remove the needle and recap it. I sag back in the chair, my eyes already closing. I don’t care that I might be bleeding—the drug rushes through me like high tide, flooding my system, and eradicates my cares. The aches, the nausea, fade as I float.
“Shit,” I groan, minutes or hours later.
I don’t know.
There’s a trail of blood down my arm, a few drops on the table where I rested it. They’re dried, which gives away the time loss.
I pick myself up and clean the area. I dispose of the needle—okay, yeah, I just toss it in the trash, sue me—and the rest of the shit. The elastic I stick around my wrist, looped twice. It’s innocuous there.
Pull on a cardigan from my closet.
Lock the door.
Go upstairs.
Enter office.
I sit in my chair, running my hands along the smooth, clean surface of my desk.
“What are you doing here?”
Antonio?
It’s not.
Mel, the waitress I should’ve fired when she started handing out my information to the Hell Hounds, stands in the doorway.
“I should ask you the same,” I say.
