Page 33 of Unhinged
I shake my head, frustration boiling up inside me. Every lead so far’s been a fucking dead end.
The only thing worth noting was a homeless guy in the alley. His words were incoherent, but I could catch fragments—“Mine,” and “Don’t touch it.” His eyes were wild, dartingaround like he could see something no one else could. The way he gripped his jacket, like he was clutching something dear to him, it made my skin crawl. He was no help. Hell, the dude barely knew what day it was. But there was something off about his ranting. “MINE,” over and over, like he was trying to stake a claim on something that didn’t belong to him.
I push off my bike, walking toward the clubhouse. Brydgett’s GTO is parked out front, right where my sister left it after she dumped our omega off somewhere. Dillon’s been tight-lipped about where they went, and I know my sister well enough to know she’s not going to spill. She did, however, have no problem telling us that Brydgett gave her the GTO before she left, and Dillon brought it back here. At least that means we’ve got a chance to go through it, see if there’s anything useful inside.
I start with the glovebox — nothing but an old gas receipt, a crumpled napkin, and a half-used pack of gum. The center console’s no better — a few hair ties, a dead pen, and a faded grocery list scribbled on the back of a business card. I check the floorboards, under the seats, even pop the trunk. Still nothing — except a tube of half-melted lip gloss, a goldfish cracker wrapper, and one tiny, scuffed-up tennis shoe that I know damn well belongs to Judge.
My frustration builds, clawing at my ribs. Feels like I’m chasing smoke — like Brydgett’s always just out of reach.
Grimacing, I shove my hand down between the seams of the backseat, more out of stubbornness than hope — and that’s when I feel it. Something crinkled, wedged deep in the crease. I fish it out, and sure enough, it’s a crumpled receipt.
A storage unit.
My pulse kicks up a notch. Now we’re getting somewhere.
I take the receipt and head straight for the storage facility. It’s a small, rundown place on the edge of town, nothingthat screams security or top-notch service. I march up to the manager’s office, where a greasy guy in a stained shirt is sitting.
“Hey, I need to see one of your units. The one listed on this receipt,” I say, tossing the paper onto the counter. The manager barely looks up, running his finger along the edge of his coffee cup like I’m some kind of inconvenience. Alpha, technically, but the kind that makes you wonder if the designation was a clerical error. Pathetic posture, weak scent, not an ounce of presence. No wonder he works a desk
He glances at the receipt, then shakes his head. “Can’t help you, pal. You’re not authorized.”
I let out a slow, controlled breath, my jaw tightening as I lean in closer. "I’m not asking, I’m telling you. I need to see it. Now."
The manager smirks, his lips curling into a lazy grin. "Yeah, well, I don’t care what you tell me. The answer’s still no.”
I don’t have time for this shit. I take a step back, eyes narrowing as I ball my fist. Stepping around the counter to close the distance between us, I throw a punch, landing it square in his gut. He doubles over with a gasp, but I don’t give him a chance to recover. Grabbing him by the collar, I slam him back against the counter, growling through clenched teeth.
“Now, do you want me to make this worse? Or are you going to give me the unit number?”
His eyes widen in panic, and he coughs, trying to suck air back into his lungs. "Fuck you," he manages, but I’m already pulling my fist back for round two.
I land the second punch, and he grunts, a little more winded this time. His eyes dart around, clearly trying to figure out how to get out of this. Finally, he slumps back against the counter, his face pale.
“Alright, alright!” he yells. “Unit 12B. That’s all I’m telling you.”
I lean in, my face inches from his. “I need the key. Now.”
He opens his mouth to argue, but I raise my fist, and he freezes. He knows exactly what’ll happen if he doesn’t move fast. With a shaky breath, he hurries to a drawer, rummaging around before pulling out the key, handing it over with a trembling hand.
“Don’t make me come back here,” I warn him, my tone colder than before.
I shove him one last time before turning on my heel and leaving, my mind already racing. Unit 12B. It’s a start. A shitty start, but a start.
The unit’s empty—just like I expected. Nothing here but a few old boxes and a reminder that this woman is playing a game we’re barely keeping up with.
I grit my teeth, pissed off and more determined than ever. This is bullshit.
I pull out my phone and dial Acid, hoping he’s got some good news. When he answers, there’s an edge to his voice.
“Got something?” he asks, and I can practically feel the tension rolling through the line.
“Maybe,” I grunt. “Found a storage unit. Empty. The car had a bunch of useless shit in it. Dillon say anything about where she took them? What the hell was she thinking?”
Acid lets out a frustrated sigh. “Great. Another dead end. What now?”
“I think we need to bring Stone and Levi in,” I reply, steady and controlled. “See if the informant that helped them with their omega has anything on Ike Hale. We’re willing to pay whatever it costs. No more wasting time. No more dead ends.”
There’s a long pause, and I can practically hear Acid weighing his options.
