Page 68 of Overdose
I did.
By doing nothing.
I move without thinking. Past her. Toward the parking lot.
“What? Nothing to say now?”
“I’ve got something I need to take care of.”
My jaw’s tight enough to snap. But I can’t fight with her anymore. Not now. Not with this weight slamming down on me.
So I don’t say a word.
I just fucking leave.
Down the stairs. Out into the rainy night. I toss the duffel in the trunk of my Camaro—bright blue, souped-up, under glow flickering like hellfire. The kind of car that screams run, motherfucker, before you even think.
I slam the trunk shut. Slide into the driver’s seat. Grip the wheel like it might anchor me to the ground.
But I don’t start it.
Not yet.
I look up through the windshield, and there she is. Blair. Standing in the motel doorway, shoulders hunched, arms wrapped tight around herself. Crying. Silent, wrecked tears sliding down her face as she turns and walks back to her room like someone with nothing left.
It fucking guts me.
Shatters something I didn’t think I had left.
I slam my fist into the wheel. Once. Twice. The horn blares, cuts off. My knuckles split open. I breathe hard through my teeth.
Because tonight was supposed to be the night I finish the job.
Now I don’t even know who the fuck I am without her.
I put the key in the ignition. The engine roars to life—loud, angry, like it knows what I’m about to do.
I hit the gas, and peel into the dark.
Toward the clubhouse.
Toward the man I’ve been trying to destroy.
Because if I don’t tell him—if I don’t fix this— I might lose Blair for good.
Thirteen
Blair
I can’t sleep.
Not because of some romantic, starry-eyed reason like missing a guy. No, I can’t sleep because I’m bored out of my goddamn skull and starting to feel like a padded-room patient. It’s been a day since Noir walked off like a ghost with a grudge and a god complex, and Dagger’s been MIA since he dropped the “stay put” line like I’m some kind of sheltered housewife from a mob movie.
The motel is quiet—too quiet. No music bleeding through paper-thin walls, no moaning from the hooker two doors down. Just silence. Suffocating and stale.
I kick off the motel blanket and sit up, staring at the peeling wallpaper like maybe it’ll start dancing. My skin itches. My head feels foggy. There’s this… buzz crawling under my ribs. A hum that used to mean I needed a fix.
And fuck me, it’s the first time since that night with Dagger that I feel it again. That gnawing, twitchy, just-one-hit-and-it’ll-go-away sort of itch.
