Page 56 of Overdose
A slow, oily laugh greets me on the other end. “Well, well. Dagger. Twice in one week? I’m flattered.”
Dante.
I move toward the side of the building, pace quickening. “You calling to flirt, or you got something to say?”
“Oh, I’ve got plenty to say. Like how one missed shipment was already a headache. But now two?” He clicks his tongue. “I’m getting fucking annoyed.”
“I’m working on it.”
“You better be. Because I’m out of patience. And your girl? The little motel plaything with the pink and purple hair? Cute. Didn’t know Brynn had a twin.”
My spine stiffens.
“She looks just like her,” he continues, voice a sick drawl. “But hey—second chances are rare. Maybe this time, I’ll get to really enjoy it. Watch her die slower.”
“Touch her and I’ll?—”
“You’ll what?” he snaps. “You’re not in a position to threaten anyone, Dagger. You owe me. Money, product, bodies. And now? Interest.”
I grit my teeth. “Give me a fucking minute to figure out who’s killing my dealers and hijacking the shipments. Let me hand the fucker over to you, tied up with a pretty bow. Then we’re even.”
“You’ve got forty-eight hours. After that? She bleeds.”
The line goes dead.
I lower the phone, fingers curled so tight around it I hear the casing crack.
Link steps forward. “That was him?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“And it’s on now.”
The moment I hear the crunch of tires on gravel, I look up.
It’s not a bike.
A black Civic, older model, windows down, bass thumping like someone’s trying to compete with their own heart rate, pulls into the lot. The engine cuts and the door swings open.
Blair steps out.
What. The. Fuck.
She slams the door like it insulted her, boots hitting the pavement with a purpose that sends a ripple of unease straight through me. Her hair’s a tangled halo of pink and purple chaos. Her bag is slung like a weapon across her chest. Her jaw’s locked.
My chest goes tight.
“Yo,” Link mutters beside me. “Is that?—?”
“Yeah,” I grind out.
Blair marches toward me like she’s ready to go twelve rounds. No hesitation. No fear. Just fury wrapped in a five-foot-something storm with glossed lips and vengeance in her veins.
The second she’s close enough, she shoves something into my chest.
A fucking Polaroid.
