Page 26 of Doomed
The moment stretches between us, filled with words unsaid. I won’t push. Everyone deserves the dignity of their own story, told in their own way and in their own time. When—if—he ever wants to share that part of himself with me, I’ll be here, ready to listen without judgment.
For now, I return to my painting, those unintentional blue eyes staring back at me. We all have our secrets, after all.
8
KNOX
Istomp through the warehouse entrance, my mood fouled beyond repair. The moment with Bianca at the gallery keeps replaying in my head—how close I’d been to truly breaking through that wall she’s built around herself. Then Elliot walks in, and to add insult to injury, Vane wouldn’t stop blowing up my cellphone.
“About time you showed up,” Vane calls out, leaning against a stack of crates. His green eyes glitter with amusement. “You must have been busy with an art lesson.”
“Fuck off.” I slam my keys down on a metal table. “What was so goddamn important that you couldn’t handle it?”
“Touchy, touchy.” Vane pushes off from the crates, falling into step beside me. “Did Knox get cockblocked by work? Such a tragedy.”
I shoot him a glare. “I was making progress until your incessant calls.”
“Progress?” Vane snorts. “You’ve been chasing that artist for weeks. At what point do you admit she’s not interested in playing with the big bad wolf?”
“She’s interested.” The memory of Bianca’s body responding to mine makes me certain. “She just doesn’t want to be.”
“That’s called ‘not interested,’ brother.”
We round the corner toward the back storage rooms, our footsteps echoing off the concrete.
“You should’ve seen her face when I had to take that call.” I clench my jaw, remembering the look on Bianca’s face. “Pretty sure she heard every word.”
“Impressive dirty talk. I bet that really got her motor running.”
“She was already running hot before the interruption.”
Vane laughs, pushing open the metal door to our improvised holding room. “Well, here’s the reason for your blue balls.”
A man sits zip-tied to a chair in the center of the room, blood caking his split lip. Mikey Rodriguez—one of our street-level distributors from the south side. His eyes widen when he sees me.
“Mr. Blackwood, please, there’s been a misunderstanding?—”
“Save it,” I cut him off, circling the chair. “The books don’t lie, Mikey. You’ve been skimming for three months.”
I scan the room, my irritation giving way to a slow smile when I spot it. My favorite persuasion tool leans against the far wall—a Louisville Slugger baseball bat, its surface scarred from previous “conversations.” Someone’s been thoughtful enough to set it out for me.
“Well, would you look at that.” I stride over and wrap my fingers around the worn grip, feeling its familiar weight. Nothing fancy or complicated about a bat—just solid wood designed to make an impact. Just like me.
The bat makes a satisfying whoosh as I give it a practice swing. Simple. Effective. Devastating when applied correctly.
“Been waiting for you to get here,” Vane says, crossing his arms as he leans against the wall. “Figured you’d want the honors.”
I move back to stand in front of Mikey, who’s sweating so hard his cheap shirt is soaked through. His eyes track the bat as I twirl it between my hands.
“Please, Mr. Blackwood,” he babbles, “I can explain?—”
I tap the bat against the concrete floor. “Fifteen grand, Mikey. That’s what you’ve skimmed from us.”
“I—I needed it for my kid’s medical bills. I was gonna pay it back?—”
The bat whistles through the air as I swing it to rest on my shoulder. This guy is so full of shit, as I know for a fact, he doesn’t even have a damn kid. Mikey flinches so hard that the chair legs scrape against the concrete. A dark stain spreads across his pants, the pungent scent of urine filling the room.
“Would you look at that,” Vane chuckles, not bothering to hide his amusement. “Guess you really scared the piss out of him.”
