Page 69 of Dirty As Puck
I pace the length of my room like a caged animal, every step heavier than the last. Derek’s text still burns on my screen, his words eating into me like acid. Less than ten hours left. the clock is ticking, and everything is at stake.
I want to fight him. Fuck, I want to. But I’ve run through the options over and over, and every road ends with something or someone I love in the crossfire. Derek has the power, and he knows it.
My feet drag to a stop in front of the desk. The laptop waits, black screen reflecting a version of me I don’t even recognize. My eyes reflect my fear, my hands trembling with rage. My finger feel numb before I finally wake it up. The banking portal glows back at me, sterile and cold, like it’s mocking what I’m about to do.
The numbers stare at me: my emergency fund. Two and a half million dollars, locked away, carefully built and saved for programs that keep foster kids fed, clothed, and safe. That account was supposed to be untouchable, the backbone of everything I promised them.
And now Derek’s forcing me to touch it.
I slam the laptop shut so hard the sound echoes through the empty apartment. My chest heaves. I can’t do this. I can’t take from the kids, the very people I swore I’d protect, just to cover this asshole’s debt.
But then I see Rochelle in my mind’s eye again. The curve of her smile. The way she sleeps against me like I’m the only safe place she knows. And the photo Derek sent proves he’s watching her. Hunting her.
I don’t get to choose anymore.
I sink into the chair, open the laptop again, and start the transfer process. My cursor hovers over the field, the numbers swimming in my vision. Two million. Two million that should find uniforms, meals, counselors, homes. Every keystroke feels like I’m peeling away pieces of myself.
I type the amount and enter the codes. Each click lands like a hammer on my conscience.
The confirmation page appears, asking for final authorization. My hand hesitates, shaking so badly I can barely steady it. I lean forward, pressing my forehead into my palm, and for a second I almost back out. Almost shut the whole thing down, let Derek come for me instead.
But not for her.
I force myself to type the final sequence and hit enter. The screen blinks, processing. Then it’s done. The money’s gone, stripped from the kids who need it, wired into a void I can’t pull it back from.
I sit there, staring at the confirmation, my throat so tight I can barely breathe. My apartment is dead silent except for the rushof blood in my ears. It feels like I’ve just signed away the last good part of myself.
The weight of it crushes me. The betrayal. The shame. The truth that I’ve become the very thing I promised those kids I’d fight against, someone who abandoned them.
I close the laptop and press the heels of my hands into my eyes, wishing I could claw back time. But it’s too late. Derek owns me now.
And the worst part is I let him.
The echo of my footsteps bounces off concrete as I walk into the dim parking garage. Late morning shadows cling to every corner, the kind of place I shouldn’t be meeting my dangerous brother alone, yet here I am.
Derek leans against a black sedan, arms folded, smirk stretched wide like he’s already won.
“Kai Morrison in the flesh,” he drawls, voice dripping with mockery. “I was starting to think you’d stand me up.”
I don’t bother with small talk. My hands stay shoved in my pockets, gripping the envelope like it’s burning through the fabric.
“Here are the transfer codes. It’s done.” I hold it out, jaw locked tight. “This ends it. No more contact.”
He plucks the envelope like it’s a tip for a good service, grinning as he tucks it into his jacket. “God, you make it too easy.” His eyes glint in the low light. “Want to know how I got all that dirt on you? The pictures, the schedule?”
I don’t answer, but he keeps talking, feeding off the silence.
“Bartender at The Vault likes to gossip. Your teammates have looser lips than you think. And gamblers?” He laughs, low and ugly. “They’ll do anything for a quick payout, even snap photos of your pretty reporter friend while she grabs a latte.”
My fists clench. I know he enjoys this, watching me choke down the urge to smash his face into the hood of his car.
“You’ve got what you came for,” I bite out. “We’re done.”
Derek chuckles, shaking his head like I’m some clueless rookie. “Done? Oh, brother, this is just the beginning.” He steps closer, his breath sour with cigarettes. “That transfer? Consider it a down payment. I’ll need more soon. Regular installments, let’s say.”
The words hit harder than any tackle I’ve ever taken. My stomach drops, cold and hollow. “You’re bleeding me dry for sport.”
“No, no. For leverage.” He slides a phone from his pocket and flicks the screen toward me. New photos. Rochelle again, captured from a dozen angles, leaving her hotel, leaving her apartment across the city, walking into practice, standing outside the arena. All taken from public spots, nothing illegal, but invasive enough to feel like a knife at my throat.
