Page 20 of Mex

“Well, if that person is still alive, you didn’t do it well enough.”

His fists are clenched now, but I don’t bother giving him a moment more as I begin searching through my mother’s laptop, ensuring there is nothing that can be traced on it. I had already checked, before Mex took me, but I want to be certain nothing else has come in.

“Find her,” Death warns.

I look up at him. “Or what? What are you going to do?”

He steps forward, but I straighten, my arms crossing over my chest.

“If anything happens to her ...”

I roll my eyes, shaking my head. “Leave, Death.”

“I mean it, Acacia. You better get me some answers soon.”

I flip him the bird, because fuck him. I’m not here to cave under his pathetic attempt at pressure. With a frustrated growl, he leaves the room. I flop down into the chair, exhaling and running my hands through my hair.

This is getting messy, and I need to figure it out soon or it’ll all blow up in my face.

Dropping my head onto the desk, I groan loudly.

Fuck.

How the hell do I untangle this?

~*~*~*~*~

IKNOW HE’LL FIND MEhere.

It’s not unknown that I am often seen around these parts.

If he has done any research on me, he’ll know where I generally hide out. I’m relying on the fact that he has done said research, because I don’t have time to make this harder than it already needs to be. This time, though, I won’t be doing the amazing escape. I’m disappointed, to be honest, because it really was an incredible plan, and now I have to backtrack and let him take me hostage once more.

Nodding at the bartender in the seedy underground club I’m in, he immediately gets me a drink.

He doesn’t ask what I want.

He already knows.

I take the straight vodka and shoot it back; the liquid burns my throat as I glance around the room. This place is not ideal, and most people would find it so unappealing they would never come back, but for me, it’s something that has become almost like a comfort in my years. It’s located in an underground fighting ring, one of many, and when there aren’t fights on, it’s open as a bar.

It’s old, rundown, and it smells quite bad.

It’s probably rarely cleaned.

I would never dare pee in the toilets here.

The rickety bar stool I’m sitting on has probably seen more germs than a doctor.

Either way, I feel weirdly safe here.

“It has been a while since you’ve been in.”

The bartender, whose name is Trev, is as familiar to me as Jayme.

He’s always been here, and even though now he must be in his seventies, he still shows up every damned day for this crap heap.

I respect that.

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