Page 172 of Possession

My head bounces like a bowling ball. My wrists are duct taped, and my ankles are bound. I couldn’t catch myself if I wanted to.

You know your life is really going to shit when staying in a DEA holding cell would have been the better choice.

But I fucked that up. Just like I always do. Self-sabotage should be my middle name.

If I had one.

Which I don’t.

That would’ve required too much effort from my lazy-ass parents. Or, in their case, meant no effort at all.

“You little prick,” Logan seethes. “Torres is a pig, and you were working for him.”

My head spins when I roll to my back and squint through the darkened warehouse. Hell, I didn’t even know this place existed. I have no clue how many properties they have.

“I didn’t do shit, Pres. Swear. Fuck, I had no idea he was a narc until he walked into the room at the DEA yesterday.”

“I don’t believe one fucking word that comes out of your mouth. You told them where the tunnel is. They shut it down—it’s ruined. Do you know how many streams of income we lost because of you?” His anger bounces off the metal walls and echoes down my spine.

Logan and another brother picked me up at home. I hit the house to get some clothes and was going to be gone. I don’t even know where I was going or how I was going to pay for it. All I knew is that my options were trusting a DEA agent, getting killed by the Jackals, or running.

The choice was easy.

Though, given my shitty reality, it’s safe to say I’m in over my head.

I groan. “Tell me what I can do to make you believe me. I did my job. I told you what Boz told me. Gave your messages to him. Other than that, I don’t know shit.”

He stalks across the room toward me and the other member who was with him. I’ve never even met him, that’s how fucking new I was when Boz yanked me from the club.

Boz … Brax.

Whatever the hell his name is.

I should’ve stayed at the club. Moving into the Marino mansion put me right here. Not that I had a choice. Logan and the narc made the deal, like I was some cow at auction or something.

The narc fucked everything up. Logan had his hand in it too. I was just there for them to toy with—to use—like the dumbass I am.

“Get him up,” Logan demands. “I want him on the hook.”

The hook?

I groan when I get a steel-toed boot to my ribs. The guy reaches down and yanks me up by my cut. He smells like stale cigarettes and week-old fried food. “Asshole. Do you know how many men want to wear this cut? You shit all over the tat we allowed you to wear. Now you’re going to pay for it.”

I start to struggle and writhe, but I can’t find my footing to fight back.

The old man struggles with my size and weight. It gives me just enough time to get one foot flat to the ground and swing my arms.

They land square on his temple.

He tumbles to the side but takes me with him.

“Well, what do we have here?”

I try to roll away, but instead howl in pain. I’m stomach to the ground, my arms are pinned below me. And the side of my face is pressed into the dirty concrete by Logan’s heavy boot pressed on my neck.

“Fuck,” I yell.

I barely look up at him, but I do see a gun pointed in my face as he bends to hold the damn cellphone in front of my face.

---