Junkie (Broken Doll #1) (9 page)

Unable to wait any longer, I hauled my right arm back as far as it could go and drove it forward, putting all of my strength behind it. The blow connected with his left cheekbone. Pain shot through my knuckles, the shockwaves riding up my arm, but I could give a fuck at this point. Thirst for vengeance overrode the discomfort. The guard’s head snapped violently to the side, blood spraying from his nose in a gruesome arc. I stepped back and a second later landed a left hook to his chin, gratified with the way his neck jerked back and his lip split open.

“Drop him.”

At my command, my men let go of the guard and he fell to the ground. I was on him in the blink of an eye, kicking him over and over, stomping my heel on bones that crunched beneath my feet.

Chest heaving with fury, I itched to pull out my KA-BAR but tamped down the urge, not wanting to spill his blood. I was already covered in streaks of crimson, but too much of it would stain the meticulously paved driveway. I turned to Sarge and pointed at the sagging man, who was now upright only because of the two men holding him beneath his arms.

“Get this piece of shit out of my sight.”

“Yes, Boss.”

“Wait.” They stopped on my command and I stepped up to the beaten and bloodied ex-guard. “You don’t deserve to touch a woman like Miri.” With that, I spat on him and turned to leave. Fuck it. I spun around and pulled the giant knife from beneath the cuff of my pants, and jammed it up into his belly. Blood poured out of him and he screamed from the pain.

While the guard bled out, I laid down the law with my employees. I scanned each of the men’s faces as I spoke to make sure everyone understood. “Miri is
mine
. Make it known that the next one to fuck with my property will get his cock cut off and shoved down his throat to suffocate on it. Got it?” And I was dead fucking serious. Anyone who caused harm to the tempestuous redhead would suffer at my hands.

Every set of eyes, save for the one with his gut hanging out, focused on me and they replied in unison. “Yes, Boss.” Satisfied there would be no more incidents, I turned and went back in the house, straight to my room to change my blood spattered clothes.

Another goddamn motherfucking suit ruined. This was becoming a pattern I didn’t like. Not one fucking bit.

U
pstairs in the master bath
, I scrubbed my hands until all of that disgusting fucker’s blood rinsed down the drain and my skin was raw. My heart pounded as rage continued to sizzle through my veins, crackling and popping like kindling in a bonfire. I wanted to kill the piece of shit again right there in the backyard. I wanted to rewind time and squeeze my hands around his neck until the cartilage collapsed and the life ran out of him. I wanted to put my knife in his throat and watch the light in his eyes fade as he left this world all over again. I was so furious my hands still ached to hit something, and I flexed them over the washbasin.

Jesus Christ. Control yourself.

I caught my reflection in the mirror and ran my wet hands down my face, over my darkened, near-black eyes and through the short stubble covering my cheeks. My jacket, tie, and shirt were soaked with blood, and there was spray on my throat and face, which pissed me right the fuck off all over again. The sight was certainly nothing new, but it was the first time that instead of repulsed, I was flat-out infuriated by the offensive red stains. My skin crawled and I felt tainted at the thought of that asshole’s blood touching any part of my clothing or me. Revolted to the point I almost gagged, I tore at my shirt, nearly ripping the seams in my haste to get it off. Still agitated, I shoved down my trousers and briefs, scooping up the entire bundle and dumping it in the plastic-lined hamper.

One of my favorite fucking suits—stupid fucking dead-ass bastard.

I wanted to scream. To shout myself hoarse. My brain itched to regain control, to organize, to clean. And Miri… fuck. In the middle of the large bathroom, I stood naked with my eyes closed and my fists clenched at my sides, my entire body humming like an exposed wire from a combination of adrenaline, anxiety, fury, and fear.

Fear of what?

It was too much to think about while smeared with blood. I flipped on the shower, removed the twin knives from their sheaths, and unbuckled the leather straps. After taking off the calf sheath that held my seven-inch KA-BAR, currently being sanitized by Frank, I stepped under the spray, too impatient to wait for the water to heat. It was freezing at first, but I meticulously scoured away every bit of the disgust that clung to me after what I witnessed in the garden. Once I was clean and my anxiety level lessened somewhat, a random thought nearly brought me to my knees.

Was I afraid of the blood? The disorganization? The lack of control? Was I afraid of the past repeating itself? Or was I afraid because Miri was involved? Afraid she would be hurt and frightened, unable to defend herself. If I hadn’t been watching…

No
. I shook my head and rinsed off before cutting the tap. This situation was different, not at all like Rose. This time, I was
The Boss
. I had the power to stop history from happening again.

After doing a half-assed job of drying off, I stepped into my walk-in closet and stared at dozens of suits hanging in perfect rows, sorted by color. My fingers brushed across the fine fabrics and I frowned at the expensive wool pants and jackets, the perfectly pressed button-ups in every possible shade, and the neat rows of silk ties. There was an important meeting in a couple hours, which was why I was in a suit in the first place. Dress how you wish to be perceived. It was why I usually wore an expensive, well-made, custom tailored suit every single day. Power was perception.

Fuck it.

In an uncharacteristic move, I spun away from the suits and snagged a pair of worn jeans and faded T-shirt.

After dressing, I shoved my feet into a beat-up pair of shitkicking boots and strapped my calf sheath back on. Short sleeves meant no wrist blades, which made me agitated. Tension kept my muscles pulled taut as I clomped down the stairs to the office and dialed Milo while pouring myself a small drink, mindlessly straightening up the already perfect rows of bottles.

“Boss.” Milo’s tone was sharp enough for me to know he was still pissed about earlier when I told him to shut the fuck up about Miri. Too goddamn bad. Milo’s job was to give me the report I asked for, and then accompany me later this afternoon to a meeting with a club owner wanting to sell. A nightclub was the perfect type of business to use for money laundering.

If Milo got his tender feelings hurt, that’s his fucking problem.

“Cancel the meeting, plans have changed.” I sipped the whiskey and let the fiery burn travel down my throat as ice cubes clinked against my lips.

“What? Boss… how can we—”

With every last bit of my very limited patience used up and then some, I slammed the glass down on the bar and roared, “Goddammit. Cancel the motherfucking meeting and tell them you’ll contact them to reschedule it!”

Silence on the other end had me ready to unleash a torrent of threats on my lieutenant. Lucky for Milo, he spoke up. “Got it covered, Boss. You need me back at the house?”

“No,” I snapped. “Finish the job I sent you on and text me when it’s done. I’ll get your report later.”

I disconnected the call before waiting for a response.

Fucking Milo.

Thoroughly aggravated, I shoved my hands in my damp hair and yanked… hard. Being the boss of a relatively small but very profitable heroin ring was stressful, no doubt. Today, however, pushed the boundaries of even my tremendous level of self-control. Seeing Miri on the ground—no more than a hundred pounds and helpless beneath the brute strength of her would-be rapist—reopened old wounds. My soul was sliced deep, scarred. Old wounds were flayed open and bleeding from the inside, the agony invisible to the eyes but very real in my heart. The lack of control. Shit. Once again, my hands itched to organize. Create order in the midst of chaos.

Fuck. Don’t do this to yourself. Don’t go down that road.

Every time I revisited the past, tortured myself with every mistake I made that led to the immense loss I suffered and the gaping chasm left behind when my sister died, I became irrational and my obsessive tendencies shifted into high gear. To be an effective boss, it was imperative to maintain a cool head and stay detached and rational. I ran my fingers through my hair in an attempt to fix the mess I made. Not totally satisfied with my appearance as my eyes still held on to the lingering fury, I decided to fuck it. For once I wasn’t going to worry. My hair was good enough to make do. I took a deep breath and left the office. The heavy door hissed as it sealed behind me.

First, I needed to check on Miri, so I set out for the backyard only to spot a tiny figure huddled in a ball on the couch in the formal sitting room off the kitchen. Unable to resist taking advantage of catching her with no one else around, I stood in the doorway and observed the tiny redhead, unnoticed. Her feet were tucked up under the loose fabric of her lightweight dress, waves of copper hair cascading over the arm of the couch to stand out against the pale fabric.

A quiet snuffle and a tremble in Miri’s petite shoulders acted like a hook, reeling me in until I found myself standing next to the sofa. I crouched low to minimize my height and appear less threatening. After the traumatizing experience in the garden, I didn’t want to add any more stress to her burden. God, I wanted to wrap her up in my arms until her pain went away. But I wasn’t comfort. I wasn’t peace. I was hate and violence and war.

“Miri.”

Shockingly, Miri didn’t flinch or seem surprised by my presence. She must have heard me enter the room. Miri didn’t answer and despite my misgivings, I reached out to gently run a hand through those shiny auburn locks. My eyes shifted to the freckles on her bare shoulder and at the last second I brushed my fingers across the creamy skin instead. Miri recoiled and I snatched my hand back.

“He’s gone, Miri. You’re safe. I promise.”

Face buried under all that hair, Miri gave the smallest of nods, but otherwise didn’t react. For some reason, her attitude had me pissed off all over again. Being ignored by Miri irritated me more than I wanted to admit. And, of course, because I’m a raging, heartless bastard, I backed off, unwilling to reduce myself to begging for attention even though the woman was just assaulted. If Miri didn’t want to look at me, or thank me, or even fucking acknowledge the fact that I pulled that asshole off of her, that I
killed
him for her, it was her prerogative, though it irrationally grated on my nerves.

I spun on my heel, annoyed with myself for letting Miri get to me, for bothering to give a shit when she could care less who I was or what I did for her. It was easy to forget that Miri was a heroin junkie, a nobody, another one of the filth that flooded the city, funding my operation with her addiction. I was certain all I was to her was a source for her habit. No, I wasn’t the nicest guy and I did some shit to her that she probably didn’t appreciate, but she could still show some goddamn fucking appreciation. I felt my insides harden, quickly returning to my uncaring, violent self.

Fuck her.

I marched out the back door and made my way to the garage, muttering obscenities under my breath the entire way. Goddammit. I had to remember to stay detached. This was a ruthless business and I had to be prepared to do whatever was necessary to stay on top. No way was some junkie going to get in my head and fuck up my shit.

Now I sounded like Milo. Shit. I really needed a diversion.

I stepped inside the enormous garage and surveyed my babies, all the various cars and motorcycles gleaming under the lights. My eyes landed on my favorite, the 1986 Suzuki RG500 Gamma, a red, white, and blue beauty I acquired last year after an excruciating price war with its original owner. I skimmed my fingers across the sleek back end, followed where the padded seat dipped in the center, and slid my hand back up over the fuel tank to the stout handlebars.

Just what the doctor ordered. A distraction. I grabbed a rag and some cleaner and got to work.

When Boss left the room, I let out the breath I had been holding. It was clear he didn’t know I observed him and his men from the large window in the sitting room. Hidden behind a heavy curtain, I watched as he brutally worked over my would-be rapist right in plain sight on the front drive. Boss certainly didn’t know he shouted so loud, I heard him declare me his “property,” a word that both repulsed and thrilled me simultaneously.

The attack in the garden was horrifying and opened my eyes to just how vulnerable I was here. It was one thing to exchange sexual acts for favors, like drugs or rides or money. When it was
my
choice to accept or decline. It was a whole other thing to be held down and taken against my will, something I had been lucky to have escaped so far. After Boss passed over several offers of sexual favors from me, it never crossed my mind that anyone in Boss’s employment could or would resort to rape.

Boss saved me. I knew that. Had he not shown up when he did, I was certain the man with the psychotic brown eyes and impossible strength would have taken what he wanted and left me lying broken on the flat stone path, most likely covered in blood and bruises after he administered a thorough beating when he was done using my body to get off.

Right as I gave up hope, resigned to my fate,
he
appeared, like a superhero or medieval knight. Boss dispatched the man quickly and efficiently, handing him off to his men to deal with. At the last minute, Boss seemed to change his mind. He spun around and , I watched him kill the guy right on his driveway. The scene didn’t upset me like it should. No. I was as sick and twisted as Boss, because I was
flattered
that the powerful man killed for me. Used his own hands to take the life of my attacker.

It should have bothered me that a man was going to die because he dared to lay hands on me. Should have made me nauseated and frightened. The feral look in Boss’s eyes as his hand squeezed down on the guy’s throat should have scared me to tears. Yet I felt none of that. After six months with Mason, half spent on the streets when he wasn’t around, I was sick and tired of men who wanted the same thing. It always came down to sex. Always. Even before Cat left her house she was the victim of repeated unwanted sexual assaults by her stepdad.

I touched my shoulder, the skin still tingling from his fingertips, and replayed Boss’s words in my head.

“You don’t deserve to touch a woman like Miri.”

“Miri is mine.”

The recollection, the absolute power and authority in Boss’s voice as he warned his men away, and the gorgeous yet enraged look on his face, blood trickling down his arm and all over the sleeve of his suit, made me shiver in delight. The more I learned about Boss, the more I wanted to know. He was a complete enigma. What kind of drug lord took in a heroin addict, gave her drugs, locked her up, then bought her clothes, protected her from a sexual assault, and expected nothing in return? Except… Nicky’s words hit me hard again.

“There’s no free in this game.”

Despite Boss’s mostly decent behavior so far—if I didn’t count the first couple days when he was a total asshole, oh, and the murder he committed—I knew Nicky was right. Eventually, Boss was going to expect payment. But what would he demand? I wiped my sweaty brow with a clammy hand, a side effect of the heroin.

“Miri is mine.”

Was it Boss’s intent to keep me here like a slave? Was he waiting for me to clean up and not look like a wasted, scarred, strung-out junkie before he made his wishes known? Maybe he didn’t find me attractive and that was why he hadn’t pressed for sex yet?

My head throbbed and my nerves were frayed. It was only late afternoon, but I couldn’t think anymore today. I rolled to my feet and trudged up the elegant staircase to the bedroom designated as mine for the time being. Without giving today’s events any further thought, I collapsed on the soft mattress and was asleep within seconds.

I
woke to a strange
, prickly feeling on the back of my neck.

Someone was watching me.

My pulse thrummed and I swallowed down my nerves. I shuffled into a sitting position and turned to face the bedroom door. It was empty. In fact, the door was still closed. Exactly how I left it yesterday after listening to Boss tell everyone I was his
property
. I still didn’t know how to feel about that. Part of me was disgusted to be treated like a piece of furniture, but a part was thrilled that a dominating, sexy man like Boss laid such a primitive claim on me. I should probably have myself checked into a mental hospital for worrying about Boss and his claim instead of worrying about watching a man get murdered yesterday but whatever.