Lucky: The Irish MC (39 page)

“I won’t,” I said, almost offended. I still couldn’t get past feeling a little hurt that he’d thrown me away like that. “Am I going to be able to come back at some point?”

Chase looked at me with his jaw set. I could see a muscle twitching in anger. “I dunno,” he said simply. “I hope so, but I can’t make any promises. These guys are in some bad shit, Lacey.”

“I see,” I said quietly. A whole new wave of tears came over me; I thought for sure that even if he didn’t know, he’d at least lie about whether or not I’d be able to come home. The thought made me enormously sad.

We drove out of downtown Detroit and into the suburbs. I thought things would be quieter and nicer, but instead they just looked even more dingy. We passed through what felt like endless abandoned strip malls and shopping centers, decaying with age and grime. There were no functioning cars, and as we slowed to a stoplight, Chase clicked the locks down on both of our doors.

After driving for over an hour, Chase slowed to a halt. We were in front of a shopping center. Most of the stores had gunshots in the window glass, and it looked like they had been abandoned for a long time. There was one functional storefront—a Chinese food place with a door on the side of the building.

Chase pointed his finger at the Chinese food place. “That’s where we’re going,” he told me. “I’ll carry your stuff.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Chase, what the fuck is this? Where are we?” My voice grew to high-pitched whine. “I’m not staying here! This looks so dangerous!”

Chase shook his head dismissively. “I know it looks like shit,” he said placidly. “But it’s fine, honestly. You’re going to be much safer here than you would be at home.”

My stomach churned as we got out of the car. The parking lot smelled like greasy fast food, and there were some homeless people curled up on the jagged sidewalk in front of a storefront that had once been a bodega. Tendrils of anxiety shot through my body and curled up in my lower belly.

Sensing my hesitation, Chase came close and wrapped an arm around me. I knew he was just guiding me closer to where we were going, but the physical contact felt good. I snuggled into his side as he pulled me close, inhaling deeply his scent of tobacco and spice. Chase guided me over to the side of the building. He waved at the workers in the Chinese restaurant as we passed and a couple of them waved back to him enthusiastically. He knocked on the side door three times and then stepped back, pushing me behind him. I almost cursed him for making me stumble until I realized he was doing it to protect me. Deep down, some of the ice around my heart began to melt.

“Yo, what’s up, my man!” A huge black guy came out of the building. He was even taller than Chase, with thick dreadlocks that reached the small of his back. He was wearing a black tank top and black army trousers. He grinned at Chase and nodded his head up at me. “Is this that hot little snatch?”

“Fuck off,” Chase muttered. His eyes flashed with anger and I felt a small burst of admiration run through me. “This is Lacey. She’ll be staying here for a few days. I’ll be back to check on her occasionally. Don’t let her get hurt. Don’t let her out of your sight.”

I swallowed nervously as the black guy looked me over from head to toe. He stuck out a hand and I took it nervously; his palm was almost as big as my whole hand. When we shook hands, the veins in his neck bulged.

“I’m Peyton,” he said in a kinder voice this time. “I was just giving your bud here some shit. Don’t worry about me, baby,” he added with a grin. “I’ll take good care of you.”

Chase clapped me on the shoulder and pushed me forward. He handed my suitcase and my bags to Peyton and nodded his head at me once before turning around and walking back to the car.

“Chase!” I called, feeling panicked that he was about to leave. “Please don’t leave me here,” I begged. “Please, I don’t want to be here.”

Chase scowled at me. I watched as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He handed me a wad of bills comprised of twenties and fifties. Too afraid to count them in public, I stuffed the cash in my back pocket.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he said, sounding tired. “I’ll be back to check on you soon. Peyton’s a good guy. He’ll leave you alone.”

I nodded and swallowed again. The lump in my throat got bigger and bigger as I watched Chase lope back towards his car, get in, and drive away.

“Well, what’re you standin’ there for?” Peyton asked. He rubbed his gigantic hands over his biceps. “Get your skinny ass inside where it’s warm!”

I followed Peyton inside the dark room. It looked to be a converted studio apartment, with some big open closets and a door that I assumed was the bathroom. There was a mattress covered in blankets in one corner of the room with a plastic nightstand beside it. The room had a funny smell that I couldn’t quite place; it seemed to be a mixture of body odor, cigarette smoke, and stale beer mixed with something moldy. My eyes itched almost instantly and I wondered if there had been a dog in the room recently.

“Do you have a dog?”

“What?” Peyton glanced up at me as if seeing me for the first time. I felt a tremor of fear run down my spine, and I fought the urge to cry.

“Do you have a dog? I have an allergy, and it feels like there’s pet hair in here.”

Peyton didn’t answer me; he just waved his arm dismissively. Whatever cheerful attitude he’d exhibited around Chase was gone, and now he was off in his own little world. I dragged my suitcase over to the corner and sat down on the bed. Plugging my phone into the charger, I texted Jackie.

Jacks, I’m staying outside the city. Call me later.

I glanced up to see if Peyton was watching, but again, he gave no indication that he knew I was in the room. I cursed the lack of privacy in the small apartment. I didn’t want to take my clothes out and have everything smell like this place, either.

Lying down on the bed, I pulled out one of my psychology textbooks and began to read. We were studying abnormal behavior, and with a slight ironic smile, I thought that it wouldn’t be the worst idea to start reading up on Chase’s personality quirks. Maybe it would give me the upper hand advantage in the future.

There was a buzzing sound and I looked around for my phone. When there was no notification on the screen, I turned to Peyton. He was staring at something in his hand. Suddenly, his neck snapped up and he turned to face me. I felt my skin crawl; there was something about him, something about his
eyes
that looked so unsettling.

“I have an assignment,” he said shortly. “You stay here. I’ll be back later.”

I nodded my head, feeling powerless. Of course I would stay here, in his shitty, smelly apartment. What the fuck else was I going to do?

“Peyton, what if Chase comes? How do I recognize him?”

Peyton shook his head from side to side. “Chase ain’t coming back today, honey,” he muttered. “Don’t you worry about that.”

I frowned. “He just told me that he’d be back, though,” I argued. “Didn’t you hear him say that?”

Peyton looked at me and grinned. He started laughing, then turned on his heels and walked out. I felt my heart clench in my chest as he slammed the door behind him and turned a key in the lock.

Chapter Twenty Two

Peyton didn’t come back the rest of the night. There was no knocking at the door, so I figured that Chase didn’t, either. The only window in the apartment looked out at the parking lot, and it was so close to the ceiling that I had to hop up and stand on the plastic nightstand to see. From what I could tell, everything was just as deserted as it had been when Chase and I pulled up. I was angry at him for leaving me in this hellhole, but at least it was quiet. Unlike being at home, I never heard gunshots or sirens. Peyton didn’t even seem to have an excess of weapons lying around.

After he’d left, I’d searched the apartment. Lightly; I hadn’t wanted to go digging. But there was no kitchen and no food, and I was starting to wonder how we were going to eat. After I found five or six empty Chinese food containers, I knew with a sinking feeling that my only nourishment was going to come from that dirty little MSG-ridden shack.

Surprisingly, there wasn’t actually a lot. I found a handgun—which I left in its place under the sink—and this weird knife thing with an animal carved into the handle. I was too afraid to pick that up, too.

I sat down with my laptop and started searching for things about Chase’s sister, Rose. I typed Rose McIntyre into Google and hit enter. At this point, I had no idea whether or not Chase had even been telling the truth about that. For all I knew, he didn’t even have a sister. He’d never mentioned his family before, and I wondered if he’d been lying to manipulate me.

The first search results that I saw were chilling. There was a headline:
Local Teen Slain, Neighbors Cower in Fright
. I clicked on it, and began to read.

The body of Rose McIntyre, a 17-year-old formerly of Detroit, was found by her family members yesterday evening. Both of her parents and her older brother, Chase, 19, were not in the residence at the time. Neighbors recall a black SUV parked in the driveway and odd music coming from inside of the house, but didn’t say that they felt it was anything suspicious. Rose was all set to graduate as salutatorian from Detroit River North High School in May, and she had obtained an academic scholarship to Michigan State University. Her parents and brother could not be reached for comment.

A shiver of fear ran down my spine as I looked at Rose’s picture, in black and white, accompanying the text. She was beautiful: pale skin, long curly blonde hair, the same piercing green eyes that Chase had. In the photo, she was laughing and saying something to the cameraman. In her eyes, I saw an innocence much like my own had been at that point. That was before I’d started college, before I’d started singing, and definitely before I met Chase.

With a start, I realized the newspaper offered very little detail regarding how she died. I leaned back on the mattress and stared at Rose’s photograph until the picture was blurry. Tears came to my eyes as I imagined how frightened she must have been as she had her final moments alive.

I shuddered and went back to the search results. There were some tribute pages created by her friends—Rose was more popular than I’d ever been, clearly—and some op-eds about how the violence in Detroit was getting out of hand, but nothing too damning. So far, it looked like Chase had been telling me the truth.

Then I found another article that made my blood run cold. It was on one of those local, small paper sites—the kind that usually make outrageous claims about local celebrities. I half expected it to be a joke, but when I clicked on the headline
Brutal Gang Tied To Death of Local Girl
, there was the same picture of Rose, right at the top. The article read:

Rose McIntyre, 17, was slain last month by an unknown assailant. Today, police have released more information pertaining to her murder in hopes that new leads will be generated. McIntyre’s body was found nude, with a single diagonal slash mark from her left shoulder down to her right pelvis. She had been disemboweled, and had died from loss of blood.

I felt myself gagging, but I kept reading.

While initially it was suspected to be a copycat murder, authorities now think The Machetes have something to do with this. For the unaware, The Machetes are the most notorious gang in Detroit, with branches in Chicago and St. Louis. They’re known for money laundering, dealing heroin, and now, murder. Furthermore, the trademark of The Machetes is to kill with a single slash. They’re a fearsome gang without traditional reliance on guns, and authorities have long believed they enjoy the attention that killing brings them.