One hit.

I’d just need one hit to clear my head.

To clear the memories.

To clear my conscience.

28

Nate

Three hours earlier

A kid had overdosed. Not just any kid. The kid whose congratulations-on-being-a-perfect-fucking-poster-child party I’d just been to had overdosed. His parents had found him dead in his bed, apparently, and because of his last name, and the wealth and social standards linked to that name, the media was already all over it. Not just the media, but the cops, the users, and the pushers. Fuck, everybody knew about it. And because of that, we had to act fast. We had to cover our bases, and we had to make sure that none of it led back to us and our supply.

For months, everything had been fine—no deaths caused by drugs (at least from what we were supplying). So I thought the last altercation we had with the Francos had sent the message that we weren’t to be fucked with. I’d wanted to find a new supplier, but Uncle Benny had been dealing with the Francos since before I was born and he wouldn’t even consider it. So I put up with the shitty supply and made it clear to Louis Franco that we were close, and we were watching every single fucking thing he did, waiting for him to fuck up so I could cut ties.

He’d fucked up, and he’d fucked up good.

I’d kept everything low key, had made the calls and set up the appropriate meetings, and a couple of hours later, we were pulling into a parking lot of an abandoned motel on the outskirts of Philly. I rolled my eyes when Louis Franco came into view because fuck if he didn’t look like your stereotypical criminal. But, of course, he was a Franco and just like the rest of his family, he wanted everyone to know he ran on the wrong side of the law because his image was more important than his job.

And other people’s lives, apparently.

“You here about that dead kid?” Franco asked as we pulled up in front of him.

I checked my weapon, made sure it was loaded and opened the door to step out.

“I didn’t know it was a meeting where we needed muscle,” Franco added, pointing to Tiny.

After shoving the pistol in my waistband, I stepped out of the car and made my way over to him.

“Augustus Sherman,” Tiny said, and Franco narrowed his eyes at him, confusion clear on his face. Tiny repeated the name, a name I was all too familiar with. “The dead kid?” Tiny continued. “That’s his name. Augustus Sherman.”

Franco laughed. “Well fuck, with a name like that he was begging to be killed.”

I don’t know why it bothered me so much—his disrespect for this dead kid who was literally going places, whose only fault was enjoying the occasional high while still being able to maintain a decent lifestyle. Maybe it was because I’d found myself comparing those kids to Bailey, and somehow that had given me a soft spot for them (at the same time I wanted to punch them out of pure jealousy). Who fucking knows? Either way, I found myself reaching for my gun and holding it to his head. Franco’s eyes widened, just slightly, and behind me, Tiny muttered an exasperated “fuck” almost as if he knew this was coming.

“I’m fuckin’ tired, Franco. I’m pissed off, and I’m tired, and right now, I’d rather just fuckin’ kill you and have Tiny deal with your body than have this conversation, but we all know I can’t do that, so just tell me what the fuck is wrong with your supply.”

His eyes narrowed, and his mouth opened as if he wanted to say something. But then he shut it quickly, his lips thinned to a line. He looked over at Tiny, and then back at me, and I knew the exact moment his hand shifted, reaching for his own weapon. I’d already clicked the safety by the time the barrel of his gun was against my head, and the barrel of Tiny’s was against his.

So there we were, three assholes in an abandoned parking lot in the stark daylight, cars flying by on the highways around us, all with weapons drawn, aimed at our targets, and the only thing I could think about was crawling back into bed with Bailey.

I dropped my arm and sighed, frustrated. What the fuck could this possibly achieve? “Fuck this,” I spat, putting away my gun and motioned for Tiny to do the same. He lowered it, but he didn’t retreat. “Get our guys off the streets and offline,” I told him. “We’re on lockdown until this dies down.”

Tiny nodded once as I switched my gaze to Franco. “If it comes out that it’s your supply causing all these fuckin’ overdoses then the Francos will be dead to us. I’ll make it my mission so that you have no fuckin’ place here, or in the entire state.” I looked him up and down, a calm washing over me. “You’re fuckin’ pathetic, Franco. Your entire family is. It’s going to be a pleasure taking you down.”

I don’t really know why I said all those things, but there was a pressure building in my chest, pulling at my gut and of all the other shit I was dealing with, he was the last thing I needed to worry about. How easy would it be for me to bring him down? For me to start spreading the word, a single whisper, that it was his shitty supply killing those kids? The only thing that’d stopped me was my respect for Uncle Benny and their fucking relationship. Maybe I said too much, got too personal, but I fucking hated him, and I’m sure the feeling was mutual.

It wasn’t until I’d turned my back and had taken two steps away from him that I heard him laugh, this sinister fucking laugh that had my feet instantly rooted to the ground. “That’s all you got?” Franco paused. “Oh no. I get it,” he said, the sarcastic lilt in his tone unmistakable. “I thought PJ was just talking shit about you and that girl who killed Pauly.”

What. The. Fuck?

“Don’t, Nate,” Tiny ground out, his voice low, words meant only for me.

Franco laughed again. “What does it feel like, Nate? To be so disrespected that your own men are talking shit about you?”

I turned to him, jaw set, but I was too angry to speak.

“What the fuck do you do with her, anyway?” he asked, smirking as he ran a hand through his slimy black hair.

I took a step forward. I couldn’t stop myself, and of course, Tiny followed.

Franco was smiling, cocky, proud of the effect his words were having on me. “Oh, don’t tell me,” he said, hands up as if to stop me from speaking. “PJ showed me pictures of her… those pretty little lips,” he sang. “They’d look so fuckin’ good wrapped around my cock. Do they look good—”

He didn’t get a chance to finish before he was thrown to the ground, me on top of him, my fists flying, one after the other. It was almost serene, the way the blood oozed from his cheeks, his nose, his mouth. “Keep talkin’,” I warned, moving from his mouth to his gut.

Behind me, Tiny muttered another “fuck” and added a “not this shit again,” but I didn’t care and apparently, neither did he. He didn’t try to stop me like he did with PJ, he didn’t tell me to calm down, he just stood to the side, watching, waiting.

Franco smiled, his lips widening, displaying his blood-filled mouth. “I bet her pussy’s tight,” he taunted, laughing between hits.

“Shut the fuck up,” I spat.

Rage.

Rage is by far the strongest, and most uncontrollable emotion there is.