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Amber to Ashes (Torn Hearts #1) Page 98
Author: Gail McHugh

Though I’ve been through this routine more times than I can count, I can’t help the unease churning my stomach. In this business, it’s impossible not to run across a few freaks here and there. But Dom Lawrence steals the goddamn show. From offing fuckers who’ve stopped buying from him to the whacko’s racist, redneck, neo-Nazi lifestyle, the dude’s head is jacked up, no doubt.

What the sick fuck doesn’t know is that when pushed, this cat’s head can twist the same way. If not worse.

I open the glove compartment and grab my trusty thirty-eight Smith & Wesson, checking to make sure every chamber’s loaded. Brock does the same with his nine-millimeter Sig, chuckling as I hop out of the van.

I shove the gun down the waistband of my jeans. “Why the fuck are you laughing?”

“It never fails. Every time we come here, you look like you’re walking into your own funeral.” A smirk slides across his face as he plucks a bank bag that’s holding triple what a middle-income family earns in a year from the center console. “I swear to God, you turn into a certified pussy the second we step foot onto this property.”

“I’m no pussy.” I shoot him a glare, gravel crunching beneath my boots as I round the van. I spark a cigarette, blowing the smoke into the late October air. “Furthest thing from it. Never mind that I actually like my life—and want to live it as long as possible—I just realize how warped Dom is. For whatever reasons, ones I’m positive I’ll never understand, you don’t.”

“You think I don’t know how crazy the asshole is?” Brock jumps out of the van, his smirk disappearing. “Come on, man. I may not be able to claim the ‘genius’ title like you, but I’m not clueless. I’m plenty aware he’s missing a few nuts and bolts.”

I shrug, sliding the hood of my sweatshirt over my head. “I have no fucking clue. All I know is he’s not the only supplier on the East Coast.”

“Ah, but he’s the only one selling me a load for ten grand less than all the rest of the pricks out there.” He slaps my shoulder, his smirk making a comeback. “Cash, my brother. Not that we don’t have enough, but by the time we’re thirty, we’ll be balls deep in it. We take a lot of risks pushing this shit. Might as well make it count.”

Profit—that’s what it’s all about for Brock. Fuck our lives. As long as he’s getting a deal, everything else—including the oxygen we breathe—is a nuisance to him. But I can’t deny my buddy understands numbers.

This far north, a kilo will bang your pocket a cool thirty-five thousand. Most of the time, the shit’s recompressed with every kind of cutting agent imaginable, making your loyal fan base unhappy when their high’s not tight. Besides producing pure, uncut coke, Dom sells a kilo to Brock for twenty-five thousand. On the norm, Brock yanks up two a month.

Never messing with shit amounts like eight balls, Brock goes hard, dumping nothing less than ounces out to his buyers. Knowing he has the best blow available, Brock gets rid of those ounces for a few hundred more than what they’d go for on average.

Clientele a mixed bag of small street dealers, the highest-paid lawyers money can secure, CEOs of corrupt corporations, and scum-sucking politicians, Brock’s got half the DC/Bay Area sniffing their stress away out of the palm of his equally dirty hand, their need to stay on top running his profit margin close to one hundred and fifty percent.

America: home of the free, land of the finest waste available on the fucking planet.

“Now grab your balls and stop being a pussy.” Brock checks his gun again before shoving it and the bag of cash into his jacket. “If you have to, think about your mother, Casey, and your grandmother. All the ways you’ve financially helped them. You’re their goddamn savior.”

I blow a ring of smoke into Brock’s face, guilt for lying to my mother stabbing my heart. Guilt or not, he’s right. Their well-being’s the only thing that’s fueled me this far. A few more years of this shit, and I’m out, never to compromise my morals for this filthy lifestyle again.

With that in mind, we make for the warehouse, my hand on my gun as we reach the back door. Entering, the domed metal bay lights nearly blind me before I see Dom.

Sitting at his desk—in the middle of enjoying a blow job from some blonde knelt before him—Dom jerks his buzzed head up. An aggravated frown hits his face as Blondie whips her attention to me and Brock, putting the brakes on her pleasure-inducing skills.

I inwardly smile, getting off on fucking up the asshole’s night.

“I’ll call you later,” the blonde says through an embarrassed whisper.

“Get your lips back on my cock,” Dom growls, shoving the barrel of his pistol against her temple as she attempts to scramble to her feet.

I’m about to fucking lose it. I take a ground-eating step forward, but Brock seizes my arm, hauling me back.

“I never told you to stop.” Fury ignites Dom’s words. “Who the fuck told you to stop? Are you hearing voices, whore? Is that what this is?”

“No . . . bu-but two guys came in,” Blondie stammers, clearly freaked out. “I thought—”

Dom’s free hand crashes down on her shoulder, holding her in place as he cocks the gun. “Don’t make me repeat myself,” he half snarls, half chuckles. He lifts his dark eyes to me and Brock. “I’m sure these men don’t feel like seeing your pretty little brains splattered across this warehouse. That would make for such a mess, wouldn’t it?”

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Gail McHugh's Novels
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