Sadie girl? I want to tease her about the nickname and the behemoth in her backseat, but based on the way she keeps glancing in the rearview mirror, Sadie is in love with this guy.
"I haven't seen you in months, it feels like," I say.
She nods, the messy blonde bun on top of her head bouncing around. "I know. Work has been crazy, and I'm sure school has been busy for you, too, Miss Neuroscientist."
"Whoa," Devon says, leaning forward between the front seats. His cologne is strong enough that it tickles the back of my throat, and I have to clear my throat. "I didn't expect Sadie to be friends with a brainiac."
I frown. "Sadie is smart too."
Sadie smiles at me but doesn't say anything. She went into cosmetology school right after high school, and while I know she loves what she does, her parents make her feel bad about not going to college. Devon doesn't need to pile on.
"Of course she is," he says, pinching Sadie's side and making her jerk the steering wheel, nearly sending us into the gutter. "All of her other friends are just hairdressers like she is. I didn't know she was friends with any scientists."
Just hairdressers. I don't even begin to unpack that statement.
"I want to be a clinical psychologist," I say to change the subject, turning around to study him as if I'm peering into his very thoughts.
Devon smiles back at me, eyes vacant. Somehow, I don't think he has many scientist friends, either.
Sadie must be able to sense my dislike towards Devon because she turns on the radio and manages the conversation for most of the drive. Devon seems incapable of not making at least one sexual innuendo or flirtatious comment for every normal sentence he utters, and Sadie doesn't mind at all.
The drive is only thirty minutes, but I still thought it would be a great time to chat with Sadie and catch up. I wanted to hear how work was going and her family. Instead, I'm trying not to vomit while Devon suggests we all hang out together in a "threesome." I wonder whether it didn't just come out wrong, but when I turn around, he's wagging his eyebrows, and I knew he meant it exactly the way it sounded.
"You two would totally get along," Sadie insists, nudging me in the arm.
"Would we?" I ask disinterestedly.
"Totally," she says.
"I can tell already," Devon says. "Maybe some time over winter break we can all get together."
"I'm actually going to be pretty busy hanging out with my dad." I shrug. "We don't get to see each other very often."
Sadie glances over. "You can spare an afternoon, can't you?"
"Maybe," I say noncommittally. "I'll have to check."
"You can't be busy every single day," Sadie pushes.
I sigh. "Like I said, I'll have to check."
"Courtney," she complains. "You don't really want to spend every single day with your dad. It's winter break. Have some fun."
"Just because you don't like your parents doesn't mean I don't like mine," I snap.
Sadie jerks back like I've slapped her, and then stares straight ahead at the road. "Yeah, I guess so."
"Sorry," I whisper. "I'm sorry. I'm just tired from finals."
She nods but doesn't say anything. And for the first time, Devon sits back in his seat and stops breathing in my ear.
There's only another five minutes left in the drive, but the car feels like it's running short on air, and I'm desperate to get out. We're driving down Main Street, and I see my dad's repair shop up ahead. The window in the back is illuminated, meaning he's in his office.
"Pull over," I say, pointing to the shop. "My dad is here. He must not have gone home yet."
Sadie pulls into the gravel drive along the side of the shop and parks. "I'll see you around?"
I grab my duffel bag from between my feet and crawl out of the car. I turn around and smile back at her. "Definitely."
"Great," Devon says, as if I was talking to him.
I refrain from rolling my eyes and wave at Sadie. "Thanks for the ride."
I watch them pull away and then walk around to the back and pull out my key. My dad gave it to me years ago, but I've only used it a handful of times. Even now I could just knock, but I want to surprise him.
As soon as I open the door, however, I freeze.
There are voices coming from the front of the shop.
Usually, I would just assume it was a customer and walk on in, but something about the mood in the shop feels different. The voices are loud and angry.
I close the door silently and tiptoe down the hallway, sticking close to the cinderblock wall.
"Have I not been generous with you?" a deep voice says. "Have I not held up my end of our bargain?"
"You have," my dad says quickly. "You absolutely have."
He doesn't sound like himself. His voice is high-pitched and frantic. I can feel the fear in it.
"And yet," the deeper voice says, "you don't have my money."
"Not today," my dad corrects. "I will have it-"
"Not. Today." I hear slow footsteps, and I can imagine the person pacing around the room, hands folded behind his back. "And when was the money due?"
"Today," my father says. "I know it was due today, but-"
"So, where is it?"
My dad tries to answer but before he can even get a word out, there's a loud bang.
I throw my hands over my ears and wince. For a moment, I think it might have been a gunshot, but I creep forward and am able to see a fist pressing against the metal top of my father's shop counter. Whoever the person is, he has big hands and is strong enough to dent a stainless-steel countertop.
Not good.
"Your dues ensure our protection," the man says. "Without them, you're left to fend for yourself. Is that what you want?"
"No, no," my father says. "Please. I just need a bit more time."
The unfamiliar man sighs. "We all want more time. Unfortunately, we don't always get it."
I don't understand exactly what is going on, but I know I don't like where the conversation is headed. My father is a good-sized man who has spent his life working with his hands, but he isn't a fighter. He doesn't even own a gun. Whoever this person is, I suspect they don't have exactly the same background.
I inch forward down the hallway with no plan or thought in my head aside from helping my dad.
That's the only thing that matters.
3
DMITRY
S
hitty day.
Beyond shitty.
Collection day is always a mixed bag. Some trips are dull and routine-knock, collect, leave. Others take an unexpected turn. People don't have their payments or they try to run or fight.
Regardless of the outcome, Sevastian and I, along with a few other lieutenants, always handled it. We worked well together.
Now, he isn't here, because I killed him. And Lawrence, one of the people I can always count on for a drama-free collection, is short on his money.
He's a small white man with a balding scalp and a soft chin. He wears a blue jumpsuit with grease stains around the wrists and oil splatters across the front. He's unassuming; clearly not the kind of man to challenge me to a fight. When I walk towards him, he holds up his hands in surrender.
"What are we going to do?" I ask, shaking my head.
My men shift behind me like starving dogs tracking an injured animal. Everyone has been on edge since the news about Sevastian was confirmed. I know I'm not the only one feeling pent-up. They want to beat Lawrence bloody-maybe even kill him. It really wouldn't be anything personal. They just need the release.
The trouble is that I like Lawrence.
Like with stray dogs, it's best not to get attached to our customers. They can come and go so quickly. Some don't pay or fight and need to be taken out. Others try to go to the police and come to the same gruesome end. Others simply move away, disappearing into the night, never to be seen again.
Lawrence always pays, never fights, and never runs. He's not a large man, but he faces me with courage I've rarely seen before and it's hard not to respect him.
Once, Sevastian and I came to collect alone, and Lawrence offered us a sucker from the cup on his desk. I refused, of course, because I'm not a child, but no one had ever offered us anything other than the money we came to collect.
Lawrence lowered his head and shrugged. "Do what you have to do, but if you could wait, just this once, I know I can get the money."
One of my lieutenants chuckles low under his breath. They have no suspicion that I'm going to be merciful, but Lawrence has never been late on a payment before. So, I'm going to reward his past timeliness with threats instead of a beating.
Power is important, but so is fairness.
A good leader knows when to show strength and when to offer encouragement. Lawrence just needs a little motivation. If he screws up again, then I'll pummel him.
"Twenty-four hours," I say finally. "That's how long you have to get what you owe me, do you understand?"
I can still see the panic in Lawrence's eyes. He blinks and opens his mouth but no words come out.
"Do you understand?" I growl, leaning down to get into his face.
