Junkie (Broken Doll 1)

Desperate to free my mind from the obsessive thoughts urging me to do unhealthy things, I crossed the room to an elaborate bar carved out between two large bookcases, poured a healthy portion of whiskey, and downed it in one gulp.

Fuck, that burns so goddamn good.

I poured another, this time adding ice and sipping it slowly as I circled the desk. Mentally and physically exhausted, I dropped into the plush leather chair. My entire body relaxed into the seat. I didn’t want to contemplate tonight’s events. What was done was done. I never had regrets, not with business anyway, yet I felt myself becoming maudlin. My mind kept drifting, bringing me back to my past despite my aversion to doing so.

I needed to occupy my tireless brain with something. First, I messed with the few items on the desktop, meticulously lining them up in their designated spots, even though they were already as straight as possible. I opened the long, flat drawer and deposited my lucky coin inside, then quickly arranged the contents until everything was perfect. Still twitchy and in urgent need of a diversion, I swiveled to face the seventy-inch wall-mounted TV next to the desk. Using the remote, I pressed several buttons until the screen split into twenty different smaller pictures—ten for the security cameras on this property, most outside, as well as ten at the downtown warehouse that served as base of operations. I had no clue how long I sat behind the desk, eyes unfocused, staring at the miniature pictures, but it was long enough for the buzzer outside the study to go off and scare the shit out of me.

Fuck, I needed to snap the hell out of my shitty mood.

On the monitor, I saw Milo waiting for entrance into the panic room. I cursed myself silently. No one should be able to take me by surprise in my study, especially not with me staring directly at the security feed. One of the cameras was aimed directly at the other side of the door. Like me, I could see Milo had showered and changed—he fucking knew better than to bring his evidence-laden clothes into my house—and waited to be granted entry into my private space.

A button under my desk unlocked the door. The bolts released and my right-hand man stepped inside.

“Boss.” Milo’s calm expression and slight smirk told me all I needed to know without words. The Mason Smith problem was taken care of.

I nodded. “Good.”

Panic room or not, I never discussed business out loud in the house unless it was in code or using ambiguous words. The guy who built the room guaranteed that it was impossible to hear through the thick walls, but the Feds and their fancy equipment should never be underestimated, not to mention rivals ready to cut me down at the first opportunity.

Milo nodded, pouring his own whiskey before taking a seat across from me. I waited while the man took a long sip and grinned. He showed off his pretentious gold tooth, the metal glinting in the lamplight. I glanced at the bar and my heart pounded against my ribcage. It took an enormous amount of willpower to grit my teeth and resist the urge to put the whiskey bottle back in its proper place. Fucking Milo left it sitting uncapped on the middle of the counter.

Milo was… interesting. A cruel prick who thrived on pain and power. A bloodthirsty bastard, he took his job seriously and loved every single minute of it. Especially the status that came with being the city’s most feared enforcer. I might be the boss of this operation, but Milo was the muscle. Not that I didn’t flex mine enough to be feared in my own right, but if Milo entered the room while you were being questioned—aka beaten to a pulp—you pretty much knew your fate.

“Now what?” Milo asked, lazily swirling his drink in his huge hand. Without being specific, I still knew what Milo was asking. Who would replace Mason Smith? Fucking dumbass punk kid. He was one of my best area dealers with more than ten men under his command. Smith could have risen through the ranks and become someone important in my organization. Until a buyer figured out Smith’s bags were light and complained.

“I have someone in place already.” I continued sipping my whiskey. The ice clinked against the glass each time it tilted to my mouth.

Milo nodded. He leaned back in his chair, relaxed and content with the silence. He wasn’t usually a man of many words, which I appreciated. Suddenly, without warning, Milo was on his feet, his shiny .45 caliber in his meaty hand and his hardened gaze fixed on the security feeds. I leapt from my own chair, pulse racing. My eyes bounced from Milo to the screen and back.

“What, Milo? What is it?”

“Nine.” He pointed at the TV with the muzzle of that massive fucking gun.

I pushed a few buttons on the remote and the feed for camera nine filled the screen. Both of us became so quiet, I’d have sworn we stopped breathing. When I saw what concerned Milo, I opened the desk drawer with a steady hand and pulled out my own 9mm. Gun in hand, a wave of focused calm swept over me as I locked eyes with my lieutenant and motioned toward the door.

“Let’s go.”

Miri

“You motherfucking asshole!” I screeched at my missing boyfriend-slash-dealer-slash-dickhead while I yanked open drawers and scattered clothes all over the filthy floor in my desperate search. On the edge of losing my mind, I stopped and looked around the tiny studio apartment I called home. My trembling fingers threaded through my knotted hair. This place was a disaster, more closely resembling the scene of a break-in than a place to live, since I’d completely ransacked it in my futile quest for a dose.

My stomach chose that exact moment to cramp. The pain was so great I clutched at my midsection, and collapsed to the floor in a ball. The agony was nothing compared to what I knew came next if I didn’t score some H soon. Just one bag. That would be enough to hold me over until that prick, Mason, came back. Sweating profusely, I used the edge of my shirt to wipe my forehead as anxiety flooded the very veins I wished opiates were flowing through instead. I hardly had the energy to rock back and forth when another fission cracked inside my frail body. While I writhed in distress, reality struck like a hard kick to the ribs.

No Mason, no money, no H, no way to get any.

Where the fuck is he?

I clawed at the filthy carpet with my ragged, broken nails, and screamed in frustration as my body and mind turned against me. Unable to breathe properly, I began arguing with myself as my mind splintered apart.

My body begged, Get some H. Get some H.

I can’t. I need Mason to get it for me.

My mind responded, I don’t need him. I can get my own score

Somehow, this last idea made perfect sense.

Nodding to the voice in my head, I pawed through a pile of fabric and tugged on a thin white tank and black shorts in desperate need of a wash. With a pair of old flip-flops on my feet, I took to the streets, dark and incredibly dangerous at this time of night. No matter—I didn’t notice a single thing about my surroundings. Pink elephants could have marched down the sidewalk, playing “The Star-Spangled Banner,” and I wouldn’t have cared. The only thing my attention was fixated on, all I could envision, was my next dose. I licked my cracked lips as I imagined injecting the hot liquid bliss into my vein and letting the white nothingness of the heroin take me away from this hell.