Junkie (Broken Doll 1)

Was it possible I died and went to heaven?

This was Boss’s garage, and his personality showed. It was huge, brightly lit and sparkling clean, without a single speck of grease on the gray-flecked epoxy floor. I couldn’t help but notice the man was a little obsessed with cleanliness and appearances. Professional-grade tools lined the far wall, each impeccably maintained implement hanging on a labeled hook. Next to those were several massive, incredibly expensive, rolling metal tool chests, all of the highest possible quality.

The tools were great, but those weren’t what had me frozen in place, unable to breathe and weak at the knees with pleasure. No, it was the perfectly straight row of luxury vehicles, each either a rare collectible or a top of the line, brand new model, parked one after the other. The exterior of every car was showroom shiny and spotless. Not a speck of dust in sight.

I walked the length of the garage, ignoring my fluttering pulse to study each vehicle. I was desperate to touch the stunning curves, to worship the gleaming chrome, and feel the cool metal beneath my fingertips, but I had too much respect for their sheer magnificence to mark the glossy surfaces with greasy fingerprints, so I curled my itchy fingers into my palms. When I reached the end of the row and saw what was parked at the end, I actually bit my lip to choke back a whimper. Three of the most stunning motorcycles I had ever laid eyes on were spaced out evenly, parked perpendicular to the eight gleaming cars.

“Oh my god. No way.”

My biggest weakness beside H was bikes, especially ones built for speed. I may have managed some sort of self-control with the cars, but I was unable to stop myself with the motorcycles. Giddy to the point of lightheaded, I ran my greedy hands down the sleek body of a flawless 1986 Suzuki RG500 Gamma. Lightweight and perfectly balanced, the RG was only in production for three years. Less than ten thousand of them were ever made. I never, ever thought I’d see one in person, let alone touch one. I wanted to strip off my clothes and rub my body all over the smooth steel. Next to the Suzuki, I spotted a Ducati Pangione Superbike, and beyond that, a late model Kawasaki Ninja H2. Wow. Three of the fastest, most badass bikes on the road all at my greedy little fingertips.

I smiled and let out a huff. Finally, after almost two months, I learned something personal about Boss. The man loved expensive cars and fast bikes. I blinked back my disbelief. This was a passion we shared. Wow. The junkie and the drug lord had something in common.

Big ol’ scary Boss Man was a complete and total gear head.

A smile split my face when I thought of huge, intimidating Boss, crouched down next to his bike, grease smeared on his large hands and an array of tools spread out on the floor as he worked. In my imagination, Boss was wearing loose, faded jeans that hung too low on his waist and had holes in the knees, topped by a worn T-shirt. A strip of skin would show when he bent over, exposing the curve at the top of his ass, and his body would be slick with sweat while defined muscles bulged and…

Damn. I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand. Despite the temperature and humidity-controlled air in the garage, my lungs struggled to fill, my breath stolen by the fantasy I created in my head. No. Boss was a total prick. I refused to think about him as anything but dangerous and cruel, and focused my attention back on the bikes.

Tempted beyond any ability to stop myself from indulging, I crept back to the door, opened it a crack, and peeked out to make sure no one was nearby. The dark yard was empty, for now. Not a single one of Boss’s Men in Black was in sight—that was what I’d taken to calling the men who patrolled Boss’s property because they all wore the same black suit, white shirt, and black tie, with matching dark shades, of course. It was easy to figure out Boss was obsessed with appearances, both his own and that of his men. The man almost always wore a suit, even when he didn’t leave the house.

Satisfied I was alone, I closed the door, quickly found what I needed, and brought the items over to the Suzuki. Small squares of carpet were stacked in a pile in a corner. I grabbed one and placed it next to the bike. The floor was epoxied, so it wasn’t as hard as concrete, but I wished I had worn jeans or sweats to protect my knees. Didn’t matter, no way was I leaving this heaven to change clothes. In my short, pastel sundress, I kneeled on the carpet, grinned, and got to work.

Boss

“Our guys spotted an uptick in unusual activity going down at several known Los Guerreros hangouts.” Milo towered over my immaculate desk as he gave his report. Information gathered by sending my men down to San Antonio to watch our rivals.

“What kind of activity?” I threaded my coin over my knuckles to quell the urge to get up and find Miri.

It had been two weeks since I’d used her in front of Guzman and his posse, then tossed her aside like garbage and insulted her on top of it. So far, I’d been successful in denying my overwhelming need to find her, be close to her, take her, own her, and most important of all, apologize for my shitty behavior at that stupid fucking party.

I’m a selfish asshole, but despite the loud voice inside compelling me to make Miri mine, I resisted the pull. Right now, the only thing to stop me from going after Miri was my pride. That and the fact that I was quite possibly the absolute worst choice in men for a girl fighting an addiction. Especially one who was finally getting her feet back under her after falling so low.

Besides, as The Boss, I didn’t apologize. I did what I wanted, when I wanted, to whom I wanted. Groveling at the feet of a woman would make my men lose respect for me. In this business, respect came before everything, even what I wanted for myself.

Either way, none of it mattered. Miri was better off getting clean and staying far away from me. My mother and sister both being dead and buried due to heroin proved my point.

It was barely sunrise, but Milo called and woke me an hour ago to say he had information. As Boss, it was my job to work whenever necessary. I got out of bed and was showered, dressed, and halfway done with a cup of coffee by the time Milo arrived. In this business, shit went down at inconvenient times. I wore a suit because I never knew when I’d end up at an unexpected face-to-face with someone important. Power and intimidation were an important facade to maintain and one of my favorite weapons to wield, even if it sometimes meant, to my disgust, ruining one of my suits.

“Seven and a couple of his guys saw a noticeable increase in the number of deliveries to Los Guerreros’ main warehouse,” Milo said, snapping me out of my Miri-obsessed thoughts.

I tossed the coin, snatched it out of the air, and fisted it tight. “Did they find out what was in the deliveries?” Irritated by my infatuation with Miri, I opened the desk drawer and dropped the coin inside, determined to get my shit together and focus on business.

“Guns. Most of the stuff he took inside was transported in unmarked boxes, but El Cuchillo is one cocky son of a bitch. Came right out in plain sight, and opened one. Fucking dumbass was smiling as he lifted a massive grenade launcher out of a box and put it on his shoulder.” Milo let out a sarcastic laugh. “Motherfucker is getting lax. His enormous ego has him making big mistakes. We should move on him soon, Boss. He’s planning something and he won’t see us coming if we strike now.”

“I agree he’s making mistakes, but El Cuchillo isn’t what I would consider to be a stupid man. Reckless, yes, but not stupid.” I stood, straightened my cuffs, and walked over to the window.

Milo stepped behind me and spoke. “So, do you want to call a meeting with our guys? Figure out how to approach the situation with this bastard and his thugs?”

I turned from the window, unable to miss the eagerness on Milo’s face or the excited gleam in his dark eyes. The brutal motherfucker would love nothing more than an all-out war with our neighbors in San Antonio. Shit, if I told him to execute every last one of them, Milo would grab three guys, head to Los Guerreros headquarters, and go all Scarface on their asses, no questions asked. And he would come out without a single scratch and a s

mile on his face.

It was tempting, but I preferred to take a diplomatic approach. For now.

“Set up a meeting at our northern warehouse and make sure all of our highest-ranked men are there. I know you’re itching for a fight, Milo, but my goal is to avoid confrontation with Cuchillo. We’ll discuss our options and how to best deal with the information we have. If at all possible, I want to avoid a war with our neighbors.”

My lieutenant frowned, obviously disappointed he wouldn’t get to play Rambo today. Thankfully, Milo nodded and left to carry out my orders.