Break For Him (Volkov Crime Family 2)

I drank the coffee and headed into the back. I only had an hour to try and get myself together before my first customer appeared. He was a skinny guy, bald head, black gloves.

“Hey, uh—”

I stood, walked to the duffel, and took out a bottle. I faced him and held out a hand.

He looked around then dropped a stack of cash into my palm. I handed him the bottle.

“Thanks. Have a nice day.” He turned and left.

Addicts. Fucking polite addicts.

I put the cash in a side pocket on the duffel and sat back down.

The day went like that. I had six customers in the morning, and by mid-afternoon I felt worn out even though I did nothing more than walk to the table, collect money, and hand out pills. A couple guys tried to make small talk and one even lingered for a few minutes, but I made it clear I wasn’t interested in them, and soon they all disappeared back out into the world.

I tried not to think about my brother dead on the floor.

Between customers, I daydreamed. I pictured what my shop would look like one day after the renovations were though. I got a texted around three from Owain with a picture of Viktor doing work to the floor with the caption, “hard at work, just like you,” which both made me smile and pissed me off.

That perfectly described my relationship with him.

The day ended and another night passed. I drifted through the evening like I was afraid to break something.

I didn’t go downstairs to sit with Owain. I wanted to, but I knew what he’d think.

I didn’t want to give him that power.

It went like that for a week. I sold drugs out the back of Sander’s bodega. I drank good coffee, ate lunch at the little table, and watched sitcom reruns. I tried to keep my distance from Owain, but I knew that only made him want me more.

And it only made me wound up with the thought of his hands on my skin.Sander checked back on me that Monday afternoon. “Going out for lunch. You want anything?”

“I’m okay. I’ll grab something from up front.”

“Suit yourself. But you can’t live on fuckin’ hot dogs and candy forever.”

“Watch me.”

He laughed, waved, and disappeared. I flipped through the channels, feeling tired and bored. I barely slept the night before. I kept dreaming about Owain, an I didn’t want him in my head any more than he had to be.

There had only been three customers so far. An older white guy in an expensive suit, a black guy with a denim jacket and a nice smile, and a skinny pale kid in cargo shorts. They came and went, drifting from my life like a bad dream.

Like a dream of him.

It was late afternoon when I heard the noise up front. I didn’t think much of it at first. Sander was always moving around, banging into things, restocking shelves, cursing to himself. Sometimes I sat up there with him and we’d talk about sports, or movies, or music, or he’d complain about the Philly Parking Authority. Apparently, he had a long-standing feud and despised the PPA so much that I thought he might have a heart attack every time they came up.

So a little banging, some raised voices, they didn’t draw my attention right away. It didn’t stop though, and when Sander shouted my name, that’s when I finally decided to sit up straight and listen. I crept toward the door and peered out of the crack.

Three guys in denim jackets stood surrounding Sander’s bullet proof case. He stood with his hands in the air, his eyes wide. One of the denim guys said something that made Sander shake his head.

“I don’t know anyone named Leigh,” Sander said, talking as loud as he could. “I don’t know who you mean.”

“Why the fuck is he yelling?” a pale guy with a bandana said. “Why the fuck are you yelling, fat man?”

“I’m not yelling,” Sander said, clearly yelling. “I just talk this way.”

“Fuck this.” The leader was a tall man, thick neck, muscular arms. A series of ugly scars and brands laced his forearms as he gestured toward Sander. “You keep playing dumb and I’ll cut your throat myself.”

“I’m not playing anything. I’m just—”

“Albert. Look.” The last guy pointed back toward me. He was younger than the others with dark eyes and an ugly hooked nose.

Bandana looked back at me and barked a laugh. “There’s the little slut.”

“Go,” Brands said. “Get her.”

Bandana and Nose marched toward me. I stumbled back, slamming the door shut and slapping the lock into place. My heart hammered as I sprinted over to the table with the duffel bag and began to shove money and pills inside.

They slammed up against the door and it jumped in its hinges. I heard someone curse, someone laugh, and someone slammed against the door again. I could barely breathe as the memory of the fire came rushing back to me. I’d almost died that night, nearly burned to death, or choked on smoke, or got a bullet in the head.