Junkie (Broken Doll 1)

Fear of what?

It was too much to think about while smeared with blood. I flipped on the shower, removed the twin knives from their sheaths, and unbuckled the leather straps. After taking off the calf sheath that held my seven-inch KA-BAR, currently being sanitized by Frank, I stepped under the spray, too impatient to wait for the water to heat. It was freezing at first, but I meticulously scoured away every bit of the disgust that clung to me after what I witnessed in the garden. Once I was clean and my anxiety level lessened somewhat, a random thought nearly brought me to my knees.

Was I afraid of the blood? The disorganization? The lack of control? Was I afraid of the past repeating itself? Or was I afraid because Miri was involved? Afraid she would be hurt and frightened, unable to defend herself. If I hadn’t been watching…

No. I shook my head and rinsed off before cutting the tap. This situation was different, not at all like Rose. This time, I was The Boss. I had the power to stop history from happening again.

After doing a half-assed job of drying off, I stepped into my walk-in closet and stared at dozens of suits hanging in perfect rows, sorted by color. My fingers brushed across the fine fabrics and I frowned at the expensive wool pants and jackets, the perfectly pressed button-ups in every possible shade, and the neat rows of silk ties. There was an important meeting in a couple hours, which was why I was in a suit in the first place. Dress how you wish to be perceived. It was why I usually wore an expensive, well-made, custom tailored suit every single day. Power was perception.

Fuck it.

In an uncharacteristic move, I spun away from the suits and snagged a pair of worn jeans and faded T-shirt.

After dressing, I shoved my feet into a beat-up pair of shitkicking boots and strapped my calf sheath back on. Short sleeves meant no wrist blades, which made me agitated. Tension kept my muscles pulled taut as I clomped down the stairs to the office and dialed Milo while pouring myself a small drink, mindlessly straightening up the already perfect rows of bottles.

“Boss.” Milo’s tone was sharp enough for me to know he was still pissed about earlier when I told him to shut the fuck up about Miri. Too goddamn bad. Milo’s job was to give me the report I asked for, and then accompany me later this afternoon to a meeting with a club owner wanting to sell. A nightclub was the perfect type of business to use for money laundering.

If Milo got his tender feelings hurt, that’s his fucking pr

oblem.

“Cancel the meeting, plans have changed.” I sipped the whiskey and let the fiery burn travel down my throat as ice cubes clinked against my lips.

“What? Boss… how can we—”

With every last bit of my very limited patience used up and then some, I slammed the glass down on the bar and roared, “Goddammit. Cancel the motherfucking meeting and tell them you’ll contact them to reschedule it!”

Silence on the other end had me ready to unleash a torrent of threats on my lieutenant. Lucky for Milo, he spoke up. “Got it covered, Boss. You need me back at the house?”

“No,” I snapped. “Finish the job I sent you on and text me when it’s done. I’ll get your report later.”

I disconnected the call before waiting for a response.

Fucking Milo.

Thoroughly aggravated, I shoved my hands in my damp hair and yanked… hard. Being the boss of a relatively small but very profitable heroin ring was stressful, no doubt. Today, however, pushed the boundaries of even my tremendous level of self-control. Seeing Miri on the ground—no more than a hundred pounds and helpless beneath the brute strength of her would-be rapist—reopened old wounds. My soul was sliced deep, scarred. Old wounds were flayed open and bleeding from the inside, the agony invisible to the eyes but very real in my heart. The lack of control. Shit. Once again, my hands itched to organize. Create order in the midst of chaos.

Fuck. Don’t do this to yourself. Don’t go down that road.

Every time I revisited the past, tortured myself with every mistake I made that led to the immense loss I suffered and the gaping chasm left behind when my sister died, I became irrational and my obsessive tendencies shifted into high gear. To be an effective boss, it was imperative to maintain a cool head and stay detached and rational. I ran my fingers through my hair in an attempt to fix the mess I made. Not totally satisfied with my appearance as my eyes still held on to the lingering fury, I decided to fuck it. For once I wasn’t going to worry. My hair was good enough to make do. I took a deep breath and left the office. The heavy door hissed as it sealed behind me.

First, I needed to check on Miri, so I set out for the backyard only to spot a tiny figure huddled in a ball on the couch in the formal sitting room off the kitchen. Unable to resist taking advantage of catching her with no one else around, I stood in the doorway and observed the tiny redhead, unnoticed. Her feet were tucked up under the loose fabric of her lightweight dress, waves of copper hair cascading over the arm of the couch to stand out against the pale fabric.

A quiet snuffle and a tremble in Miri’s petite shoulders acted like a hook, reeling me in until I found myself standing next to the sofa. I crouched low to minimize my height and appear less threatening. After the traumatizing experience in the garden, I didn’t want to add any more stress to her burden. God, I wanted to wrap her up in my arms until her pain went away. But I wasn’t comfort. I wasn’t peace. I was hate and violence and war.

“Miri.”

Shockingly, Miri didn’t flinch or seem surprised by my presence. She must have heard me enter the room. Miri didn’t answer and despite my misgivings, I reached out to gently run a hand through those shiny auburn locks. My eyes shifted to the freckles on her bare shoulder and at the last second I brushed my fingers across the creamy skin instead. Miri recoiled and I snatched my hand back.

“He’s gone, Miri. You’re safe. I promise.”

Face buried under all that hair, Miri gave the smallest of nods, but otherwise didn’t react. For some reason, her attitude had me pissed off all over again. Being ignored by Miri irritated me more than I wanted to admit. And, of course, because I’m a raging, heartless bastard, I backed off, unwilling to reduce myself to begging for attention even though the woman was just assaulted. If Miri didn’t want to look at me, or thank me, or even fucking acknowledge the fact that I pulled that asshole off of her, that I killed him for her, it was her prerogative, though it irrationally grated on my nerves.

I spun on my heel, annoyed with myself for letting Miri get to me, for bothering to give a shit when she could care less who I was or what I did for her. It was easy to forget that Miri was a heroin junkie, a nobody, another one of the filth that flooded the city, funding my operation with her addiction. I was certain all I was to her was a source for her habit. No, I wasn’t the nicest guy and I did some shit to her that she probably didn’t appreciate, but she could still show some goddamn fucking appreciation. I felt my insides harden, quickly returning to my uncaring, violent self.

Fuck her.

I marched out the back door and made my way to the garage, muttering obscenities under my breath the entire way. Goddammit. I had to remember to stay detached. This was a ruthless business and I had to be prepared to do whatever was necessary to stay on top. No way was some junkie going to get in my head and fuck up my shit.