Junkie (Broken Doll 1)

* * *

Unwilling to let the soiled girl sit on any of my expensive furniture, I had Milo tie her to a plain wooden kitchen chair. Hell, it was probably unnecessary to even bother with restraints. The pathetic thing barely looked healthy enough to breathe, let alone fight us off and escape. Still, I was pretty damn ticked off, and better safe than sorry. I learned that the hard way a long time ago. To trust people who appeared harmless only to find out they were anything but was a grave error in judgment. For all I knew, her strung-out look was just an act. Maybe she was some highly trained operative or something, like Jennifer Garner in Alias.

The ridiculous thought made me snort in amusement, drawing the confused stares of my security team, who’d finally fucking materialized and gathered in the kitchen on Milo’s request.

Milo and I shared a discreet glance, neither of us quite sure what to make of the half-dead girl. Being The Boss, everyone was waiting to see what I would do. Christ. Holding back an eye roll, I squatted in front of the chair and held back from flinching away from the stench of body odor and sickness and the grime that covered her head to toe.

“Hey!” I snapped my fingers in front of the girl’s face when her head sagged, her delicate chin falling to rest on a bony chest.

With the effort of a newborn trying to hold up her own head, she tilted her face up. Underneath the dirt, the malnourished physique, the dull, pockmarked skin, I could see that this girl was actually stunning. Tragically so. Though her natural beauty had been completely ruined by drugs.

The symptoms were obvious—sweating, chills, confusion, and deep dark circles under dull eyes. She also had the faded, purple, telltale scars on the insides of both arms. I’d know a heroin addict anywhere. Besides my main product being heroin, both my mother and sister were too weak to resist the powerful drug, which made me very well acquainted with the dark stranglehold it could have on its users. Users like this girl. The lack of control in these people disgusted me because they’d ruined my life as a child, yet they’d also turned into the source of my very hefty, very illegal income.

I was a fucking hypocrite, and well aware of that fact.

I hadn’t witnessed the destruction my product caused firsthand in a long time, but in my kitchen, reflected in the face of this pitiful young woman, the reality was just as I remembered—horrifically unpleasant. My past surged up like an unexpected kick to the head. Watching her was much more difficult than the vague awareness of my shit being sold to nameless junkies somewhere out in the city. Putting a face to my dirty deeds, bringing up painful memories, tugged on my humanity. Something I didn’t have the time or desire to acknowledge.

But then, you’d require at least a shred of humanity to acknowledge it, and I lost mine a long time ago.

I attempted to speak to the girl again. “Why are you here?”

The girl’s rheumy green eyes blinked slowly and she sniffed. She glanced around the kitchen, vacantly taking note of the six other men in the room behind me—Milo, my security team, and Burke, who would be dealt with later—and began crying.

“I just need a hit,” she sobbed, and began coughing uncontrollably. “Mason, he usually—”

“Mason? Mason Smith?” Milo shouted from my left side. It startled the girl so badly, she jerked in her restraints and nearly tipped the chair over while strapped to it. My hand shot out to steady the chair before she crashed to the floor and cracked her head open.

“Calm the fuck down, Milo,” I growled. I was as surprised as Milo to hear of the girl’s connection to my recently departed dealer, but showing any kind of emotion in front of a suspect was poor form and lacked the air of finesse I preferred to maintain. Though I’d rather be doing this in my suit than my sweatpants, and with someone… ugh, cleaner. I swallowed back my distaste.

“What?” Milo asked, incredulous. He pointed at the girl and continued. “She knows that motherfucking piece of shit thief. He probably skimmed to give the H to her, Boss. You heard him talk about a whore.”

I released the chair, stepped back, and turned to my lieutenant. Remaining silent, I crossed my arms over my chest and waited until Milo’s bluster quickly drained when he became the sole focus of my attention.

“I don’t want her falling and leaving her fucking brains all over my imported Italian tiles, asshole. And I decide what happens to her, not you.”

“Yes, Boss.” Milo looked appropriately chagrined. If he was pissed, he hid it well. I was positive Milo didn’t appreciate being put in his place in front of the rest of the men, and normally, I would have allowed him free rein on someone who not only trespassed, but was an associate of an employee who stole from me. But this girl—while technically just a very foolish, desperate junkie, therefore undeserving of mercy—intrigued me, not that I would tell Milo or anyone else that fact.

“Who is Mason to you?” I asked and pulled a second chair over to sit across from the redhead, my eyes now level with hers.

The girl licked her cracked lips, her enormous, dilated pupils darting all over the place to avoid my direct stare.

“He, uh, I’m not sure. I-I don’t know. I just need a hit.” She sniffed, almost breaking down again.

“Listen to me.” I raised my voice so there was no doubt who was in charge here. The girl shuddered violently and a lock of greasy red hair fell over one watery, bloodshot eye. My gaze trailed over her damaged skin. Scratches mixed with hideous scabs dotted what I envisioned was once a creamy, pale landscape. Natural redhead, I thought, noting the high number of rust-colored freckles dotting her arms and face. “I will give you a hit after you answer my questions. Otherwise, I’ll have you taken out back and shot in the head, got it?”

Milo shifted nearby, clearly excited at the thought of disposing of the intruder and at the same time likely agitated by my offer of drugs to a stranger. One he deemed guilty by association. To Milo, this entire interrogation was unnecessary. I glanced over my shoulder and shot him a glare, once more reminding the brute who was in charge, before returning my attention to the girl.

“Okay. Okay. Okay,” she mumbled over and over in a near-hypnotic state while rocking back and forth on the chair like a redheaded Raymond Babbitt.

I resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of my nose in frustration. “Who are you? How do you know Mason Smith?”

“Mason. Yeah, he’s, ummm. Oh God.”

The girl paused to let out a long, pitiful groan, doubling over as much as she could while tied to the chair. Belly habit. That meant her withdrawals were getting worse. Fuck, she better not throw up in my house.

She drew in a shaky breath and continued. “He’s my b-boyfriend, sort of but not r-really. I-I mean, I live with him, but… He didn’t come back and I need… I need.”

“Shhhhh.” Using a finger, I shocked myself by tucking an escaped lock of hair behind her ear and not immediately jumping up to wash my hands. “Good. Now, what’s your name, doll?”