by Hank Edwards
Rocko drove out of Lacetown, angling the car toward Lake Shore Drive.
She was glad, and more than a little surprised, they didn’t have cops trailing them after the gunshot.
Maybe they’d gotten away with the botched break-in after all.
While it had been creepy as fuck waiting for Rocko to break into a funeral home—especially at night, and with a hired gun along for the ride—Veronica had been frustrated more than frightened when the big dummy got himself discovered. Flighty Dylan probably would’ve written a scene like that in one of those stories he kept saying would bring him money and fame.
No more stories for you, Dylan.
Veronica couldn’t even muster a chuckle at that because she was out a shit-ton of drugs that she owed to some very mean people.
Not to mention a shit-ton of money she owed Daddy… who was being held by very mean Canadian drug dealers who wanted their drugs back.
How did this all get so fucked-up so fast?
“All right, looks like we’re good,” Rocko’s deep voice rumbled from the front seat.
Veronica squeezed Cameron’s hand before releasing it. She tossed her black hair over her shoulder and said, “Does that mean we can speak?”
“Yeah, but keep it calm. No screaming.”
“Fine. No screaming,” Veronica said. “But I do have a question.”
Rocko sighed. “What?”
“Are you out of your fucking mind?”
“What?” Rocko looked back at her in surprise. “What did you say?”
“I asked if you were out of your fucking mind. You took a shot at someone back there.”
“Yeah,” Cameron joined in. “You could have killed someone. Or gotten us killed.”
“We got another seventy-two hours to get the drugs back to those crazy Canucks or who knows what they’ll do to the Boss,” Rocko retorted. “Any and all dead bodies are collateral damage, as far as I see it.”
Veronica’s stomach dropped when she thought of what the Canadians could be doing to her father right now.
Please be safe, Daddy, she prayed.
Not that God gave a crap about Veronica or her family, according to Sister Thunder-Cunt at St. Maria’s High School for Girls. Veronica hated that bitter old bitch.
“Is this all even necessary? We still have the rest of the drugs at the cottage,” Cameron complained.
Rocko glared at them in the rearview mirror. “The Canadians want all of their drugs back. They chop off hands with hockey skates as warnings, ya know? Hockey skates, not figure skates.”
“Figure skates have a toe pick,” Cameron pointed out. “They would do more damage.”
“And another dead body would do even more damage to our situation, Rocko,” Veronica grumbled.
Rocko’s big meaty fists clenched on the steering wheel, all but bending it. “The Boss told me the number-one priority on this trip was to bring back those drugs. If I woulda got caught back there, we wouldn’t be able to do that, now would we? So I had to get rid of whoever snuck up on me.”
Veronica waved his explanation away, though he couldn’t see her. “Fine. Whatever. Just keep your gun under control.”
Despite the tense situation, Cameron chuckled quietly. He was such a dirty-minded little queen. He really needed to get fucked by better quality men than the methed-up club bunnies he usually hooked up with.
“So now you’ve taken a shot at someone, and we still don’t have what we need.”
“If I would have gotten inside I would’ve checked him for the drugs,” Rocko said. “I’ve done it before.”
Gross!
Though that was why Veronica had sent Rocko. Dylan had assured her he’d known just where to keep the drugs before the drop-off, and Rocko hadn’t even flinched when she told him where he had to check. She’d assumed, however, that his B&E skills were at least a bit more advanced than simply breaking a window. Apparently Daddy hadn’t asked about quality burglary skills during his henchmen job interviews.
“So now what’s the plan?” Veronica asked.
Rocko’s eyes were wide in the rearview mirror. “Don’t look at me. You’re the brains of this outfit, girlie.”
“Obviously,” Veronica muttered. Then she said louder, “Fine. I need some time to think. Drive around for a few minutes before you take us back to the cottage. In case we were followed.”
Another heavy sigh came from the front seat. “I hate fucking overnight trips.”
“Like to poop in your own space, do you?” Veronica asked.
Cameron stared at her with big eyes and whispered, “What are you doing?”
Rocko took the next turn way too fast. He squealed around the corner, ignoring the stop sign completely, and floored the accelerator. As he turned down the private path toward the cottage—totally ignoring Veronica’s idea—he nearly rolled the car but managed to keep it upright. When he slammed on the brakes in the driveway of her family’s lake cottage, Veronica and Cameron both jerked against their restraints.
With the car in Park, Rocko turned to look at them. His face was wide and greasy, his eyes small and mean, but his lips surprisingly full and beautiful. In the glow of the dashboard and the light mounted on a pole in the middle of the yard, Rocko looked like a nightmare fuck buddy ready to go.
And apparently Cameron had seen the same thing as Veronica, because he let out a breathy “Oh” at the sight of Rocko’s face.
“I’m not in the mood for any funny business tonight, got it? We’re going into the house, and we’re going to talk about what our next steps are. Once we know what we’re doing tomorrow, you two are going to be handcuffed together so you can’t sneak off with the car and rest of the drugs while I sleep. No funny business.”
So much for Plan A. “Not even one little joke?” Veronica asked.
Rocko brought the gun up and pointed it at her. “Any other funny stuff you want to say?”
“No,” Veronica muttered.
“I thought not. Let’s go.”
Rocko followed them down the flagstone path to the back door of the cottage. He tucked the gun into a pocket of his suit coat so the nosey neighbors wouldn’t get spooked. Her family had owned this cottage for decades, and the old bat next door was a gossipy bitch. The cottage had been Great-Auntie Gail’s permanent residence until they had to move her to the Bluffs for full-time care. Veronica had hoped to visit her, but fucking Marcus, and fucking Dylan, and fucking Rocko had fucked that up.
Once they were inside, Cameron rushed into the bathroom and closed the door, leaving Veronica and Rocko staring at each other.
“So what’s our next step?” Rocko locked the door, then holstered his gun.
“I don’t fucking know.”
“You sure as fuck knew enough to get yourself into this mess. I think you’ll be able to come up with a plan to get yourself out of it.”
“Give me a minute!” Veronica took a shaky breath. “Those Canadian goons are holding my father hostage, okay? I’m a little distracted.”
“You weren’t too distracted to steal drugs from your precious daddy’s shipment, were you?”
“Look, dimwit, this all would’ve worked out fine if Dylan had delivered the drugs like he was supposed to. How was I supposed to predict he’d jeopardize everything?”
Rocko gave her a cold grin. “Don’t ask me. I’m not paid to think, remember?”
“Whatever. Daddy doesn’t pay you to run off on wild goose chases with people twenty years younger than you either, but here we are.”
“Hey! I’m not that much older than you.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
Cameron returned and Veronica stormed into the tiny bathroom and slammed the door shut. She stared at her reflection, leaning on the little vanity.
None of this was going like she’d planned. All she wanted was to show she should be taken seriously in a leadership position. Sure, Daddy had put her in charge of social events at the club, but that was basically an internship. She could only take
scheduling go-go boys or playing emcee at the Elsa drag contests for “Frozen Fridays” for so long.
During one of the “Bring Your Singles Saturdays,” however, she had overheard Daddy talking to a couple of goons in the backroom near the bottled beer. And once she’d gotten over being pissed that her allowance was only three hundred dollars a week while Daddy was pulling in big drug money, she’d hatched an idea to prove to him that she was capable of more than just party planning.
It wasn’t difficult to get the drugs. Daddy’s password was always her birthday.
She hadn’t taken much, just enough to prove she knew what she was doing. Daddy’s delivery might be light, but hers would more than make up for it.
Finding a buyer had been even easier.
But now he’s gone!
Fighting tears, she pulled out her phone and opened Snapchat.
Still nothing from Marcus.
She searched for his handle, and it came up with nothing.
Fucker blocked me.
She brushed the tears from her face—vag it up!
She was a woman, for chrissake! Screw the idea of “having balls” or “manning up.” Women were a million times tougher than men, and their va-jay-jays were definitely tougher than balls.
But if she was so tough, why was she opening the last message she’d saved from Marcus?
Last night 11:00 p.m.: This shit is hot. Lose my number.
That was it. After months of chatting, making plans to expand Daddy’s territory to Milwaukee so Veronica could show Daddy she had what it took to be a leader, and Marcus tells her not to let the door hit her ass on the way out.
She should be pissed not butt hurt, but she’d thought they had something special. Now he’d blocked her, she couldn’t even revenge-snap pics of her having fun and not missing him at all.
Studying her reflection, she pursed her lips, determined not to cry like a soft, wimpy sac of balls over this.
“Vag it up, Vee,” she told her reflection. Her black hair lay perfectly over her shoulders, and even in the harsh bathroom lighting, her green eyes sparkled. Those whitening strips had really helped take the edge off the stains from all that red wine she’d been drinking lately. If she was back home right now instead of the backwoods of Lame-town, Michigan, she’d be getting ready to hit the clubs.
But no. She needed to fix this bullshit situation Dylan had dumped her into.
Dylan.
That little bitch.
Veronica had needed someone to deliver the sample of drugs to Marcus. She so hadn’t been ready for a face-to-face with Marcus, wanting Dylan to scope him out in case he was fat or pimply and only good-looking because of filters. Although no amount of filters could hide those caterpillar eyebrows. Marcus was in serious need of an experienced threader. And besides, all good drug kingpins had cronies doing the dirty work, and Veronica wanted to appear legit.
As luck would have it, Dylan was going to be in Lacetown with his old-as-fuck sugar daddy, Russell, for some book festival—lame! All Dylan had to do was pick up the sample and deliver it to Marcus on his boat in Dune Harbor Marina. Marcus had specifically said Dune Harbor instead of Christy’s Marina, which was right in Lacetown, because, as he put it, “Christy is a controlling bitch who patrols her marina like a goddamn stormtrooper.”
Dylan had picked up the sample all right. Cameron had confirmed that for her. But Dylan fucked things up with Marcus, backing Veronica into a corner and leaving her no other choice. If only the mortician and that other idiot hadn’t shown up at the funeral parlor before Rocko could get the drugs back!
I’m so fucked.
When Veronica helped herself to the case of heroin, how was she supposed to know Daddy hadn’t paid the Canadians yet? She and Cameron had been chillaxin’ here at the cottage, toasting their success of breaking into the Milwaukee drug scene when Rocko busted in with his big dumb face and sweat-stained armpits. Daddy insisted the Canadians reneged on the shipment, and the Canadians’ response was to kidnap Daddy right out of the club.
Now she had a seventy-two-hour window to return either the drugs or a hell of a lot of cash, or Daddy would pay the price.
She was stuck with a shitty situation and no way out.
Fuck everything and everyone.
Especially Dylan.
Though that was one loose end tied up, wasn’t it? A queasy feeling hit her when she thought about Dylan’s death, but she pushed it away.
Nothing mattered right now except saving Daddy.
Pounding on the bathroom door startled a squeak out of her.
“Hurry it up, Princess,” Rocko said. “I gotta get in there.”
“It’s Veronica, no neck,” she shouted. “And give me a break. I just got my period.”
That did the trick.
She heard Rocko grumble as he moved away from the door. When in doubt, drop a “woman’s issue” on them to make them squirm.
She took her time, hoping Rocko’s bladder hurt enough to make him cry.
When she was finally tired of the small bathroom, she opened the door. Rocko took her by the hand and dragged her down the hallway.
“What’s the big idea,” she bitched, though she knew she couldn’t match him for strength.
But she wouldn’t make it easy.
He yanked her into the second bedroom. Cameron was already lying on one of the two twin beds, his wrist handcuffed to the headboard.
Rocko handcuffed her, then used another pair of cuffs to secure the short chain to another post of the headboard.
“Sleep tight,” he said, and walked toward the hallway.
“We have to share a twin bed?” Veronica whined.
Rocko paused to smirk and point at his own eyes. “Gotta keep a close watch on you two.” Then with a smug sniff, he headed to the only bathroom in the cottage.
“You okay, Vee?” Cameron asked.
“Just swell.”
“You’re in a lot of trouble, aren’t you?”
Veronica gave a harsh laugh. “We both are, Cam.”
“Whatever I can do to help out, just let me know.”
“Give me a million dollars, that’d be a start.”
“I would if I could.”
Veronica sighed. Yeah, Cameron probably would hand over the money. Sometimes he was just too easy. It could really get boring and tedious.
“I know you would. I’m sorry you got involved in all of this. Let’s try to get some sleep.”
“What are we going to do tomorrow?”
“Go back into town. We need to get those drugs back.”
Cameron nodded, then wiped away a tear with his free hand. “I can’t believe Dylan’s dead. He was a sweet guy.”
“Collateral damage,” she said, trying and failing to ignore another sharp pang of guilt. Stupid Dylan. He should have done what he was told.
Rocko stepped into the room, carrying the shoulder holster with his gun secured inside. He’d removed his suit coat, tie, and shirt, leaving him wearing a white tank top that hugged his big chest and flat belly. His suit pants had been tailored to follow the firm swell of his ass.
Cameron let out a quiet breath, and Veronica rolled her eyes.
“Hey, Stockholm syndrome,” she whispered. “Don’t even think it.”
“What? I don’t know what that means.” Cameron couldn’t take his eyes off Rocko as the man walked around the room, checking the window lock, pulling the drapes, and sitting on the other bed with his back to them.
“It means, he’s going to kill us before he fucks either one of us.”
Cameron turned to her with a horrified expression. “Ew. That’s gross.”
“What? No! Not like that! He’s not a necro, you weirdo.”
At least she hoped not.
Rocko sighed heavily and glared at them over his shoulder. “What are you two fuckups talking about?”
“Nothing,” Cameron said in an overly sweet tone. “Just wondering what’s on HBO. You into Game of Thrones?”
&
nbsp; Rocko made a face. “Nah. Too violent.”
“Oh Christ,” Veronica whispered. “I can’t even with either one of you.”
“Uh-huh,” Cameron whispered back, his eyes locked on Rocko’s back as the man focused on his cell phone.
“Get some sleep,” Veronica said. “We’re going to need it.”
“Okay, yeah, sure. Night, Vee.”
He kept his gaze on Rocko, and Veronica turned her head away and closed her eyes to try and get some sleep. She wondered how Daddy was being treated, and if he’d ever be able to forgive her for such a big fuckup. Then she wondered how the hell she was going to get the rest of the drugs.
Why couldn’t a girl just get a break?
Chapter Twelve
WHEN MICHAEL saw Jazz standing at the hostess station of Joe’s Fishery, the embroidered pockets of his distressed jeans hugging a perfect tush, he took the first easy breath of the day.
After the disastrous end of the best date of Michael’s life, he had been paranoid that Jazz would cancel their lunch date. While the memory of being splayed out on top of Jazz’s warm body after the shooting had teased his constantly illicit imagination, he’d checked his cell so many times throughout the morning that Mr. Pickles had started meowing impatiently every time Michael swiped open the screen.
Since the attempted break-in, Mr. Pickles had been quite demanding for attention, even sleeping curled up against Michael’s belly. The normally taciturn animal had been traumatized by the evening’s events—the shattering glass and the gunshot rendering a formerly safe territory for his kitty loud and scary. As much as Michael enjoyed this newfound cuddly Mr. Pickles, it also royally pissed him off.
If he ever saw the creep who frightened his cat, he’d take his bone saw and—
“Michael, you made it!”
His disturbingly graphic revenge thoughts disappeared when Jazz spied him.
Michael shook off his tension and managed a smile, which mingled awkwardly with his whistling, sharp intake of air.
Jazz was so damn good-looking!
Why on earth is he interested in me?
Blond hair pulled back in a man-bun with a few tendrils falling loose at his temple, Jazz looked more casual than last night. He’d forgone the eyeliner, and Michael missed it, though he’d never been into men in makeup before. A baby-blue T-shirt with “Lake Michigan, No Salt, No Sharks” written in dark blue stretched tight across a flat chest, enhancing his slightly rounded belly and his tan.