Page 18 of Ruined

A man sat on a couch in the middle of the room. His track pants were pushed down his thighs, his hand curled around his cock.

The groans came from a huge TV on the wall. On the screen, three or four guys were railing a woman who looked as though she was thinking about her shopping list, while they thrust in and out of her pussy, ass and mouth.

"Fuck yeah." He worked his cock harder, oblivious until I stepped behind him, leaned over the back of the couch and pressed a knife to his throat.

He stopped mid-beat, eyes wide. "The fuck?"

"Hi, Stefan. I see nothing has changed. It's just you and your hand." I pressed the blade in slightly. Not enough to make him bleed, but to let him know I meant business.

"Mina fucking DiMarco," he growled. "You scared the shit out of me." His hand was still tight around his cock, like he didn't dare to let go. Just in case I cut it off.

Fair call. I was tempted. Not that I wanted to touch his cock.

"If you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear," I said.

He raised his spare hand. "I'm an open book."

"Where's Kurt?" I asked.

He lowered his hand, bringing it down over the other one for additional protection. "I have no idea."

"Mmm." I pressed the knife in a little more, barely breaking the skin. "Wrong answer."

"I can't give you what I don't have," he said. "I swear, I don't know where he is. But—" He exhaled reluctantly.

"But?" I prompted.

"But I have a number to contact him," Stefan said quickly. "Not directly. I send a message and someone passes the message on to him. It's on my phone." He nodded to the table in front of him.

"What happens then?" I asked.

"After a day or two, he sends a message back via, I dunno, whoever the fuck it is. The last I heard was to lay low and play it cool. Seems one of the big heavies is on his ass. Reuben Brantley or Samuel Bell. Kurt was fucking them both over, so I'm not surprised. Dickhead likes to live dangerously."

"You worked with him," I said.

"Indirectly," he argued. "I'm just a fence. People bring me their shit and I sell it for them. Get a nice tidy profit on top of it. Getting involved in things too deeply is above my pay grade. I'm what they call a petty criminal, but you know that."

"I think you're underselling yourself," I said. "Rumour has it you're Kurt's right-hand."

He laughed-grunted. "Not me. He didn't trust me enough for that."

"Who did he trust?" I asked.

"I don't—" Stefan started.

A bead of blood rose where I pushed the knife in a little more.

"Let's try this again. Who did he trust?" There was no doubt in my mind he knew.

That was why I was here tonight. Why I'd snuck out of the house again to deal with him. I had to take the chance he'd speak to me. We weren't friends, but he knew who I was. More or less.

He sat perfectly still, probably weighing his options. If he talked, he was dead. If he didn't talk, he was dead. If he told me everything, he might just have the chance to run and hide before shit hit the fan.

"There's a dude named Leon Graves, he's an old friend of Kurt. He ran a lot of Kurt's operations. If anyone knows where he is, it's him. If I had to guess, I'd say he was the one receiving and relaying the messages."

"There, that wasn't so difficult, was it?" I asked.

"If he finds out I said anything to you, I'm fucked," Stefan whined.