Page 107 of Stolen Dreams
“Did you find Tucker? Is he okay?”
He sighs, and his agony bleeds through the phone and settles in the center of my chest. “Not yet, but we have a lead. Will…” He pauses, and I picture him with his eyes closed as he composes himself. “Will you come to me and help us?”
I glance around the parking lot, then at the officer stationed just out of earshot. “What about the bowling alley?”
“The cop will stay, but Emerson and Tymber don’t think they’ll return there with Tucker.”
They?
I’ll ask later. “Where are you?”
“Tymber Woulf Security. We’re regrouping while we wait for another call.” He groans. “Shit. You don’t have your car.Fuck.”
“Don’t worry about it. Clarissa’s here. She’ll give me a ride.”
Clarissa nods as she rises from the bench and digs out her fob.
“Fuck, I’m sorry. So damn sorry.”
“Later,” I say, not wanting the focus to shift from what matters right now—finding Tucker. “I’ll be there soon.”
“I…” Ray starts, then stops. “Drive safe, Fire Eyes.”
A little more of the chill vanishes from my bones. “Promise,” I whisper.
THIRTY-TWO
ERASER
Heat licksmy lips as I light a cigarette and inhale deeply. Rich earth and the addictive sting of menthol burn my lungs. It does little to curb my irritation, but not much has since this bitch entered my life.
Once this is done, once I have my money, she’s gone. I don’t need or want her fucking bullshit. Bitch has been more of a headache than anything else.
Rocks and pine needles crunch beneath my boots as I pace the length of the cabin. The only light for miles glows through the curtain-covered window, another reminder of why I am done with this cunt.
Nothing like an addict roping her kid in to pay her debt. Fucking soulless trash human. I have nothing against kids. They just aren’t something I want in my life. I double wrap my dick for more than one reason, but knocking a bitch up is the first.
My parents weren’t bad people. I had everything I needed as a child—food, shelter, clothes, affection. But that isallI had, and by the time I realized more existed, I owned several bully-inflicted mental scars.
The first opportunity I had to earn money, I took it. Sold anything and everything to make a buck. Skunk, ice, downers,uppers, televisions, laptops… the list goes on. Once I was moreestablished, I upped my game. Pharm parties and making my own product.
Stacks of cash crowd my safe; I have everything I’ve ever wanted. And I love my fucking life.
This bitch, though… I will slit her fucking throat if she robs me of it.
I storm toward the cabin, climb the steps, and dig out the slip of paper in my pocket. Pushing through the door, I swipe another burner phone from the table, dial the number written on the paper, and bring it to my ear.
The desperate idiot on the other end answers on the first ring. “Hello?”
Eyes averted from the bitch that got me in this mess, I pace the cabin. “You got my money?”
Shuffling sounds in the background on his end. “Most of it. Can’t exactly go to the bank on a Sunday night.”
“I don’t give a fuck what day or time it is. You want to see your kid again, get the fucking cash.”
“Let me see he’s okay. Send a picture.” His breath grates the phone mic. “Please.”
I scoff. “Did I give the impression I play by anyone’s rules other than my own?”