She ended the call with a dramatic sigh, thumb stabbing the red button like it deserved punishment. I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching the show.
"Who the hell are you?" she asked, finally turning to me.
I cocked an eyebrow. Isn't it obvious? I didn't say it out loud—just slid the backpack off my shoulder and set it on the counter.
"Delivery."
Her eyes narrowed slightly. "From Smith?"
I unzipped the bag, pulled the small sealed package out, and set it down in front of her. She grabbed a kitchen knife off the counter—blade long, clean, probably never used for anything but intimidation—and sliced the plastic open.
The unmistakable scent hit first.
We both knew what it was.
Weed. Fresh, sticky, high-grade. Looked like about half a pound of it, vacuum-sealed and labeled with a strain name I didn't recognize but sounded like it belonged in a stoner's wet dream.
So that's what Smith meant by starting easy.
"Where's the coke?" she asked flatly, looking up at me like I'd hidden it in my boxers.
I shrugged. "Beats me. No one told me I was delivering anything else. If it's coming, it's probably through someone else."
She clicked her tongue and turned back to the bag, muttering, "Ugh, amateurs."
I didn't take it personally. I was new blood. But I was already thinking one step ahead.
If this was easy mode, what the hell did hard look like?
She sealed the package back up, slid the knife aside, and leaned one hip against the counter—arms crossed under her tits, pushing them up just enough to make sure I noticed.
"So how'd you get past the cops?" she asked, eyes narrowing with just the faintest flicker of curiosity behind all that bitchy bravado.
I gave a half-smile. "Lured 'em away."
She raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"Said I overheard two guys at a gas station talking about 'Hannah Lynch' and snow. Gave them a fake license plate, too."
That got her. A little twitch at the corner of her lips. Barely there. But it was real.
"Well," she said, walking over and dropping the package into a drawer like it was just groceries, "maybe you're not a complete idiot."
I leaned against the island, watching her move. "That sounds dangerously close to a compliment."
She gave me a sideways glance, unapologetically dragging it from head to toe. "Don't get cocky, delivery boy."
Too late.
She shut the drawer with her hip, turned, and let her eyes linger this time—chin tilted slightly, like she was assessing a painting she didn't expect to like.
"You're pretty," she said, sipping her drink. "For an errand boy."
I smirked, slow and deliberate. "Good thing I'm not here to run errands, then. Just here to make problems disappear."
She arched a brow, clearly amused. "Is that so?"
"Depends. You got any problems you need taken care of, or should I come back when you're wearing fewer clothes?"
That got a real smile out of her. Not soft. Sharp. Dangerous.
I liked it.
She didn't flinch. Didn't scowl. Didn't throw her drink in my face.
Far from it.
She stepped in close—close enough for perfume and heat and the weight of her stare. That smile stayed on her lips, but the tone dipped low and cool.
"You work for the people I brunch with, pretty boy. Don't forget which side of the leash you're on."
"You're cute," she murmured. "But let's be clear—if anything ever happens, it'll be because I let it. I call the shots. You? You're just lucky I don't mind a little eye candy running my packages."
I gave a mock salute, grinning. "Yes, ma'am. Just a humble piece of man-furniture, grateful to be objectified."
She laughed—short and real. I took the win and backed off.
"Catch you later, Lynch," I said, heading back into the living room and threading through half-naked strangers like it was just another Tuesday.
I pulled into the neighborhood just as the sun started bleeding orange across the sky. Quiet, too quiet. The kind of quiet that doesn't feel peaceful—it feels loaded.
That's when I saw it.
Parked crooked at the curb, like it owned the damn street. Matte grey Dodge Durango. The same one. I didn't even need to see the plates, but I did anyway—Z84 6HU. Every number landed like a punch.
It was them.
The bastards who jumped me. Who took the Supra. Who said "that's half." And now they were parked right outside Laura's house.
I killed the engine and nearly dropped the keys fumbling to pocket them. My heart was sprinting. I crossed the street fast—but not running. Not yet. Running draws attention. Running means you're scared.
But inside?
I was already kicking in the door.
I reached the gate, shoved it open hard enough to rattle the hinges. My eyes scanned everything—the car, the porch, the windows. Lights were on in the living room. One shadow. No voices. The Durango was empty.
I reached for the handle.
It was unlocked.
I pushed open the door, and the first thing I heard was… giggling.
Laura's.
Light. Playful. Too playful.
My fists clenched before I even saw the couch.
There they were.
The heavyset bastard who'd slammed me into a wall and walked off with Smith's car—kicked back like he belonged here, grinning like a kid with a secret.
And next to him, definitely not the skinny guy.
She was trouble in fishnet. I don't know why I am describing her in this situation but…
Chin-length electric blue hair, half-shaved with the other half falling wild over her cheek. Ink curled over her shoulder like a lover's grip, trailing down her arm to a leather cuff cinched at her wrist. The fishnet clung to her like second skin but didn't hide a thing—especially not the crimson lace bra underneath, pushing up a pair of tits that didn't need much help to steal a room.
Her stomach was flat, pierced just above the navel. Denim shorts rode low and cut high—barely buttoned, strings of white thread dangling off the frayed edges like they'd been through more nights than days. Her thighs were strong, smooth, slightly spread. She wore combat boots, unzipped and unlaced like she didn't plan on staying long… or planned on staying too long.
And she was leaning into Laura like they were already friends.
Laura turned to me, soft and smiling. "Hey! You didn't tell me you invited your friends."
The girl looked me up and down, eyes slow, lips curving.
"You didn't tell me he was cute," she said—this time to the guy beside her, not Laura. Her gaze lingered like it wanted to peel me. "I might've worn something tighter."
The heavyset guy chuckled, didn't even glance her way. "I told you he'd show."
I slipped into the role like it was tailored. Grinned wide, stepped forward, and clapped his hand like we were old drinking buddies.
"Dickky, you bastard. Long time."
He snorted. Didn't correct me.
The blue-haired vixen raised a brow, smirking over the rim of her beer can like she hadn't expected me to keep up.
I gave her a look. Curious. Mild. Like I didn't already clock the fishnet, the boots, the way she crossed her legs just slow enough to make it a performance.
"So, Dickky," I said, stretching out the fake name like it had history, "who's your friend?"
He opened his mouth, but she cut in before he could fake it.
"Sarah," she said, standing up. She said it like a dare.
The name tasted fake. But she sold it with a wink. Walked up to me like we were flirting at a bar, not circling each other over unspoken violence.
Her hand found mine—not a shake, a slide. Slow, warm, intentional.
"Nice place," she added, eyes flicking toward the hallway like she was casing the damn house. "Cozy. Wouldn't mind staying a while."
"Gladly," I said, lips curled.
Laura stood, clearly catching the shift in the air. "I should—uh—do the laundry."
She didn't wait for a response. Just vanished down the hallway with a bundle in her arms.
Sarah turned to Dickky.
"Go on," she said lightly, like she was sending him to grab chips.
He stood.
I moved half a step, instinctively.
"Don't worry," Sarah said without looking at me, smoothing her palm along her thigh. "He won't do anything…"
Then her gaze slid over, sharp as glass.
"…as long as you cooperate."
Dickky melted into the hallway like a shadow with weight.
Sarah patted the cushion next to her.
"Sit," she said, all silk and smoke. "You and I need to have a little chat, pretty boy."
I sat down beside her, careful not to lean too close.
She leaned in anyway, just enough to smell like perfume and misbehavior. Her hand slid across the back of the couch—then dipped under my shirt, fingers cool against my ribs.
I didn't flinch. Not outside.
She found my nipple, slow, deliberate, and brushed it with her thumb. Casual. Like this wasn't a threat disguised as a flirt.
"You've been busy," Sarah said, resting her arm behind me on the couch like we were sharing a secret. "Running errands. Making deliveries. Looking real eager."
I didn't say anything.
Her lips twitched into something too amused to be kind. "Smith's little pet project, huh? Bet he told you it's just business. That it's all temporary. That he's the one holding the leash."
She turned, now fully facing me. One thigh draped across the other, knee brushing mine.
"We know why you're doing it, Lucien."
My name in her mouth sounded like a promise or a threat. Probably both.
"Thirty-five grand's a lot to cough up—especially when your sugar aunt's got a house sitting right on top of something our boss really wants."
I stiffened. That was too close. She smiled wider. That was the point.
Her thumb circled, once, again. I felt my jaw clench. She felt it too.
"You're cute when you try to be tough," she whispered, glancing at my lips. "But let me give you some advice, pretty boy."
"Here's the part you need to understand. Wesley doesn't care about the loan. He cares about that house. And he's getting tired of being polite."
She brushed something off her thigh that wasn't there.
"So here's what you're gonna do. You're going to talk to Laura. You're going to convince her to sell. Doesn't have to be today. Doesn't even have to be clean. But it has to happen."
I kept my face still. My fists, not so much.
Sarah leaned closer. Her breath warm, her voice lower. She pinched—lightly, but enough.
"Because if it doesn't? Well… Dickky might get less polite."
She held the touch just a second too long, dragging her nail across my chest, then letting it rest. One more taunting flick of her thumb over my nipple.
Then—silence.
She looked at me, unreadable. I didn't blink.
Snap.
The sound cracked the room. Sharp. Intentional.
A few seconds later, heavy footsteps padded in from the hallway. Dickky reappeared, adjusting something under his hoodie like he hadn't just been snooping or worse.
Sarah stood, slow and smooth, like she'd just finished a cigarette instead of threatening my whole world. She leaned down, and her fingertip trailed from my jaw to the edge of my chin.
"Good talk," she whispered, voice sugar and gasoline.
Then she turned, hips swaying like punctuation, and strolled toward the door. Dickky followed without a word, not even looking back.
The door clicked shut.
And I exhaled, finally.
I made a beeline for the laundry room.
"Laura?"
No answer.
I rounded the corner—and there she was. Halfway inside the washing machine, hips in the air, hair falling forward as she adjusted the damn load like nothing happened. Like a woman didn't just slide her fingers under my shirt and threaten our lives with a smile.
I exhaled through my nose, the knot in my chest loosening just enough.
"You alright in there?" I asked, voice rougher than I meant.
She pulled back, glancing over her shoulder. "Just fixing the balance. Thing's been rattling like a pissed-off raccoon."
She had no idea. No clue what that visit was really about.
And maybe that was good.
I stepped forward, brushing her hip lightly with my fingers—just enough to feel she was real. Still here. Still safe.
"You good?" she asked, turning to look at me fully now.
I nodded once. "Yeah. Just… thinking."
She smiled. "That's dangerous."
I took her hand—not gently, not rough. Just firmly. She blinked, confused, but followed as I guided her to the living room and sat her down on the couch.
"Lucien?" she asked, brow pinched. "What's going on?"
I didn't answer right away. I stayed standing, watching her like I didn't want to look away—because I didn't. Because once I told her, the silence would break, and we couldn't go back.
"They're not my friends," I said finally. My voice didn't shake, but it landed heavy.
She sat straighter, eyes narrowing. "Then who the hell—"
"They work for Wesley."
That shut her up.
Her lips parted, but nothing came out.
I kept going.
"The guy—he's the one who took Smith's car. The girl, Sarah—she's his new mouthpiece, apparently." I paused. "They know I'm working for Smith. They know about the house."
Laura's face lost color. "Jesus Christ…"
"She wanted me to convince you. Said next time, it won't be her who shows up."
I watched her take that in. No drama. Just weight.
She leaned back slowly, dragging a hand through her hair, muttering, "Fuck…"
I crouched in front of her, close now. "I need you to trust me. No more pretending we're safe. We're not. Not until I figure this out."
Her eyes flicked to mine, wide, scared—but focused.
"I trust you," she whispered. "But I'm scared as hell."
"Good," I said. "That means you're still thinking straight."
I took her hands again. "Now tell me—did Wesley ever come here himself? Anyone else you didn't recognize?"
She shook her head slowly. "Not that I know of. But now I'm not so sure."
I nodded. "Then we start watching. Everything."
"You ever meet the previous owner?" I asked.
Laura looked up, still shaken, but curious now. "What?"
"The house," I said. "Before you moved in—who had it?"
She tilted her head, thinking. "Oh. Yeah… I think it belonged to some professor."
"A professor?" I repeated.
She nodded. "Yeah. Daniel Goode. That was his name. Taught chemistry at some local college, I think. Real quiet guy, according to the realtor."
"Where is he now?"
She hesitated. "Dead. Heart attack or stroke or something. Son inherited the place and sold it off cheap. Too cheap, honestly. But back then I didn't ask questions. Just needed somewhere to crash after the divorce."
That had my gears grinding.
A professor. Dead. House sold fast. Cheap. Too cheap.
And now Wesley was trying to buy it for even less. Desperate to get it. Sending muscle to visit.
This wasn't just about debt.
"Did anything seem off?" I asked. "Weird basement layout? Rooms that feel… wrong?"
She shrugged. "I mean, there's the old storm cellar. Never bothered opening it. Spiders, mold, you know?"
I stood up slowly, heart thudding. "I want to see it."
She blinked. "Now?"
"Now."
My phone buzzed in my back pocket. I pulled it out, saw the number. Natasha.
"Yeah?" I answered.
Her voice came through, cold and clean as a scalpel. "Hannah was impressed."
I arched a brow. "I do aim to please."
"She wants you to make all her deliveries moving forward."
Not a request. An assignment. Just like that, I was hers.
"Roger," I said, keeping it clipped. No questions, no thanks.
The line went dead without a goodbye.
I slipped the phone back in my pocket.
Laura looked up at me. "Everything okay?"
"Peachy," I muttered. "Apparently I'm Hannah Lynch's new favorite errand boy."
She raised an eyebrow. "That influencer chick?"
"Yeah. Which means I get to drop weed at pool parties and dodge cops with TikTok dancers."
She tried to smile. Almost made it. But her eyes were still shadowed.
"Come on," I said, nodding toward the hallway. "Let's go see what the dead professor left behind."
We walked through the house, past the kitchen, out the back door. The wind had stilled. Everything felt too quiet, like the yard was holding its breath.
Laura wrapped her arms around herself. "You remember something?"
I nodded. "Yeah. I dropped my phone down there. Couple years ago. Came to visit you and tripped over that stupid loose board by the grill."
Her brow furrowed. "Shit. That was the only time we ever opened it."
I glanced back at her. "Yeah. You pulled the hatch open, handed me your flashlight. I remember thinking it smelled like bleach and sawdust."
I crouched down by the hatch and ran my fingers along the old iron latch. It was stiff but still functional. I looked at her once more, and she gave a small nod.
I pulled it open.
A metallic creak whined through the air, sharp and unnatural. The smell hit me instantly. Still bleach. Still sawdust. But now something else—dust that shouldn't be dusty, the kind that clings to secrets.
A set of wooden stairs spiraled downward into the dark.
She peered over my shoulder. "Still want to see it?"
I took a breath. "More than ever."
And we descended.
The wooden steps groaned beneath us—slow, hesitant. Laura stayed close behind, her breath warm at the nape of my neck. The cellar wasn't deep, but it felt like we were climbing into something older than the house itself.
My boots hit the ground. Concrete, cracked and dusty. I flicked the pull-chain light. A dim bulb blinked to life overhead, casting a yellow cone that barely cut the dark.
Laura stepped down beside me. "Smells the same."
"Like something that's been wiped down too many times," I muttered. "And not because it was dirty."
We looked around.
The walls were concrete too, but one of them... wasn't. I walked toward it. The wall on the far end was different. Drywall. Newer. Someone had built into the cellar.
"There was no room back here," Laura said, frowning.
"Not when we were here last."
I ran my hand along the drywall. Not quite flush with the floor. Air seeped from underneath. Cold, stale.
I looked back at her. "You got a crowbar?"
She nodded, turned, and went back up the stairs.
I waited, heart thudding. This wasn't just hidden—this was sealed.
Laura returned a minute later, handed me the crowbar. "You're scaring me."
"Yeah?" I wedged the bar into the seam. "I'm scaring me."
I heaved.
The drywall cracked, then popped free.
Behind it wasn't storage. It wasn't insulation.
It was a door.
A heavy, steel one.
No knob. No lock. Just a keypad.
I stepped back, jaw tight. "What the hell…"
Laura stared. "You think that professor built it?"
"I think the man didn't die of a stroke."
I turned to her, jaw still tight from what I was seeing. "How the hell does someone build a wall in your house—and you never notice?"
Laura blinked, arms crossed under her chest, suddenly defensive. "I—I don't know! I never came down here. Why would I? It creeped me out even before there was drywall."
"Yeah, well now it's got a goddamn vault door behind it."
She stepped closer, frowning at the keypad like it might suddenly explain itself. "Maybe it was always here. Maybe Goode built it. Or his son. Or someone after."
"No. Drywall's new. Not a decade old. Look—" I tapped the edge. "Still got pencil marks from measuring. And that's not DIY work. That's professional. Straight seams, clean fit, no nails out of place."
She looked at me. "You think Wesley knows?"
I gave her a look. "Wesley's a snake, not a psychic. But he wants something in this house bad enough to make offers, send goons, and throw punches. Wha
t do you think's behind a sealed room with a keypad?"
She didn't answer. She just stared at it. Like it might start ticking.
"Guessing you don't have the code?"
She gave me a sharp look. "No. Do you?"
I smirked. "Working on it."