I dialed her next. My thumb hovered a second longer than it should've before I hit call. The phone rang twice.
Then her voice.
"Hey, birthday boy. You okay?"
She sounded normal. Calm. Safe. I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding.
"Yeah. Yeah, just… checkin' in."
"Checkin' in?" She laughed lightly. "What's with you? You never check in. What happened?"
"Nothing," I lied. "Just… Garry had me runnin' a weird errand and I thought of you. Wanted to make sure no weirdos knocked at the door or anything."
"What kind of weirdos?"
"You know. Door-to-door crypto bros. Jehovah's Witnesses. Men in beige cargo shorts."
"So, men like you?"
"Exactly."
She was still laughing. Whatever had just happened to me, it hadn't touched her world yet. Good.
"I'm fine," she said. "I'm at the bar, remember? But thanks for calling, sweetheart. You sure you're okay?"
"Yeah," I said again, quieter this time. "Just tired."
"Alright. Be safe. And maybe don't do any more errands today, yeah?"
"No promises."
I hung up before she could hear the way my voice wanted to crack.
Then I limped my ass back toward the garage. Something told me the day was just getting started.
The garage smelled like grease and burnt coffee. I pushed the door open with my shoulder. Garry turned—and winced.
"Look what they did to your handsome face."
He didn't smile. Just kept pacing like a caged animal, eyes darting from the busted socket wrench on the floor to the cracked clock above the office door. His jaw was clenched tight enough to snap teeth.
I didn't say anything. I just sat.
Then the phone rang.
He froze mid-step, staring at it like it had teeth. After the third ring, he picked it up. No greeting. Just a breath.
Then—
"Hey, Smith. Yeah, uh—look, somethin' happened. The Supra—Lucien didn't make it there. He got jumped. Couple of guys took the car. They had guns."
He looked at me with a grimace, mouthing sorry.
"No, not joyriders. They said… they said, 'That's half the money.' Yeah. I know. I know."
I watched the color drain from his face, saw his hand shake as he gripped the phone tighter.
"No, I didn't tell anyone. Just me and the kid. No cops. I swear."
Silence. Then whatever Smith said made Garry's knees buckle slightly.
"I'll fix it," he whispered. "I'll fix it."
Click.
He set the phone down like it might explode.
"We're in deep shit."
"No kidding."
He looked at me, eyes bloodshot.
"Smith doesn't think it's random. He thinks someone's making moves—sniffing around his crew, testing us. And now he thinks we're weak."
I didn't respond. Just wiped more dried blood off my lip and stared at the oil stains on the floor.
This wasn't over.
This was opening night.
The sun had dipped low by the time Ben finally rolled up, greasy as ever and reeking of sweat and engine oil. He had the modules tucked in the back of his dented van, wrapped in a bedsheet that probably doubled as his blanket.
Garry didn't argue. Didn't haggle. Just shoved the cash into Ben's hand and waved him off, not even counting it. Desperate men don't count bills—they pray they're enough.
I didn't wait around. My face ached, my ribs screamed, and my brain felt like it was made of rusted metal.
By the time I got home, the swelling had gone down, but the black bruise around my eye bloomed like a curse. I stepped inside, let the door swing shut behind me, and dropped on the couch like dead weight. Didn't bother with lights. Didn't need noise. Just let the dark hum.
Hours passed. Or maybe it was minutes. I couldn't tell anymore.
Then—three knocks on the door.
I pulled myself up, groaning. Opened it.
There she was.
Laura. Tight jeans. Bar tee still hugging her curves. Hair pinned up. A cake box in one hand, a case of cheap beer in the other.
She smiled. Then her eyes found my face.
The smile dropped.
"Lucien…"
"Happy birthday to me," I muttered, stepping aside.
She walked in slowly, shut the door behind her. Set the cake and the beers on the counter without a word.
"Who did this?"
"It's nothing."
"Looks like nothing punched you in the fucking face."
I sank onto the couch again.
"Some assholes. Took the car I was delivering. That's all."
She crossed her arms.
"You tell Garry?"
"He told Smith."
That made her still.
"Shit."
"Yeah."
She turned back to the beers, cracked two cans, handed me one. Sat next to me, close but not touching.
"You gonna be okay?"
"Ask me after a few more of these."
We drank in silence for a moment, the birthday cake still unopened, sweating on the counter like a forgotten promise.
She watched me, her beer untouched. Her fingers kept tightening around the can like she wanted to crush it.
"What did you do?" she asked, quieter this time. "Why'd they come after you?"
I took another sip. My lip stung. My jaw felt crooked.
"Didn't say. Just showed up, rammed the car, pulled a gun."
"That's not random, Lucien. That's personal."
I turned to her, met her eyes.
"One of them said something. After they roughed me up."
"What?"
"'That's half the money,'" I said, slow. "'Tell her to be quick.'"
I saw the color drain from her face. She froze, shoulders tense, lips parted like she couldn't remember how to breathe.
"Laura?"
She sat down her beer—fast, too fast. It clattered on the counter. Then she grabbed her forehead with one hand, pressing hard like she could push the memory out.
"Shit," she whispered.
"What's going on?"
She didn't answer. Just stood there for a second—shaking slightly—then stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me. Buried her face in my neck and held tight. Like the contact might make it go away.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so fucking sorry, Luce…"
I didn't hug her back at first. I was too stunned, too locked in on the fact that her reaction wasn't shock.
It was recognition.
"What the fuck did you do?" I asked, not angry. Not yet.
She didn't let go. But I felt her chest rise against mine. A long inhale. Like she was trying to gather every ounce of courage she had before answering.
I wrapped my arms around her, finally. Not out of instinct, but to quiet the tremble in her spine. She was warm. Tight. Scared.
"It's okay," I murmured. "Just tell me."
She stayed like that for a few more seconds. Then pulled back, eyes wet, lips pressed thin with shame.
"Sit down," she said, voice rough.
I obeyed. She stayed standing for a moment, staring at the beer cans like they might offer courage. Then she exhaled, long and bitter, and lowered herself beside me.
"It was last month. The bank sent the message—they were done playing nice. One more missed payment and they'd foreclose. Take everything. I checked my account. I had enough to buy gas and maybe ramen for the week."
I watched her hands—how they wouldn't stay still. Clutching her thigh, rubbing her wrist, dragging over her face.
"I didn't tell you. I didn't want you to worry. You already work too much."
She looked up at me, guilty.
"So I just sat at the bar, pretending it was fine. That it'd sort itself out. Then…"
A pause. Her throat worked.
"Then he walked in."
"Who?"
"Wesley."
The name landed like cold metal. I'd never heard her say it before. But I didn't need to ask who he was—not really.
"Old flame," she added, soft. "University. We were stupid back then. Wild. He was charming, in that dangerous but hot kind of way. Always had money, always knew a guy."
I stayed silent. She didn't need prompting now. She needed release.
"He sat down. Ordered a drink. Smiled like nothing had changed. Said I looked exactly how he remembered. I didn't know whether to laugh or throw the bottle at his face."
"What did he want?"
She looked me in the eyes.
"He didn't want anything. He offered."
Another pause. The kind that tastes like rot.
"Cash. No strings. Said he was doing well for himself—import-export, the usual bullshit. He'd overheard me talking to the manager earlier. Said he could help me keep the house. Just a 'favor for an old friend.'"
"I thought I could repay him," she said.
Her voice was flat now, controlled. That numb kind of calm that only comes when the damage is already done.
"It wasn't supposed to go this far. I figured I'd tighten things up for a few months—cut corners, pick up more shifts, maybe even pawn a few things. He didn't mention anything about a timeline. Not until I started hearing things."
She looked over, her gaze heavy.
"Wesley's not some playboy anymore, Lucien. He's—he's connected. A drug dealer. Big-time. I didn't know at first, I swear. But people talk. Bartenders hear everything."
She ran her hand through her hair, pulling it back from her face. I could see the panic rising behind her calm.
"So I tried. I called everyone. Applied for loans under the table. Sold every piece of jewelry I had that wasn't pure costume shit. But I was still short."
"And then?"
She took a deep breath. Her lips parted like it hurt to say the next part.
"Then he messaged me."
She reached for her phone, opened her messages, scrolled until she found it—didn't hand it to me, just held it up like a confession in digital form.
"Said he'd wipe the debt… if I sold him the house. For a fourth of what it's worth."
My jaw clenched.
"And you said?"
"I asked for time."
"And?"
She gave a brittle smile.
"He didn't answer."
She stayed quiet for a moment. Just breathing. Just blinking. Then her bottom lip trembled.
I'd never seen her cry before.
Not when the heater broke in winter. Not when some drunk asshole threw a bottle at her car. Not even when we almost lost the house the first time. Laura didn't cry. She snapped, she swore, she found solutions. But now—
Now she folded.
Her hands covered her face. Shoulders shaking, breath hitching in tiny little gasps like she was choking on the one thing she couldn't swallow anymore—helplessness.
I crossed the room before I even realized I was moving.
Held her.
"Hey… hey. I've got you."
Her fingers curled into my shirt like she didn't believe it. Like she needed something real to hold onto or she'd dissolve right there on the couch.
"I didn't know what else to do," she mumbled into my chest. "I didn't want to tell you, Lucien. I thought I could protect you."
"You did," I said. "You have. But now it's my turn."
She pulled back, mascara running, red eyes searching mine like maybe I had a magic plan tucked behind my teeth.
"I'll fix it," I said. "I don't care how deep this goes. I don't care what I have to do. He won't touch this house. Or you."
She stared at me.
Then nodded.
It wasn't belief yet. But it was hope. And that was enough—for now.
Her breathing had steadied, but her eyes were still glossy, her skin warm where it pressed against mine. I didn't want to let go. But the sharp buzz of my phone on the table didn't wait for timing.
I glanced at the screen. Garry.
I met Laura's eyes, brushing a strand of hair off her cheek with my thumb.
"It's fine," I said. "I'll handle it."
I stood and stepped out the front door, letting the cold slap me back to focus. Picked up the call.
"Talk to me."
Garry didn't waste time.
"Smith wants to meet. Tonight."
I felt my stomach tighten.
"Where?"
"Didn't say. Yet. He just said he wants both of us. That's all I got."
"That doesn't sound like a conversation over drinks."
"No," Garry said, voice grim. "It doesn't."
We both knew this wasn't about just losing the car anymore. This was Smith circling sharks. Seeing who was bleeding.
"You armed?" I asked.
"Always."
"Then keep it close. I'll be there in twenty."
Hung up.
Looked up at the sky—grey, heavy, waiting to break.
Then stepped back inside.
Laura looked up from the couch, that question already on her face.
"Smith wants to meet," I said, grabbing my jacket.
"Lucien…"
"I said I'll fix it. And I will."
She stood, but didn't stop me. Just came close enough to brush her fingers against mine.
"Be careful."
"I always am."
I wasn't.
The bike roared under me, all throttle and vibration, no patience. I tore through the streets like they'd offended me—no music, no distractions, just the wind in my face and the weight of the night tightening around my ribs.
Garry's garage came into view. The lights were still on.
He was already outside when I pulled up, pacing in tight circles with that anxious twitch in his jaw he only got when things were about to go to hell.
"We're not taking that," he said, nodding at my bike.
"Didn't plan to."
He tossed me a key fob. It blinked in my hand.
The black Charger parked by the shutter door purred like something freshly fed. Low, wide, and definitely too loud for subtlety.
"Figured if we're gonna get shot at," Garry muttered, "might as well look fast doing it."
We didn't speak much after that.
The drive to the warehouse district was short. Sharp turns. Long shadows. The kind of area where people stop asking questions after dark. Smith's warehouse stood at the far end—an old auto-parts place turned fortress. Half-lit. Gated. Silent.
A man with a shaved head and a pistol at his hip waved us in. Garry drove us through.
Inside, the warehouse was cavernous. Smelled of oil, smoke, and too much secrecy. Stacks of crates formed mazes. Lights buzzed overhead in a rhythm that made your skin crawl.
And in the center of it all—
Smith.
Black leather coat, cigarette burning between his fingers, and that calm, dead-eyed expression that always meant someone was about to suffer.
He didn't smile. He never did.
"Boys," he said, voice gravel and velvet. "Let's talk about debts."
Click. Click. Click.
Heels on cold concrete. Slow enough to make us wait for it.
We turned.
She strutted into the light—tall, tight, all curves and control. Black pencil skirt painted on, hugging hips that didn't ask permission. A crisp white blouse tucked in like she'd cinched it just to show off that hourglass—buttons strained just enough to tease, tits high and heavy underneath. Jet-black hair down, parted like she had better things to do than care. Blue eyes, icy and sharp. Pale skin that didn't blush. Red lips that looked born to say "no"—or "get on your knees."
She walked like she'd owned men for sport.
"Natasha," Smith said, not turning. "How much do they owe us again?"
She didn't even blink at us.
"Thirty-five grand."
Then she stopped beside him like a weapon set down.
Smith turned, slow, cocky.
"Thirty-five K," he repeated. "You think I'd waste my fucking time over thirty-five grand?"
His eyes locked on mine.
"Hey, boy. I heard about your little debt."
He stepped closer, reeking of leather and ash, voice like a slow knife.
"You didn't take the money. But it's in your lap now, isn't it?"
He dropped his smoke and crushed it underfoot.
"You think I give a shit whose name was on the dotted line?"
He smiled, slow and mean.
"This isn't about fairness. It's about who bleeds when the clock runs out."
Natasha didn't move. Didn't need to. Just watched me like she was already picking a place to bury the body.
And I realized then—this wasn't a debt.
It was a leash.
Smith circled me slow, boots echoing in that cavernous warehouse. He wasn't looking at me, not really. More like through me. Like he was trying to see what I'd do when the cage finally slammed shut.
"That Wesley bastard's playing a different game," he muttered.
Didn't sound angry—sounded bored. Like someone watching a magician recycle old tricks.
He stopped behind me. I felt his breath more than heard his words.
"He and I… we're not friends. Never were. He's got flash, fast hands, cheap product. I deal in weight. Legacy. Control."
He stepped around front again, meeting my eye. The glint in his smile wasn't kind.
"You think this is about some fucking loan? Thirty-five K? He could piss that in a bottle and still have change for lunch."
Natasha crossed her arms, still silent. Still watching.
Smith leaned in.
"If he really wanted his money, you'd be in a ditch by now. No warning. No bruises. Just a clean cut and a missing body."
He straightened, smoothed the front of his jacket, voice dropping again.
"Which tells me there's something in that little house of yours that he wants."
He let it hang.
I didn't flinch, but the weight of it sat heavy in my gut. Laura's house.
Smith wasn't finished.
"He's circling, waiting. Trying to pressure you to fold without leaving a body behind. But he's not here for you, boy. You're just the fucking doormat."
He flicked ash off his sleeve.
"I don't care what sentimental sob story your 'aunt' fed you. If I'm going to protect my territory from that slick-haired fuck, I need to know what's in that house that's got him so desperate."
He looked at Natasha. She didn't nod. She didn't blink.
"And you're going to find out for me."
Smith flicked his lighter open, lit a cigar, and spoke through the smoke like none of this meant a damn thing to him.
"Work for me," he said. "Earn real money for the first time in your life. You're fast, you're not stupid, and you've got something he wants. That makes you valuable—for now."
I didn't move. Just stared at him through the ache in my jaw and the sting in my ribs.
"Find out what's in that house," he added. "Figure out why he's sniffing around. And if you can pay me back in the process, great. But between us?" He grinned, ugly and white. "I don't think that bastard gives a fuck about the loan."
He blew smoke into the stale air.
"He wants leverage. Territory. He wants to reach into my pockets without me knowing it."
Smith stepped closer again, close enough for his cologne to overpower the scent of oil and metal. His voice dropped low.
"You're gonna let him? Or you gonna earn your place?"
I weighed it all—Laura, the bruises on my face, the silence on the other end of Wesley's messages, the pressure building by the day.
"Fine," I said. "I'm in."
His smile didn't reach his eyes. Natasha gave the barest nod, as if approving a good dog's trick.
"Smart choice," Smith said, turning his back. "Garry'll fill you in on your first job."
He paused mid-step.
"Oh—and don't make me regret trusting you."
Then he walked off like he already owned the outcome.