“Holy crap,” I gasped.
The greasy guy stepped inside, glancing at where I was smashed like a gross bug. “Sorry,” he grunted, hauling the door off me and kicking it closed with a scuffed-up biker boot. “I need to see Mona.”
I blinked a couple of times as I pressed my palm against the side of my head. For a moment, I think I saw birdies.
“Mona!” the man shouted, moving down the hall.
Wincing, I dropped my hand and straightened just as the guy walked into the living room, still shouting my mom’s name like she was going to magically appear out of thin air.
I hurried down the hall, still somewhat in a daze. “She’s not here.”
Greasy Guy stood in front of the couch, his shoulders hunched. In the brighter light, I really didn’t want to see what I saw. The man was dirty—his shirt and his jeans. His arms were bare, the insides of them covered in red, puckered marks.
Greasy Guy was strung-out.
“Mona isn’t here,” I tried again, my heart kicking into high gear, which caused the ache in my temple to feel like a miniature jackhammer.
He turned to me, his jaw working. “She owes me.”
Shit galore everywhere and on my shoes.
Greasy Guy turned to me, and his eyes were a pale blue, unfocused. I wasn’t sure he even saw me. “She’s got shit here. I know she does.”
My eyes widened. There had so better be no shit here.
Without saying another word, he brushed past me, heading for the bedroom. My heart lurched in my chest. “What are you doing?” I demanded.
He didn’t respond as he went straight for the bed, ripping off the clean sheets and blankets.
“Hey!” I shouted.
Still, he ignored me as he slipped his hands under the mattress and then flipped it over. When he found nothing, he let out a string of curses.
Oh, this was so not good and quickly spiraling out of control.
I started toward him, but he threw out a jacked-up arm and growled, “Stay the f**k back.”
My stomach tumbled, and I stayed the f**k back as he went to the dresser, pulled out my folded clothes, and then went over to the closet. Out of some small miracle, he didn’t go for my purse after demolishing the room I’d straightened.
Then he stopped at the entrance to the bathroom, his back straightening. A strange look crossed his face. “Damnit.” Greasy Guy turned and jogged out of the bedroom, aiming for the stairs.
Oh no. Where in the hell did he think he was going? Hands shaking, I whirled around and got in front of him, blocking the stairs. “I’m sorry, but she’s not here. I don’t know where she is or what you’re looking for, but you need to—”
He planted a hand in the center of my chest, pushing me back, and then he got right up in my face. His teeth were yellow, some completely rotten out, and his breath smelled like days-old garbage. Bile rose in my throat.
“Look, I don’t know who you are and I don’t give a f**k. But I don’t have a problem with you,” he said. “So, don’t make me have a problem with you. Okay?”
I forced a jerky nod. I did not want to have a problem with him. “Got it.”
He stared at me a moment, and then his gaze narrowed over my left cheek. “You’re Mona’s kid, aren’t you?”
I didn’t answer because I wasn’t sure if that would mean I’d have a problem with him if I did.
“Shit sucks for you,” he said, and then dropped his hand. Greasy Guy climbed the stairs.
Against common sense, I followed him up the stairs and into the loft bedroom—my old bedroom. Greasy Guy knew what he was looking for. He went straight to the closet and ripped the door open so hard I was surprised it didn’t come off the hinges. Then he dropped to his knees and leaned into the tight space. Holding my breath, I crept behind him, debating if I should go for the lamp on the nightstand and knock him out.
Greasy Guy reached in, brushing shoe boxes out of the way, and then I couldn’t see what he was doing when he grunted and jerked back. He tossed a piece of the wall aside—a piece that had been cut out, which probably hid a cubbyhole.
“Fuck yeah,” Greasy Man breathed as he scuttled back out of the closet, stumbling to his feet. “Jackpot. Motherf**king jackpot.”
I didn’t want to look, but I had to. Greasy Guy was holding, not one, but at least eight Ziploc bags in his hands—bags full of something off brown that reminded me of clumpy brown sugar.
“Oh my God,” I whispered.
Greasy Guy didn’t hear me. He was staring at the bags in his hands like he was seconds away from ripping one open and shoving his face into the crap.
My knees felt weak. There had been drugs in the house, drugs hidden in a secret spot in the closet of my old bedroom. Not pot or something else relatively harmless, but something I bet was real bad and real costly.
Greasy Guy seemed to forget that I existed, which was okey-dokey fine with me. He headed down the stairs, and then a few seconds later, I heard the front door slam shut, causing me to jump.
I don’t know how long I stood in the bedroom, staring at the open closet door before I forced my feet to move. I went downstairs and into the bedroom, dragging my cell phone out of my purse. My hand shook as I called Clyde.
He answered on the third ring. “You okay, baby girl?”
It was late, and he was probably still at the bar. “Some guy was here.”
There was a pause, and then his voice got real low and real serious. “What happened?”
I told him everything in a rush, and then he told me to make sure the door was locked—good point—and to hold still. He was coming over. There wasn’t anything he could do now, but I appreciated it. Admittedly, I was freaked-out. Way freaked-out.
I made sure the closet door in Mom’s bedroom was closed, reapplied my makeup even though it was only Clyde, and then the next twenty minutes or so, I sat on the couch, clutching the phone to my chest until there was a quick, loud knock on the front door.
I checked the peephole again, and this time I saw someone out there—someone that sent my already overworked heart into cardiac arrest territory.
Jax was standing on the other side of the door.
“What the hell were you thinking?” was the first thing out of Jax’s mouth when I opened the front door.
I had a better question. “What are you doing here? I called Clyde.”
“And Clyde told me, so I’m here.” He pushed inside, pulled the door from my grasp, and pushed it shut, locking it. “You didn’t answer my question.”
Having not come to terms with the fact that it was Jax that was suddenly standing in the foyer, I blinked slowly. “What question?”
“Why in the hell did you answer the door in the middle of the night?”
“Oh. I checked the peephole first, you know.”
Jax stared at me.
“And I didn’t see anyone,” I added in my defense.
He folded well-defined arms across his chest. “So, let me get this correct. You heard knocking on your front door, went and actually used the peephole, but when you didn’t see anyone, you thought, Oh, what the hell, I’ll just open the door? Did it ever occur to you that someone could’ve been hiding?”
Oh wow, he looked and sounded pissed, but he could kiss my rosy red behind. “The guy wasn’t hiding. He was sitting down.”
His dark brows flew up. “Did you know that when you opened the door?”
“Well, no, but—”
“So, why in the hell did you answer the door?” he demanded again, eyes turning dark.
“Look, I get that answering the door was stupid.” My hand tightened around my cell phone, and I sort of wanted to slam my other fist into his chest. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“No shit,” he growled.
My eyes narrowed. “I get it. I don’t need you to keep pointing it out.”
“Jesus Christ, Calla, I’ve told you about the kind of shit your mom was messed up in, and I told you not to stay here. The least you could do is not answer the door in the middle of the night.”
I drew in a deep breath as I reached up and brushed the still damp hair back behind my right ear. “Got it. Thanks for hand-delivering your message. Now you can . . .” I trailed off, eyes widening.
A scary look entered his eyes, and then he was right in front of me, moving like he had in the office earlier in the night. I backed up, hitting the wall, and there was no other place to go. The tips of two of his fingers pressed lightly under my right temple. His gaze, troubled and stormy, was fixed to that area.
My heart was pounding as fast as it had when Greasy Guy had busted up into the house. “Jax . . . ?”
His gaze swept over to mine. “Did he hit you?”
“No,” I whispered.
“Then what happened to your temple? It’s red and swollen.” His voice was icy and hard.
“It was the door. When he pushed it open, I was kind of standing in the way.” Anger flashed in those eyes, and his jaw tightened. “He actually didn’t try to hurt me, Jax. He just wanted to get to what was in this house.”
The tension in his jaw didn’t ease and a long moment passed where I didn’t think I took one single breath. “Are you okay?”
Our gazes were locked. “Yeah. It just . . . it shook me up. I didn’t expect that.” It sounded stupid considering what he’d warned me about. “I didn’t know that stuff was in the house.”
“I know.” His voice dropped, softened, and the longer he stared at me, the more tiny flutters grew in my chest, which caused a dozen or so warnings to fire off. “Clyde said you told him that the guy found stuff?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Upstairs in my old bedroom. The closet.”
“Shit,” he muttered, clearly disgusted. His fingers slowly trailed off the side of my head, and then he pivoted around, moving deeper into the house.
A moment passed where I just stood there, the hand holding the phone pressed close between my br**sts. Then I forced myself away from the wall. Still having no idea why it was Jax who had come instead of Clyde, I followed him. He was halfway up the stairs, and neither of us spoke until he was crouched down in front of the closet, holding the piece of drywall.
“Did you see exactly what he got?” he asked.
“It was several bags of something that looked like brown sugar. I’m guessing that wasn’t it.”
“Fuck,” he muttered, sounding distracted. “Sounds like her**n. Little bags or big?”
Heroin. God, was Mom doing that shit now? “What do you mean by little? Like sandwich-bag size?”
“No.” He coughed out a laugh as he rose, facing me. “A sandwich bag of he**in would not be little. Talking this small?” He held up his finger and thumb, changing the space between them to a couple of inches. “What about that?”
“It was several Ziploc-sized bags, Jax. There were about eight of them, and they were full.” My heart skipped a beat when his face went blank. “That’s . . . that’s bad, right?”
“Fuck yeah.” He thrust his hands through his hair. “Sounds like there could’ve been a kilo or more in those bags. And, by the way you describe it, sounds like black tar her**n.”
I knew what a kilo was due to the kind of classes I took, but I had no idea what that translated into in the drug world. “Black tar?”
“More expensive shit from what I hear.”
The walls shifted suddenly. “How expensive?”
“Shit. Anywhere from seventy thousand to over a hundred thousand per kilo,” he explained, drawing in a deep breath. “Really depends on how pure it is—if it was high-end shit or not. Could even be worth a couple of million.”
“Oh my God.” My knees suddenly felt weak. “How do you know this stuff?”
His gaze landed on me. “Been around the block a few times.”
“You did her**n?”
“Hell no.” He didn’t elaborate. “Tell me what this guy looked like.” After I finished describing Greasy Guy, Jax looked even tenser. “Doubt that it was his shit he was retrieving. And I don’t think it was Mona’s, either.”
My stomach flopped. “You think she was . . . holding it for someone?”
He nodded. “Let’s f**king pray that this guy was who she was holding it for. If not . . .”
Oh God, I didn’t need to be a drug kingpin to figure out what he meant. If Mom was holding drugs of that kind of value, the owner would eventually come looking for it, and with the drugs being gone, she was beyond being in hot water. She was drowning. All I could hope, like Jax had said, was that the crap belonged to Greasy Guy. He seemed to know exactly where it was.
As we headed downstairs, my phone rang in my hand. Lifting it, I saw that it was Clyde calling. “Hello?”
“You doing okay, baby girl?” came his deep, gravelly voice.