Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 54059 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 270(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54059 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 270(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
“My mom, okay?” Fuck, I suck. I broke in two seconds. It really shouldn't be shocking. I guess it doesn’t take much to break me. My mom did get me to buy her drugs, but what choice did I have? She was vomiting and shaking. The crazy thing is they made her better.
His brows lift in surprise. “Your mom?”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him I don’t like repeating myself, but I manage to hold it in. Instead, I bite the inside of my cheek and simply nod.
Chapter Three
NIKI
“We can’t be doing this,” Bam argues as we make our way through the laundromat that Clark designated our headquarters.
“Clark’s getting his money.” I frown at a pair of boots in my path. The owner, a kid that can’t be more than fifteen, draws his feet back under his chair and then jumps up so quickly the chair topples over.
“Sorry, sir!” He executes a weird salute that starts at his chest and ends somewhere around his forehead.
I drag his hand down to his side. “Don’t ever do that again.”
He nods vigorously and opens his mouth to shout something, but I give him a terse shake of my head. He finally gets it and snaps his trap shut.
Beside me, Bam shakes with suppressed laughter. “Fresh meat,” he calls out in a jolly tone as we leave the main room. “Good times ahead.”
The laundromat is full tonight. The place isn’t owned by Clark but by the head of the Riders. They run our territory, and in exchange for not getting beat up and shot, we give the Riders ten percent of our earnings. Clark says it’s like a tithe and the Riders are our religion.
I don’t really buy into that, but Bam does. He got a Riders tat as soon as Clark pinned him. Pinning is when you earn your position in the gang—I mean organization. We’re not to use the term gang because of legal reasons. Something-something RICO. Anyway, pinning is when the existing members of the org decide you’re worth keeping around and to make sure everyone else knows that you’re not to be touched. They give you a metal badge with inch-long spikes. It’s a painful experience, and you’re expected to endure. If you can’t make it through the pinning ceremony, then you’re out.
My pin’s in my wallet, but Bam puts his on the sleeve of whatever coat he’s wearing. He says it’s saved his ass more than once. The Riders are powerful, and if you mess with one of us, you mess with all of us. It’s one of the reasons why the laundromat is full. There’s always new recruits thinking they want to be part of this org.
Bam places a hand on my arm and draws me away from the back room door. “Look, I won’t say anything, but paying that girl’s debt is going to get around, and that’s bad business.”
“She won’t say anything.”
“How do you know?”
“I can tell.”
“If her mom has a habit and she’s already behind, you know you’re going to be at that girl’s desk again. And then what?”
I pay off the debt again. To Bam, I shrug. “Bridge to be crossed in the future.” I shove the door open, signaling the end of our discussion.
In the back room, four guards stand at attention, two on either side of the door leading into the back room and two in front of another door, this one made out of steel. I know all of these guys. The one to the right of the steel door is Ready. I don’t know his real name. He came in with that name, and it’s the only one he’s uttered in the four years that he’s been a Rider. He’s about to age out. Once you hit twenty, you go to the senior group and shake down adults, protect escorts, and other stuff that I don’t know about, probably for my own good.
I dab Ready’s knuckles and then give the rat-tat-tat-tat on the door.
“Enter,” Clark calls. I duck under the doorframe and set the money down on the round table in the corner. Emile, our accountant, places the stack in a counting machine. Bam and I hang by the door until Emile gives Clark a thumbs-up. All the money’s accounted for. Emile hands me the freshly straightened stack, and I carry it to Clark, who sits behind the desk still wearing his prep school blazer. I can’t remember a time when I’ve seen him without the slim-fitting gray coat with its blue trim.
“Any troubles?”
Bam inhales, but before he can spill his guts, I answer with a quick “No.”
“Andy Nunn’s a fucking girl.” Bam can’t help himself.
Clark’s eyebrows shoot up. “A girl? Emile, who did the intel for Andy Nunn?”
Emile grabs a worn notebook off the table and rifles through it. “Says here that Heather P gathered the intel for Friday’s collections and that she was paid fifty per mark. She provided information on six targets for a total of three hundred dollars.”