Page 46 of The Obsession
“You can go and get those potted plants off the veranda and put them in the back of my car.” I shove my hand into my pocket, grab my keys, and toss them to him. “And be careful with the paintwork.”
“I never picked you as a green thumb,” Romeo snickers as we continue moving.
“They’re Emily’s,” I growl. “She loves those fucking plants.”
“Fair enough,” he says with a chuckle. “I know how Lucia is with her garden. She wanted to kneecap the guy who ran over her rose bush when they were setting up the marquee in the backyard.”
My hand disappears into my pocket as I roll Emily’s Chapstick between my fingers.
“So how’s this going to play out?” Romeo asks as we approach the shithole where Emily used to live.
“Messy,” I answer.
We stick close to the fence line when we reach the yard, using the darkness to cover us while we circle around to the back of the house. The night air is still, and a faint glow leaks from the small garage at the rear of the property.
I signal for Romeo to stay put as I inch closer, using the shadows and the overgrown hedges for cover.
I flatten my body against the siding of the garage and peek through the small window, seeing him as soon as I do.He’s sitting in a fold-out chair, legs spread, in a lazy posture. A brick-shaped object sits in front of him on an upside-down milk crate, wrapped tightly in black plastic, but there’s a small cut on one corner.
Smoke curls lazily from the small glass crack pipe in his hand. Dante was right; he’s sampling his own product. And the fact that he’s here and alone, instead of at the clubhouse, tells me his bikie brothers don’t know he’s doing it.
If they did, he wouldn’t be sitting in this garage getting high. He’d be in a shallow hole somewhere, or stripped of his patch and tossed out like garbage.
I know the Steal Reapers are the only distributors dealing in methamphetamines in town, which makes this moment even more personal for me.
They may not sell to my sister directly, but they’re the reason she can keep feeding her habit. Every hit she takes, every spiral she falls into, traces back to them. They didn’t just enable her; they paved the path that ruined her life.
It makes my blood boil. I can’t forget the wreckage Violet’s life has become or the choices she’s made, but I can see the Reapers’ fingerprints all over it. They’ve turned her into this version of herself. The person I no longer recognise.
What makes me all the more livid is the fact that he’s out here getting high and hasn’t bothered to go inside and check on the woman he beat this morning, which only fuels my rage.
My eyes move around the inside of the garage, assessing, looking for anything he may be able to pick up and use as a weapon. I know how unpredictable a person high on ice can be. There’s nothing that can save this motherfucker, but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared.
I reach the door off to the side, which is slightly cracked open. The faint hiss of his pipe and the quiet crackle tell me he’s having another hit. I give him a moment to enjoy thelast rush of high he’s ever going to get before I calmly step inside.
His head snaps up so fast it makes the smoke coming out of his mouth curl sideways. His eyes widen, and his blown pupils flick from my boots to my face, like he’s just spotted a predator.
The pipe trembles in his fingers as he jerks back in the chair, rocking it against the concrete. “Shit,” he hisses as his chest heaves, and every muscle in him tenses, coiled tight, like he’s deciding whether to bolt or strike.
There’s only one way out, through the door I just entered, and he has zero chance of getting past me.
“Who the fuck are you?” he eventually asks, scrambling to his feet.
I inhale a sharp breath through my nose and crack my knuckles as I take a step towards him. “I’m the Grim Reaper,” I growl. “Your worst fucking nightmare.”
As I advance toward him, I notice his bike helmet sitting on the workbench, so I reach for it.
My fingers curl around the strap, and the second I’m within swinging distance, I lift my arm, smashing him in the side of the head. I move so quickly he doesn’t have time to react. The force of the blow is so powerful that I not only knock the fucker off his feet, I knock him the hell out.
I glance down at his unmoving form, and the first thing I think is,shit, I hope I haven’t killed him. The fun hasn’t even started yet.
I take a step closer, kicking him in the ribs, and when he groans in pain, a sadistic grin curves my lips.
Reaching down, I fist his leather vest in my hand, dragging him to his feet in one swift motion. His boots scrape across the concrete, and his head lolls to one side; he’s still out of it, floating somewhere between high as a kite and comatose.
I steady him long enough to get a better look at thespace around us. The exposed rafters above catch my eye, thick beams running the length of the garage. My gaze moves over the cluttered shelves, the mess stacked in the corners, and the old tools hanging crooked on the wall.
I need some rope or wire so I can string him up. I want to secure him until he’s fully conscious. It’s important he feels every little thing I do to him. Just like Emily did when he put his hands on her.
