Page 98 of Zeus

"You'd lie for her?" Scott asks, an edge of awe in his voice.

"For her," Zeus scoffs. "Fuck that. Don't need people giving me shit for not being able to get it up."

"You guys can't be fucking wandering around out here," Scott snaps. "Get your fucking drinking under control. That shit will get you dead around this fucking place."

He turns and walks away, pausing when Zeus speaks again.

"Care to fucking tell me how to get back home?" Zeus snaps.

Instead of turning back and giving my pretend drunk friend an answer, he just starts walking again before disappearing around the edge of a car wall.

"That was fucking close," I tell him as I approach, leaning into him so I can help him back to our place.

If the man was too drunk to figure out where he was going, then he needs to stay drunk until we at least get back to the minimal safety of our cabin.

He shoves me away the second we step inside, before turning to glare at me. I can see the distrust on his face, and he might as well take a knife and twist it into my gut to think that I'd mess with one of these women.

I look around the room, but of course, there's not a fucking slip of paper visible. I grab a pen from my still unpacked duffel bag and scribble on my hand.

Nothing happened with her.

I turn it to face him, but even after he reads the words, his attitude doesn't change.

Instead of believing me, he strips off his shirt, kicks off his boots, and heads toward his bed.

I swallow, feeling guilty when he sees the disheveled way I left it. Just the pause in his steps makes me want to step forward and reassure him of what really happened.

Instead of getting into the lower bunk, he climbs up to the top, leaving his back in my direction.

Despite knowing there's no way he could fall asleep with his back to the door, he doesn't mutter another word.

Chapter 32

Zeus

Three weeks of living like a racist.

Three weeks of robbing people, selling drugs to sad fucking souls at not just the one fucking house we set up, but the four houses Bobby has in operation in the area.

Three weeks of hints at trafficking women with no concrete evidence.

Three weeks of that special bell ringing out and watching Zayne happily walk away with Sable tucked under his arm.

Three weeks of drinking enough that I have a plausible reason not to fuck one of these women.

I scratch at my face, having let my beard take on a life of its own. The guys around here don't seem very focused on hygiene, but they haven't questioned why Zayne shaves every day either.

I'm agitated, feeling more than a little restless, and my fucking body aches from not sleeping well and abusing my fucking liver like I'll get another one once the fucking mission is over.

I stumble back toward our cabin, grateful my drinking and standoffish behavior have left most of the women afraid to even approach me.

Scott has been pairing up with Peaches the last couple of weeks, but they must've had a little lovers' spat because she went right toward that fucking Chris guy when they showed up tonight, ignoring Scott altogether.

Regina Banks hasn't once come to the fire pit, and it makes me wonder just how many other women have jobs around the compound and remain unseen at the gatherings.

I could convince myself to be grateful she hasn't had to be there, but I know better than to think she's safe in her absence.

I reach my hand out, about to grab the doorknob, when the sound reaches my ears.