13. Chapter 13

13

Wren

" H ey , sugar tits!" some asshole calls out.

Without turning to see who the fuck it is, I'm rolling my eyes so hard they might fall out of my skull. Probably that creep, Jerry. Dude's been trying to get in my pants since I started here.

The Rusty Nail's packed tonight, air thick with smoke and desperation. Just another fucking Friday in paradise.

I adjust my crop top, black leather barely covering what needs to be covered. My tits are practically screaming for freedom, but that's the point, right? Gotta give these losers something to ogle while they piss away their paychecks.

My phone buzzes in my back pocket. Shit. I duck behind the bar, fishing it out.

Text from Em:

Dad flipped shit. Tore apart every room. Took the old TV.

Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck.

"Wren! Order up!" Mack, the other bartender, shouts over the noise. He's a decent guy, for a sleazeball. At least he keeps his hands to himself.

I shove my phone away, plastering on my fakest smile.

No time to worry about Dad now. Time to hustle.

The night's a blur of overpriced drinks and handsy drunks. I've lost count of how many times I've had to "accidentally" spill ice-cold beer on grabby fingers.

Regular faces pop up. There's Old Pete, nursing his usual whiskey and looking like death warmed over. Trixie's in her usual spot, fishnets and all, trolling for her next sugar daddy. And fucking Jerry, of course, eyeing me like I'm a steak, and he's been starving for years.

"What's a guy gotta do to get some service around here?" a new voice drawls.

I turn, ready to tell this fucker where he can stick his attitude. But the words die in my throat.

Two mountains of men are standing there, oozing danger like a toxic spill. The first one's built like a brick shithouse, with a face that looks like it's been used as a punching bag one too many times. The second's leaner, but his eyes are cold as ice. They ain't here for the watered-down booze, that's for damn sure.

They shove Jerry aside like he's a ragdoll, and the poor bastard doesn't even squeak. Smart move. These guys look like they eat guys like Jerry for breakfast.

As they approach the bar, the air around them seems to chill. The chatter dies down, replaced by an uneasy silence.

Fuck, what now?

The big one leans on the counter, way too close for comfort. His breath reeks of cigarettes and something stronger.

"Vodka," he grunts in a thick Russian accent. "Two."

I grab the bottles, trying to keep my hands steady. As I pour, they start talking in Russian, probably thinking I'm just another dumb American bitch who can't understand them.

" Chert voz'mi, ne mogu poverit', chto u etogo starogo mudaka takaya goryachaya doch', " the leaner one says, eyeing me up and down.

I turn around, pretending to be busy with the glasses. From the mirror behind the bar, I catch their reflections. The lean one's eyes are crawling all over me like I'm a piece of meat at the market.

My heart drops to my fucking shoes. Being half Russian, thanks to my deadbeat dad's side, I picked up enough of the language during months I lived with Grandpa when Dad was doing time. I'm rusty as hell, but I catch enough to make my blood run cold.

"Can't believe that old fuck… hot daughter," the lean one says in Russian, not bothering to lower his voice.

They're talking about me. About my dad.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What the hell has Dad gotten into now?

I slam the glasses down harder than necessary. "That'll be twelve bucks," I say in English, playing dumb.

The big one grins, all teeth, and no warmth. "You Wren Davis?" he asks, his accent thicker than concrete.

I consider lying, but something tells me that would end badly. "Who's asking?"

"Your father, he owe us money," the lean one says. "Two grand. We here to collect."

Jesus fucking Christ, John.

"Look," I say, trying to keep my voice steady, "whatever my old man owes you, that's his problem. I don't have that kind of cash."

The big one laughs, a sound like gravel in a blender. "Old man is useless. Few punches, he puke and faint. Now, is your problem."

My stomach churns. They hurt him. And as much as I hate the old bastard, the thought makes me want to vault over this bar and claw their eyes out.

"I told you, I don't have the money," I repeat, gripping the edge of the bar so hard my knuckles turn white.

The lean one leans in, his breath hot on my face. "Maybe we find… other ways for you to pay, da ?"

I feel sick. But I've dealt with creeps before. These guys might be scarier than most, but I'll be damned if I let them see me sweat.

"Sorry, boys," I snarl, baring my teeth in what might pass for a smile if you squint. "I'm not on the menu. Now buy a drink or get the fuck out."

I stare them down, my heart pounding but my face a mask of steel. These fuckers might think they can intimidate me, but they've got another thing coming.

The big one takes a step toward me, his meaty fist clenching. I brace myself, ready to vault over the bar if I have to.

But the lean one stops him, putting a hand on his chest. He says something in Russian, too low and fast for me to catch. Then he smirks, a look that makes my skin crawl.

" Net, staryy khren govorit, u nego yest' yeshche doch'. Pomolozhe. " he says, loud enough for me to hear.

I catch enough to make my blood freeze .

Another daughter. Younger.

They both laugh. "My idem k ney ," the big one adds.

We go to her.

Fuck. They mean… Em.

Fucking son of a bitch!

Before I can react, they're already turning away, heading for the exit. I'm frozen for a split second, my mind racing.

Then I snap out of it. "Hey!" I yell, but they're already out the door.

I vault over the bar, ignoring Mack's shout of surprise. I burst out of the Rusty Nail, the night air hitting me like a slap to the face.

Where are they? Where the fuck are they?

I spin around, scanning the street. Nothing. Just the usual Friday night crowd, stumbling drunks and late-night workers.

"Shit, shit, shit," I mutter, fumbling for my phone. My hands are shaking so badly I nearly drop it. I hit Em's number, pressing the phone to my ear as I start running down the street.

"Come on, Em. Pick up, pick up, pick up," I chant.

The phone rings. And rings. And rings.

"Fuck!" I yell, nearly tripping over an uneven bit of sidewalk. I catch myself on a lamppost, scraping my palm.

That's when I see them. Two hulking shapes disappearing down a dark alley about a block ahead.

I take off running again, my lungs burning. The phone's still ringing in my ear, but all I can think is: Not Em. Not my little sister. I'll die before I let these fuckers touch her.

I skid around the corner into the alley, my heart in my throat. They're there, leaning against a sleek black car, cigarettes glowing in the darkness.

They look up as I barrel in, surprise flashing across their faces before it's replaced by something darker. Something that makes my skin crawl.

"Look who come to play," the big one says, flicking his cigarette away.

The lean one pushes off the car, his eyes raking over me in a way that makes me want to scrub my skin raw. Then he says something in Russian.

I don't need to understand every word to get his meaning. Decided to join the party, beautiful?

I clench my fists, ignoring the sting from my scraped palm. "You stay the fuck away from my sister," I snarl.

They exchange a look, then burst out laughing.

"Or what, krasotka ?" the lean one asks, taking a step toward me. "You stop us?"

I stand my ground, even as every instinct screams at me to run.

"I… I have the money," I spit out. This'll fuck Lenny over, but it's better than these assholes going after Em.

"Oh, now she has money," the lean one sneers, eyes glinting dangerously.

My hand shakes as I dig into my pocket, pulling out the crumpled wad of bills. Seven hundred fucking dollars. Rent. Food. Lenny's future. All of it, gone.

"Here," I growl, shoving it at them. "Take it and get the hell out of our lives."

The big one snatches it, thick fingers rifling through the cash. His face twists. "This is joke, da ?"

They look at each other and laugh, like my hard-earned money is fucking trash to them.

"It's all I've got," I snap, backing up as they advance. My spine hits the cold brick wall. Shit.

They share a look that makes my blood run cold. The lean one presses closer, trapping me. "Not enough, krasotka . We need more… or maybe we visit little sister instead?"

Red fills my vision. "You touch her, I'll fucking end you," I snarl, hands balling into fists.

He laughs, grabbing my chin. "Brave words. But what can little girl do, hmm?"

I've had enough. I slam my head forward, feeling his nose crunch under my forehead. He staggers back, cursing in Russian.

But before I can move, the big one's on me. His meaty hand wraps around my throat, lifting me off my feet. I claw at his arm, gasping.

"Bad move, suka ," he growls, squeezing tighter.

Black spots dance in my vision. I kick out wildly, but it's like hitting a wall.

As darkness creeps in, one thought screams through my mind: I'm sorry, Em.