46. Chapter 46

46

T hud!

Thud!

I bang the door with my fist, the cheap wood rattling in its frame. I pound again, harder this time, my knuckles stinging. Fuck it. One more for good measure.

"Open up, you piece of shit!" I yell, kicking the door for emphasis.

Muffled cursing filters through, followed by shuffling footsteps. The lock clicks and the door swings open, revealing Jake in all his half-naked glory. His eyes, bloodshot and unfocused, widen when he sees me.

"Well, well," he drawls, leaning against the doorframe. "Wren fucking Davis. Still looking fine as hell, baby."

I roll my eyes, shoving past him into the apartment. "Save the sweet talk, Jake. I'm not here for a booty call. "

His apartment is a disaster zone, same as it was when we were together. Empty beer cans and pizza boxes cover every surface, and there's a line of coke on the coffee table next to a bottle of Jack. Some things never change.

Jake scratches his chest, yawning. "Shame. Remember that time we christened every surface in this place?"

"Yeah, and I remember regretting it immediately after," I snap, turning to face him. "I need information, not a trip down memory lane."

He holds up his hands, that infuriating smirk still plastered on his face. "Information, huh?" Jake drawls, pushing off the doorframe and sauntering toward me. His bare feet pad across the sticky linoleum. "What kind… of information?"

He reaches out, trying to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. I slap his hand away hard enough to sting.

"Ouch, baby," he chuckles, biting his lower lip. His hand travels south, cupping himself through his boxers. "You're still as feisty as ever. Gets me hard just thinking about it."

I take a step back, disgust churning in my gut. What the fuck was I thinking, getting mixed up with this lowlife? Unbidden, D's face flashes through my mind. I shake my head, banishing the thought.

Jake's green eyes bore into mine, hungry and predatory. His hair's a mess, sticking up in all directions, but somehow it just makes him look more… Fuck . No. I'm not here to reminisce about bad decisions.

I close the distance between us, getting right in his face. The stench of stale beer and cigarettes assaults my nostrils.

"Well, if you're so turned on," I purr, "maybe you'll enjoy this."

Before he can react, I reach down and grab his junk, squeezing hard. Jake yelps, his smug expression morphing into pain.

"Listen up, dickhead," I growl, maintaining my grip. "I'm not here to play games. I need information, and you're gonna give it to me. Got it?"

I release him, and Jake stumbles back, gasping. "Fuck, Wren," he wheezes. "What the hell?"

I pull out my phone and shove it in Jake's face.

"Do you know these fuckers?"

His eyes dart to the screen, but they don't move away. Instead, he stares at the images, the footage from Kim's Liquor, his face draining of color. Slowly, his hand reaches up, almost hesitant, like he's afraid to touch the phone. But he grabs it, pulling it closer. His eyes twitch, brows furrowing as if he's trying to unsee what's right in front of him.

Then he pulls back abruptly, as if the thing burned him. He turns away, knocking over a bottle on the counter, but doesn't even flinch. He's too busy rummaging through the mess, hands shaking like a leaf in the wind.

"Shit… shit…" he mutters, finally pulling out a crumpled pack of smokes. His hands tremble as he lights up, taking a long drag, the cigarette barely staying steady between his lips.

"The Skull Collectors," he whispers, his voice cracked, like the words hurt to say. He exhales smoke, glancing back at me. "What do you want with them, Wren?"

I clench my jaw, eyes fixed on him.

"They got John," I say, voice low, watching his every move.

Jake chokes on the smoke, coughing violently. "John?" he sputters. "As in your fucking drunk father?"

"Yes, him," I snap, not in the mood for his bullshit. I stride over, invading his space again. "Now tell me who the fuck they are and where I can find them."

Jake takes another drag, exhaling slowly.

His eyes dart around the room, refusing to meet mine. "Look, I don't know much, alright? They're new in town, real nasty fuckers. Russian."

"Where do they operate?" I demand, my patience wearing thin.

He hesitates, running a hand through his greasy hair. "There's a warehouse," he mumbles. "Down by the docks. Looks like a legit distribution center, but word on the street is they run their operation outta there."

"Address," I bark. "Now."

Jake sighs heavily, reaching for a pizza box on the counter. He flips it over, scribbling an address on the greasy cardboard.

"Here," he says, holding it out. "But Wren, seriously, these guys are—"

I snatch the pizza box, cutting him off. My eyes scan the room, landing on a battered cupboard in the corner. I march over and yank it open, revealing a small arsenal. Pistols, shotguns, even a couple of assault rifles.

"Still in the arms business, I see," I mutter.

Jake shifts uncomfortably behind me. "Gotta make a living somehow," he mumbles.

I grab a compact 9mm and a box of ammo, tucking them into my waistband. The weight of the gun is oddly comforting against my skin.

"Wren, wait," Jake says, his voice uncharacteristically serious. I turn to face him, raising an eyebrow. There's agitation clear on his face. "These Russian fuckers you're about to face off with… they're not like the local thugs. They'll fucking kill you if you get caught. No hesitation, no mercy."

For a moment, I see a flicker of the guy I used to know—the one who wasn't completely consumed by drugs and street life. It throws me off balance.

"I can handle myself," I say roughly.

Jake steps closer, his eyes searching mine. "Can you? This isn't some bar fight or pissing match with local dealers, Wren. These guys are stone-cold killers."

I clench my jaw, anger and fear warring in my gut. "What the fuck am I supposed to do, Jake? Let them keep John? He might be a worthless drunk, but he's still my father."

He sighs, shoulders slumping. "I know, I know. Just… be careful, alright? Go in smart. And if things go sideways, you get the hell out of there."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. As I turn to leave, Jake's voice stops me.

"Wren," he says softly. I glance back, seeing a mixture of concern and regret on his face. "For what it's worth… I'm sorry. About everything."

I swallow hard, pushing down the lump in my throat. "Yeah," I manage. "Me too."

I stride out of the apartment, the gun a heavy weight against my back. The address burns a hole in my pocket, a ticking time bomb of possibilities. My phone buzzes—another text from Em.

Where are you? What's going on?

My fingers fly across the screen:

Em, I'll explain when I've got all the shit together. Grab Lenny and crash at Tasha's. No questions.

I hit send and hope for the best. No way in hell Em will leave it at that, but right now, I've got bigger fish to fry.

The sky's bleeding a dirty orange, like the sunset is throwing up. I hit the street, scanning every shadow and face for any sign of trouble.

Jake's warning echoes in my head. Stone-cold killers. Not some punk-ass local thugs. I stuff my hands in my pockets to stop them from shaking. The gun presses against my back, a cold reminder of what I'm up against.

I start walking, no real destination in mind. Just need to move, to think. My mind's racing, trying to piece together a plan that doesn't end with me in a body bag.

A car backfires down the street, and I nearly jump out of my skin .

Get it together, Wren.

I force myself to take a deep breath, but it comes out shaky.

Maybe I should calm down a bit. Rushing in half-cocked is gonna get me killed, or worse, get John killed. I need more info. Need to know what I'm dealing with.

I duck into an alley, leaning against the brick wall. My hands are trembling as I pull out my phone again. D's number stares back at me. I hit call before I can talk myself out of it.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

"Come on, D," I mutter, pacing the narrow alley. "Pick up the fucking phone."

Voicemail. Shit.

I end the call, frustration bubbling up in my chest. A cramp twists in my gut, sharp and sudden. Nerves, probably. Or maybe it's my body telling me this whole thing is a fucking terrible idea.

I dial again.

Fuck . He's not answering.

I slam my hand against the wall, pain shooting through my knuckles. Great. Now my hand hurts, and I still don't have any help.

I stare at my phone, thumb hovering over the keyboard. What the hell do I even say? "Hey D, my deadbeat dad got himself kidnapped by the Russian mafia. Wanna help me rescue his sorry ass?"

I'm not fucking stupid. It's time to stop playing the Lone Ranger and ask for some goddamn help. Remember what I told Sophia? "It ain't a crime to lean on people now and then." Time to practice what I preach.

Okay, taking a deep breath, I type out a message, delete it, type again. Finally, I settle on something:

D. Shit's gone sideways. John's in trouble. Might need backup. Call me ASAP.

I hit send.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I mutter.

My thumb hovers over the call button, waiting, hoping. Nothing.

Maybe he ain't got service, maybe he's busy. Or maybe he's dead in a fucking ditch.

"Fuck it," I mutter. If he doesn't see the message, I'll deal with the shitstorm when it hits.

It's just me, then. Wren fucking Davis against the fucking Skull Collectors.