Jessie Humphries - Killing Ruby Rose

He knew that my dad had died. And he’d cared enough to give me time. I softened even more.

“So what about Taylor?” I asked, wondering why my brain had brought her up at a time like this. It was like my logical brain had a firewall and was trying to override the invading emotions.

“Taylor?” he asked back. His eyebrows creased together in confusion.

“You know, the girl you actually did take to Homecoming. The girl who’s always hanging all over you. The girl nobody turns down.” Shut up!

He reached out to take my hand, apparently unafraid of what other sudden movements I might make. And, inexplicably, I let him take it.

“I’m not going to say anything bad about Taylor,” he said, moving his head even closer to mine. “But I’m not going to say anything good about her, either.”

Wow. I couldn’t help but be impressed with his maturity and refusal to trash-talk.

“But you on the other hand,” he said, looking me in the eyes. “I think you’re amazing. And brave. And totally different.”

Firewall disabled, I let him pull me into his arms.

I let him put his body against mine.

I let my eyes close, appreciating the heat between our bodies. His heart beating against my ear drowned out all my wild, neurotic thoughts. I was giving in to him again. I was the glutton for punishment.

Until I felt a pinch on my neck. Like a bee sting, it burned. But surely there were no effin’ bees at the beach this time of night. I tried to pull away, but by the time I reached to get the bee’s stinger out of my skin, I realized I was dealing with something else entirely.

A syringe.

And I was losing consciousness.

I heard the voices before I could identify where they were coming from. Swirling human forms floated around my mind. And pain. I felt that rising with my consciousness. In my head, mostly, but also on my wrists. They were bound behind my back.

I ordered my eyes to open, but they were as heavy as theater curtains. I needed pulleys or something.

When my eyelids eventually creaked open, I almost wished they hadn’t.

I lay on the cold floor of a large metal cage, like one used for lions at the circus. I had awoken in my very worst nightmare. I hated bars. Like, I really, deathly feared them. Dr. T said it was a “seminormal/common phobia,” and not to give it too much importance, but that was easy to say when she wasn’t the one with the recurring dreams of bars slowly closing in on her until she was crushed to death.

The men behind the echoing voices were nowhere in sight. Hyperventilation and claustrophobia drained me of my wits. I closed my eyes and tried to steady my breathing. I couldn’t lose my cool now. I had to fight. I had to look past the bars and pretend like they weren’t there in order to gather my survival instincts. The inanimate cage couldn’t beat me when the very animate men beyond them were far more likely to do so.

Forcing open my eyes, I saw a spacious warehouse filled with boxes and old machinery, not unlike the one at the harbor where I’d put a hole in Charlie LeMarq’s head. And I wasn’t alone. There were two equally drugged and bound bodies just outside the cage, except they were tied at the ankles as well as the wrists. I wondered why they weren’t in here with me—and why they weren’t stirring.

I looked closer at them through the dim light. It was Alana and Liam. The last time I’d seen Alana, her dark hair was bouncing to the beat of the music. Now it was as limp as a doll’s. And Liam’s beautiful lips, the ones I’d come so close to kissing, were now gagged and covered in bloody cloth.

My chest tightened with a crushing force. I hated myself for getting them involved. If only I’d done a better job of pushing everyone away, they wouldn’t be here.

“I’m not going to tell you again!” a deep voice echoed across the warehouse. “It’s time, so make the call!”

“Come on, jefe, this ain’t right,” another man replied in a much younger and more hesitant voice, with an accent that made me think of the East LA gang crews. So not bueno .

I couldn’t see them, and they couldn’t see me behind the row of crates piled haphazardly toward the ceiling.

“What ain’t right is you acting like a little bitch. Now get your phone out and make the call.”

“Bro, calm down and think about it. All we’re supposed to do is babysit these drugged kids for a while and then take the money and run? Rick, it’s a setup.”

Rick. I knew a Rick. Rick “The Stick”—one of my Filthy Five. But I’d never heard him speak, so how could I be sure if this voice belonged to him?

“You’re wasting time,” Rick said.

“You’ve done deals with this guy before?” the younger guy asked, sounding more skittish.

“Yeah, two nights ago, OK? It didn’t go as planned, and I had to get rid of a girl. Let’s just say he owes me tonight.”

Two nights ago? Get rid of a girl? Could he have been talking about the girl on Ninth Street from the text I got?

“Didn’t go as planned? Shit, man, you ain’t exactly making me feel better.”

“Look, I’ve done plenty of deals, and this one won’t be any different,” Rick said. “So just make the damn call and let’s get this over with!”

“Why don’t you make the call?”

“Because, you idiot, I don’t have the number. The broker gave it to you.”

The broker? What product—?

Oh, crap. We were the product. I was the freaking product.

“Here. Take the number that dude gave you. I’ll go wait where the cops can’t bust through that door in five seconds!” The younger guy was rattled.

“Look, you split, and you lose your split. You understand? That’s twenty grand. And the broker is not some dude . He’s big-time, working with Mr. G. You get in with G, and you don’t get to mess around. So just shut up already!”

There was a pause and some shuffling.

“Can’t I at least sample the product? Five minutes alone with the blonde?” My stomach turned, and my muscles tensed in revolt. Young or not, stupid or smart, this guy was dangerous. “If we get busted, at least it won’t all be for nada—”

“How many times do I have to tell you? The broker said she’s a virgin, and they pay triple for virgins. You’re not touching her or her skinny little friend, no matter what. I need this score, all right?”

There was no longer any doubt in my mind—this was, in fact, Rick “The Stick.” Number two on my list of the Filthy Five. The details I’d written in his file quickly came to mind. Formerly: Rick Rossi, champion featherweight boxer from South LA. Currently: notorious drug dealer and unmerciful murderer of anyone who got in his way. He earned his cute little nickname by screwing over one of his big-time drug partners, “sticking” him with the evidence that sent the guy to prison, and walking away with a sweetheart deal from none other than Dear Mother Jane Rose.

Before Dad’s death, his team had responded to a tip on one of Rick’s big deals going down. They recovered 500 kilos of cocaine, but not The Stick himself. He’d gotten away again. Since the bust he’d been lying low, staying away from the cartel guys. That must’ve been what he was talking about when he said he needed this score. He needed the money.

If I didn’t do something quickly, they were either going to make the call and sell us, or they were going to talk each other out of it and get rid of us themselves. I cursed the man behind this torment. Who was this “broker” who’d convinced another one of my Filthy Five to participate in the systematic torture of Ruby Rose? Why didn’t he just kill me himself? And why did he have to involve Alana and Liam? Sure, Alana was fragile enough to sell, but there was no market for six-foot-four tight ends who could knock out The Stick with one punch.