Arran's Obsession

3

As if he’d felt it, too, the man paused, his focus still on my thigh. Then he shook his head and scrubbed at the wound.

I yelped, the sting he’d promised delivered.

“It needs cleaning or you’ll get an infection. The streets are f*****g grimy,” he muttered.

Giving a sharp nod, I closed my eyes and let him do his thing, concentrating on breathing, and only peeking again when he taped down a white bandage.

“Where else did you hurt yourself?” he asked.

“Nowhere. I’m fine.” I shuffled to the seat’s edge, embarrassment mixing in with the pain, the odd attraction, and every other emotion from the night. I’d delayed here too long and needed to move.

But he caught my wrist.

“Your arm’s dripping blood.”

It was the one I’d slid on, that Riordan’s jacket hadn’t fully protected. Sitting back down, I unzipped the leathers and pulled my arm from the sleeve so it was half off me. An inch-long cut slashed my upper arm, something presumably having pierced the coat.

Maroon ran in a line down to my fingers.

“It’s not that bad,” I mumbled.

But the stranger was staring at me, and consciousness dawned. I was in his car dressed in a skimpy sports bra and shorts. He blocked my way out. All he had to do was push me fully in and I’d be trapped.

Considering how young he was and how expensive his ride, and the fact he did first aid for fun, what kind of man could he be? Oh God.

I was face-on with a gang member.

Breathless, I stared back, my heart rate soaring. I’d lost my ever-loving mind.

He had a hand to his shoulder like he was hurting, too, but his gaze slid over my body and back to my face. Judgement was right there in his eyes. “You a prostitute?”

My jaw dropped.

Of all the things he could’ve said. My temper rose in a rush as fast as the hot attraction had struck.

“Are you kidding? You think I’m a w***e working the streets?” I spat out, venom on my tongue.

“It’s just a question.”

“f**k you for asking. I’m not one of them.”

Sending a silent apology to Cherry in her church steps domain, I leapt from the car, forcing him back a step. I didn’t judge women who worked the streets, even if I found their job distasteful. What right would I have? But my anger didn’t stop.

Headlights flooded us. Another car pulled up, a big silver grille at the front and the outline of two men in the window. My accuser didn’t react to the incomers.

His men, had to be.

Shit. I’d f****d up so badly here. I looked between the stranger and his newly arrived gangster friends.

Then I took a breath, threw his wallet in his face, and ran like the devil was chasing me.

Three hours later.

Leaving the city centre on my scooter, I zipped into an urban suburb and along the dark street of Paignton Place. Riordan’s girlfriend lived here, and my brother still wasn’t answering his phone, so I was doing a drive-by while on the way to collect my next delivery.

I had to find Dad and talk to him. I needed Riordan to answer my goddamned calls. As neither were forthcoming, I’d moved on to plan B.

Even if this was the last place I wanted to be.

Work had been stacked all evening. At a little past midnight, the queue of jobs was still deep and more adding, though the food choices changed from fancy restaurants to late-night take aways and cheaper options. The city was full of university students as well as young professionals who lived in expensive waterside apartments and enjoyed the nightlife. Then there was the underbelly of the gangs and their hangers-on. It made for a rich after-dark industry. On my two wheels, I cruised past it all, headphones in, and only the stabbing pain from my injuries distracting me.

Outside Moniqua’s block of flats, I parked my scooter, hoping it would still be here in a few minutes, and jogged up the steps, stretching to tap on the buzzer. I didn’t have any contact details for Moniqua so couldn’t warn her in advance, but I’d texted Riordan. Not that my brother had read his messages.

The box on the wall clicked, but nobody spoke.

I pressed the intercom again. “It’s Genevieve, Riordan’s sister. Can I come up?”

A pause followed, then the door popped open.

The sharp stench of piss welcomed me inside, and the sole hallway light flickered, giving the long row of entrances beyond it an ominous feel. Only once had I visited here in the past, when Riordan and I had dropped off groceries.

I’d never warmed to Moniqua but I was glad Rio was a good boyfriend to her dumb ass.

Five minutes, in and out. I could do this.

Up the stairs, I skipped to the third floor, not lingering in the corridors. Music pounded from somewhere, and a mixture of odours beat out the urine, the acridity of crack overlaid with the sweeter notes of a joint.

At my knock, a man opened the door. “Well, well. See what we’ve got here.”

I recoiled. If I disliked Moniqua, I was scared of Don, her cousin. He was a gang member through and through, from the tattoo of a spiderweb on his face to the violence built into his every move.

In his casual grip, he held a knife.

“Only to see Riordan, if he’s here,” I whispered.

Don drew his gaze down me, lingering on my bare legs. Then he jerked his head for me to go inside. My brain rebelled, my limbs wanting anything other than to squeeze past him into the flat, but this was necessary. The door opened straight into a wide living room, a collection of worn chairs and sofas at one end and the kitchenette at the other.

Don paced over and dropped his blade so it embedded in the carpet, right beside Moniqua who leaned on a sofa, a woman at her back wrapping her thick hair around a curling tong. She scowled at her cousin who snarled back.

“Clean it, and take that f*****g look off your face.”

Don strode away, and I exhaled fear.

I scooted over to Moniqua. “Is my brother here?”

“Can you see him?” She picked up the knife, her pouty lips curling in disgust.

“No, and he isn’t answering his phone. I need to talk to him.”

“What about?”

I hesitated. “Family matters.”

“I’m his woman. I know everything about him.”

I doubted that, but I wasn’t about to say as much to the person cleaning a questionable brown stain from her cousin’s weapon.

Moniqua pursed her lips. “He’s busy out in the city tonight, you know, boys doing business. If I call him, he’ll answer, but ask your little question of me first so I can see if it’s worth his time.”

Fucking hell. I forced calm, ignoring the implied message that Riordan was out doing gang work, because that was a lie. “Okay. It’s actually our dad I need to find. He hasn’t been home in a week.”

“So? Why does that matter? He does this all the time.”

I waited her out. She had a point—Dad was about as reliable as the weather for the majority of the year—but this time felt different. He usually announced his departures, and I’d get the occasional badly typed reply to my messages.

Moniqua hissed then slapped out at the woman doing her hair. “You burned my f*****g ear. Be careful.” Her gaze came back to me. “I saw your dad a few days ago. He’s with Sydney.”

“Who’s that?” I’d never heard the name before.

“A stripper.” She smiled, clearly loving this.

I gritted my teeth more. “Do you have a number for Sydney?”

“What am I, dial-a-stripper?”

“Any idea where she works?”

Moniqua rolled her eyes. “There’s only one strip club in Deadwater, and she’s probably there tonight, but good luck getting in looking like that. What did you do to your leg anyway?”

She pressed a finger to the white bandage, and I cringed at the pain, backing away.

“Thanks for the help,” I grouched then let myself out.