When it Raynes: Chapter 8

Leaving Emerson’s apartment feels like a marathon. Every step is harder than the last, because every one of my instincts screams at me to turn around and get her the fuck out of here. I don’t want to leave her here, but she needs time to accept that she’s mine, and there’s not a damn thing she can do about it.

That doesn’t stop the uncertainty from creeping in. Leaving her alone gives her time to have doubts, to overthink the way her body reacts to mine, to remember all the reasons she shouldn’t want me even though her body begs her to give in to her desire.

The way Emerson’s skin flushed was fucking intoxicating, the tinge of pink on her cheeks and chest proving just how affected she is by me. I don’t want her to have time to close in on herself like I know she’ll want to.

But someone like Emerson will not take kindly to her freedom being taken away, or her independence being stripped from her without being able to process it. And I have shit to do. I was supposed to meet Storm half an hour ago to deal with the most recent Russo issue, and I haven’t even told him I’m running late. I still need to find someone to get Emerson’s car here before she’s due to leave for work tonight. I can’t break my promise to her, no matter how much I would like to have the car crushed and have her quit her job at that asshole’s establishment.

My phone rings as I buckle my seat belt, and a moment later, I’m speeding down the street. “You got my information?” I ask as the call fills the car. I need to put some distance between Emerson and me so I can think clearly. She clouds my judgment, and that’s really fucking dangerous in my line of work.

“I’ve just sent it to you,” Everett says. “You want me to give you a rundown?”

“Please,” I reply impatiently.

“Emerson Anne Miller. Twenty-three. Studying counseling at the University of Chicago. Good GPA, due to graduate next year. No arrests, no run-ins with the cops. Works three jobs, a youth center her family owns, the diner under her crap box apartment, and one of the Russo’s clubs. Now, here’s where it gets interesting. Up until nine months ago, she didn’t have a dollar of debt in her name. Got a full-ride scholarship for college, didn’t have a credit card, nothing. Then suddenly she has six maxed-out credit cards, and a student loan that was never used for school. That’s when she moved to the shitty apartment, sold her car, and bought what appears to be a death trap of wheels. If I had to have a guess, I’d say your girl has a drug problem.”

“How much debt?” I ask. I’ve been in her apartment, I’ve seen her belongings and the clothes she wears, and I’ve watched her eat the saddest looking sandwiches every day for lunch. Emerson is not living above her means by any stretch of the imagination, if anything, she’s living well below them. And as for drugs, there is no way the very straight and narrow Emerson Miller is involved in drugs. I know better than anyone that even the most unexpected people can become addicts, but she’s too sweet and innocent for that, and she’s way too dedicated to the Center to jeopardize it in any way.

“Seventy grand.”

I let out a whistle. Fuck, that’s a lot of cash for a student to owe. “Holy fuck. Any chance you looked into her family and the youth center?”

“You know me so well.” Everett chuckles. “The dad owns his house outright, has for the last fifteen years. Her mom’s not in the picture, seems she left and started a new family when Emerson was twelve. The youth center lost most of its funding a few years ago, but they’ve been surviving off donations. I had a look at their incoming funds since the credit cards were opened and the money definitely wasn’t donated.”

I nod to myself as my mind ticks over. Not her dad. Not the youth center. Not school. What on earth could she have spent so much money on? “Any boyfriends?” I force myself to ask despite the idea of another man touching her making me fucking homicidal.

“Brad Stevenson came up in my searches, but there doesn’t seem to have been much contact in the last six or so months, and any contact I did find was totally one-sided. Brad is a piece of work. Three arrests on file, ranging from drug and firearm possession to spousal abuse with an ex-partner whom he did time for. He’s been calling her pretty consistently for the last six months, but the call and text logs indicate she hasn’t answered him at all.”

“You got an address for Brad?” I ask through gritted teeth. If I were a betting man, which I very much am, I would bet every last penny I have on this Brad guy being the same guy that had Emerson cornered this afternoon and the one that has her drowning in debt.

“I’ll text it to you.”

“Thanks, man, I owe you.”

“What’s your interest in this girl anyway? You said it wasn’t Frost related, so I assume she doesn’t owe you money?”

“No, she doesn’t owe me money. She’s mine.”

Everett chuckles. “Welcome to the club, bro.”

After I get off the phone with Everett, I call Storm to let him know I’m going to be late, and then I meet my buddy who owns a garage about Emerson’s car so he can take a look at it before we return it. I can’t let her drive the deathtrap around without someone checking if it’s actually roadworthy.

“The car’s a shitbox, but I need you to make it as safe as you can,” I tell Craig as I hand the keys over to him.

Craig looks at me, and then the car, and then back at me again. “There is nothing I can do to make that thing any less of a hunk of junk.” He gestures at the car that was once upon a time some shade of blue. Now it’s an off-gray color that reminds me of paper mâché.

“You’re the best mechanic in town. I’m sure there’s something you can do.”

He nods. “There is. It’s called wrecking it and buying a new one.”

I sigh, there’s no way on God’s green earth Emerson will let me buy her a new car. Not yet at least, and if I have as good a read on her as I think I do, probably not ever. She won’t have a say in the matter if it’s about her safety though. I don’t compromise on anything, but I am willing to make certain allowances for her, to make sure she doesn’t feel too trapped. However, her safety is not something I will ever risk, no matter how mad she gets, no matter how many scars her claws leave, it’s a non-negotiable and she will soon learn that.

“Level with me here, Chris. What needs to be done to this thing to make it roadworthy, and safe enough it’s not going to disintegrate mid drive?”

“You don’t have enough time for me to list all the shit that needs to be fixed on this thing. I’m telling you, Rayne, the only place this car should be going is to the junkyard.”

I scrub my hand down my face, feeling a headache coming on. Today has not gone how I expected. Every moment that followed leaving the youth center has been a headache in itself, and now it’s manifesting itself into the worst one I can remember having. “Okay, I’ll work on it. For now, can you just take it to the address I gave you and drop the keys off?”

“You’re the boss.” Chris shrugs and yanks open the driver’s side door.

Fuck me, I need to convince Emerson to let me buy her a new car. Also to let me pay off the debt and move her out of the hellhole that is her apartment. I have my work cut out for me and I’m reminded once again how much simpler my life was before a woman was involved.

The memory of Emerson’s lip trembling under my thumb, of the blush on her cheeks, and the way her body reacted to mine reminds me of just how worth it she’s going to be.

I have one more stop on my list before I can meet Storm, and this one is going to be the most fun I have all day. Hell, it might just make my week.

Half an hour later, I’m standing in front of an apartment door that is somehow worse than the one I left Emerson in. It isn’t that I look down on people who are less fortunate than I am, because that’s definitely not the case, it’s that the man that lives on the other side of this door is the lowest of the low.

I read Brad’s file before I headed up here, and every word I read made me angrier than the last. He did five years of hard time for beating his girlfriend within an inch of her life. The photos in the case file even turned my stomach, and I kill people for a living. Even if that wasn’t the case, he still put hands on my woman, and that makes him a big fucking problem in my book.

I pound on the door three times but don’t say anything as I reach behind my back to check the position of my gun in my waistband.

It’s a habit more than anything. You can’t afford to be caught off guard in my line of work.

The door swings open after a few seconds and the man I threw across the parking lot a few hours ago stands before me in nothing but his underwear. His eyes are glazed over and dilated as he looks me up and down. There’s no recognition in his gaze, which means Brad has no fucking idea who I am. Bruises cover his forearms, angry track marks mar the inside of his elbows.

The fact he was on hard drugs when he went to see Emerson only seems to make the red clouding my vision deepen. I’ve seen the dregs of society in my line of work, and there are two common things that put people in that category. Money and drugs.

“Who the fuck are you?”

I almost tell him I’m his worst fucking nightmare but decide against the overused cliché despite how true it is. “I’ve come to give you a warning.”

“I told the last of Russo’s men, I’m working on getting the money together.” Brad’s skin pales, well, as much as it can considering he already looks like a ghost.

I tuck that piece of information into the back of my mind. Brad owes Russo money, which is probably what he was hassling Emerson about.

“I don’t work for that idiot,” I spit. “No, what I’ll do to you will make anything that unimaginative fuck has threatened you with look like a fucking picnic.”

Any color left in his face is long gone as he looks over his shoulder for an escape route. They always do, because rats are always looking for the next hole they can crawl into.

It’s why my foot was in the way of the door almost the moment it swung open. Brad didn’t even notice me step forward as the door opened, and I can almost imagine the surprise in his features if he tries to slam the door closed. Idiots like Brad always try to make a run for it, and I’m always ready for the chase.

“What do you want?” he asks, his fingernails scratching roughly over the track marks. I don’t even want to hazard a guess at what shit he’s injected into his body, but I feel pretty confident it came from Russo.

The shit they deal has killed more junkies than I can count. They sell their shit cheap, which meant the ingredients aren’t exactly premium. Their drugs are likely primarily rat poison and bleach, neither of which should be injected into the human body.

I see the moment Brad decides he’s going to make a run for it. His fist tightens around the door, his eyes darting behind me, and then over his shoulder nervously. The door is barely moving when my hand darts out to stop it, a sick smirk tugging at my lips. “I hoped you’d do that.” I barge into the apartment, slamming the flimsy door behind me.

Brad’s eyes widen as he backs away, trying to put distance between us. “I haven’t done anything.” He trips over the most hideous stained rug I have ever seen in my life and almost lands flat on his back.

I keep walking after him, giving him enough space he thinks he’ll be able to escape, but not enough he actually can. His entire body shakes with a mixture of fear and the drugs raging through his veins.

It’s not until his back hits the wall that I pounce, slamming my body into his roughly, knocking the wind from his lungs. Before he can catch his breath, I have my hand wrapped around his throat, squeezing until he’s gasping for air.

“I hope we’re going to come to an understanding, because if not, I will make you suffer in ways you can’t even imagine.”

Brad nods frantically, his eyes wide as his face turns a bright shade of red.

“Fantastic. Now, I’m going to ask you a few questions, and you’re either going to nod or shake your head, got it?”

He nods.

“Do you know Emerson Miller?” An easy one to start.

Another nod.

“Did you date her?”

He nods.

“Did you rack up seventy thousand dollars of debt in her name?”

His eyes widen and he’s about to shake his head, his eyes darting around the room.

“Before you answer, I need to let you know that if you lie to me, I will cut your tongue out and then feed it to you.”

Brad hesitates for a moment before nodding slowly. Just as I thought.

“If you ever go near her again, ever so much as look at her from across the street, I will find you, and I will kill you. Not some easy death like the one Russo will give you. No, it will be even more painful than you can possibly imagine. Nod if you understand.”

Recognition finally flickers in his glazed eyes. He’s just placed where he knows me from. He nods, and I release my hold from his neck, allowing him to tumble to the ground like a ton of bricks.

“I’m glad we could come to an agreement.” I smile. “But you did mark her, so it’s only fair I mark you, wouldn’t you agree?” I pull him up just to slam my fist into his stomach before he can answer and he falls back to the ground like the sack of shit he is.

“I’m sorry,” Brad cries.

“You’re not. But you will be.” I kick him twice in the stomach, so hard I hear the wind leave his lungs. No matter how much I do this, I always get a sick satisfaction from kicking the shit out of scumbags. I’m getting more satisfaction than usual out of this, knowing he put his hands on what didn’t belong to him.

“I’m being very generous, Brad.” His name tastes foul as it rolls off my tongue. “If I were a lesser man, and you marked my woman, I’d cut your hands off. But I’m giving you a chance here.”

Realization crosses his face, like he’s finally put the pieces together as to why I’ve just beat him until drops of blood drip from the corner of his mouth and nose. “She’s not worth it. She’s boring in bed. I’d be doing you a favor if I took her off your hands, save you the used-up pussy.”

Brad’s smug expression only makes the red in my vision deepen, and then I find myself picking him up off the ground by his throat. I’m tempted to strangle him to death, but I want to torment him. I want him to know someone’s watching, but never know when I’m going to strike. A game of cat and mouse he’ll never be able to run from.

“You ever speak about her like that again, and I will make your life hell. I don’t fucking care if you whisper the insult to yourself in the mirror. I will find out, and I will make you pay. Believe me when I say, you do not want me as your enemy.”

Brad rolls his eyes and I can’t believe what this cocky son of a bitch is doing while I hold his life in my hands. I could snap his neck so fucking easily, and he wouldn’t see it coming. “I don’t even know who you are.”

“Rayne Saint James.”

The smile drops from his lips and fear crawls into his expression. A moment later I slam my fist into his face over and over again, before wiping my bloody hands on one of the T-shirts haphazardly thrown over the back of the sofa on my way out, leaving Brad bloody and broken.

Now to get some work done.