Club Princess - Nicole James Page 0,43
saw the expression on her face. The memory of the way her friend Amy looked at me fills me with so much self-loathing that I feel like I’m drowning in it. She used to have a thing for me, something I took for granted. Now I’m sure she’d rather flunk out of college than have anything to do with me.
I know I have to get ahold of my addiction, but as badly as I want to kick it, it invades every fiber of me like seeping black tar.
The guilt and depression I’ve suffered with since my bike wreck consume me, until now I’ve completely spiraled out of control, giving up and giving in to the cruel, demanding masters that opioids have become to me.
Lortabs, Norco, OxyContin, Percocet, Vicodin, Fentanyl, anything I can get my hands on; I’ve taken them all.
They don’t fix anything, not for long anyway. I know that.
They simply mask the pain I feel physically and emotionally. They sure as hell don’t “cure” anything. But yet I continuously try to dull the pain, taking higher and higher doses—and now I cannot make it through the day without them.
I scrub at my face with both hands. “Stop fucking making excuses, Trez.”
I yank the handle and put a shoulder to the door, shoving it open. I grab the cola I got at the fast food place, and climb out to trudge toward my room.
I’m lost in my thoughts, eyes on the ground when a body slams into me, then another. Suddenly I’m wedged between two body-builders who are hustling me toward a big black limousine. I look up, and realize its Mason Lockwood’s goons.
I try to struggle, but they’ve got me out-muscled. One shoves my head down to clear the opening, and I’m thrust inside the car.
Wedged between them, with one on either side, I look over to see Lockwood on the seat facing me, looking equal measures bored and pissed.
The car squeals away, some unseen driver behind a divider speeds back out onto the boulevard, heading toward the casinos.
Lockwood studies me. “Seems you have a propensity for dive motels.”
My lip curls up. “I like the little mints they put on the thousand thread-count sheets.”
“You’re a real smart-ass, aren’t you? I hate sarcastic bastards like you.”
I shrug. “Then I guess you can drop me here.”
He lifts his chin to the goon on my left, and the guy slams some kind of baton into my bad knee. Excruciating pain jolts up my leg to my bad hip.
I growl through my teeth, “You son-of-a-bitch.”
“Why are you here?” Lockwood asks.
“They had a weekly special, and right now I can’t afford anything else.”
“I don’t give a damn about your choice of vermin-infested lodging. Why are you here in Biloxi?”
“The truth?”
“If you know what’s good for you.”
“I was laying low.”
“From me?”
“From you, the cops, everyone.”
“Do you have the rest of my money?”
I grind my teeth, knowing what’s coming. “I gave you the twenty grand.”
“And I told you there was interest on it. You still owe me another ten.”
“Jesus Christ, Mason, that’s fifty percent interest. I apologized for stealing the damn statue. Isn’t that enough?”
“Not by a long shot.”
“I don’t have ten grand.”
He lifts his chin to the goon, and I’m treated to another hit of the baton.
“Fuck,” I hiss between clenched teeth. “Okay, okay, I’ll get it I just need more time.”
“You’ve got four days.
“Four days? It’ll take more than four days. Please.”
Mason Lockwood gives me an evil smile. “Unfortunately for you, I know you have an Achilles heel. The pretty blonde I met at your last crappy accommodations—she’s your sister, isn’t she?”
I shake my head. “Nah. That chick? I hardly know her.”
“Don’t lie to me, Rockingham. It pisses me off.”
The goon on my right shoves his shoulder into me. “Boss already saw her ID, moron.”
My eyes slide shut. Fuck.
“You care about your sister, don’t you?”
“Come on, man. She’s got nothing to do with this.”
“Get me the money or you’ll both regret it.” With that he reaches behind him, and taps his knuckle on the divider.
The limousine swerves to the shoulder, and comes to a stop. Goon number one opens the door and climbs out, yanking me out by the collar and tossing me to the ground. Pain radiates up my hip. The goon climbs back in, and the limo peels out, its red taillights disappearing rapidly into the night. I stagger to my feet, and begin the mile long walk back to my motel, limping along the gravel shoulder.
With every stab of pain, all