Havok: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance - Riley Rollins Page 0,46

As soon as he enters the room, the scent of dog reaches my nostrils.

I keep my eyes pressed closed. But I hear him approach, and I sense his presence right next to the bed. My heartbeat quickens, and he grumbles to himself something about it being too early in the morning for a house call.

"Alright, you junkie," he says, "Let's get this over with." He grabs the sheets on top of me, tossing them to my knees to reveal the arm that used to be piped into the IV machine. Only this time, the needle is in my fist, and the medication is soaked into the bedsheets in a giant puddle.

"What the—"

I open my eyes, and with a scream, I plunge the thick metal needle right into his throat. It connects with the flesh, the sharp tip sinking deep into his rough, red skin.

He lets out a horrified scream, clasping his hands to his throat, where the needle hangs halfway out of his neck.

"You junkie bitch!" He coughs and sputters, yanking the needle out of his neck, but the delay gives me the time I needed to get on my feet.

"I'm sorry," I say, as I pick up the metal pole holding the now-empty IV bag. I swing it hard, the top-heavy end connecting with the man's skull. One of the sharp hooks digs into his scalp, and blood sprays down onto the carpet. He staggers as I wrench the metal out of his scalp. The hook makes a tearing sound as it comes out of his skin, a noise that I didn't know human flesh could make. He wobbles toward me, pressing a hand against the flap of skin on his head. "I'm sorry," I repeat, and I crash the pole down onto him again. This time, he crumples to the ground.

I drop the pole, gazing at him. I've never wanted to hurt anyone before. And I didn't want to hurt him either. Guilt tugs at my heartstrings. But I have to do what I have to do to get out of here.

I rush downstairs, and go to the laundry hamper in the closet. I grab jeans and a t-shirt, and pull them on after shedding the gown I was wearing. I must smell like a donkey right now, but there's no time to shower. I've got to leave before Havok gets back.

My purse sits on the dining table, the spilled contents littering the table's surface. Havok clearly rooted through it while I was under. I cram all my stuff back into my purse as fast as I can. Then, I find my shoes by the door, slip them on, and escape out into the humid morning.

My first instinct is to get as far away from West Ark as I can. I don't know if Havok is telling me the truth or not, but somebody's going to be after me, whether it's the Bratva or him. The only sure thing is that I need to get far, far away.

I keep my head down as I walk through the West Ark downtown streets. Businessmen, couriers, mothers, and families pass me on the street. With my disheveled appearance, it occurs to me that I blend in better now than ever. I avoid eye contact with everyone, looking down at my feet.

There are still a few twenties in my purse from my last shift at Fascinations—Havok didn't take the money when he went through my stuff.

As I walk, I realize what I need to do. Mackenzie. I need to call her.

At the next convenience store I pass, I dip inside and purchase a prepaid phone. Mackenzie's number is one of the few I have memorized.

I dial her. There are a couple rings, then an automated voice.

"This number has been disconnected."

Fuck. She's had that number for years.

With a sinking feeling, I realize the possibility that they—the Bratva, Havok, whoever—must have gotten her too.

I jam the phone in my purse, then walk back onto the main sidewalk. But a hard, metal object presses into my side, and I stiffen. My head swivels.

Igor stands behind me. "Walk," he says, "or I shoot."

36

Havok

"Fuck," I say.

My bedroom looks like the aftermath of an axe battle. Earl sits on the floor, leaning against the side of the bed, a palm pressed against his scalp. A trail of blood leads down his neck, onto his shirt, and all over the floor. The blood on the floor is dark and dry; the blood on his head is still wet and