Lethal Temptations (Tempted #5)(95)

“You’re not welcome,” he hissed, glancing over his shoulder at my dad. “Got your work cut out for you Little Miss Defiant, going to take a whole lot of glue to patch him up,” he grunted before stepping around me and leaving me alone in the kitchen with my father.

“Dad,” I whispered.

He kept his head lowered as he peered back up at me.

“Not now Lacey. Not now,” he warned.

I felt like I should apologize to him but I wasn’t sure what I was apologizing for. For breaking his heart? If it wasn’t Blackie who I fell in love with would he still be this upset? Is it because I’m his daughter or because Blackie is his brother?

I saw him break, his knuckles whiten as he gripped the counter and I feared what was running through his head right now.

Silence.

Please.

“Dad, please look at me,” I pleaded.

He waited a beat before releasing his hold on the counter and crossed his arms against his chest as he finally looked at me.

“Make this right.” I demanded, quietly, taking a few more steps closer to him. “You have to help him get out because if you don’t I will. I’m not leaving him in there to rot after what he did for me and you shouldn’t want to either.”

“Don’t tell me how to handle my business Lacey,” he ground out. “Time for you to take a step back and concentrate on your own issues and leave Blackie to me,” he said, clenching his jaw as he spoke.

He unraveled his arms, continued to stare at me for a moment before he shook his head.

“Fucking, hell,” he muttered, brushing past me before leaving me alone in the kitchen.

I closed my eyes when I heard the front door slam.

Daddy’s little girl just broke her daddy’s heart.

Actually, Riggs did.





Chapter Thirty-three





I scrambled off my cot, taking three steps towards the metal toilet and dropped to my knees. I’ve been here nearly a week, one f*cking week with no junk to shoot, snort, or swallow. I was denied bail and charged with attempted manslaughter but if the f*ck dies the D.A. will change it to murder.

I was wishing for death.

That’s why I’m not cooperating with the club’s lawyer too much. After, sitting down with him when I was held at the police station he told me he was going to use Lace to testify. I decided to just let it all be. Whatever happens, happens. I’m not putting this shit on her, she didn’t ask that f*ck to touch her…just let it be. Let it be over for her.

Brantley thinks he won, that I’m threatened by the charge murder in the first degree.

Bring it cocksucker.

I’ve got nothing on the outside.

These walls and these bars are it for me. That’s okay because when I’m not violently throwing up from not having my drugs, I relive the memories of my life.

The good.

The bad.

The ugly.

Then I think of her.

And I momentarily wish for the kid to live, for a way out of here or a goddamn miracle. Then reality sets in and I’m stuck in the memories because it’s all I’ve got and all I’ll ever have.

I’m not just Satan’s Knight, I’m his f*cking predecessor, here on earth.

And this is my hell.

I started going through withdrawals the morning of my arraignment. I hadn’t snorted or taken anything since the bar and I was feeling it. After I broke things off with Lacey for good, I stopped going to the clinic and getting my dose of methadone. I replaced the fake heroin with the pills, crushing and snorting them to get my fix but, after I was shipped here they started me on the program again.

The C.O.’s bring me to the medical building every morning, I get my dose; they check my vitals, and send me back to my f*cking cell to rot in hell.

It’s not enough.

Never enough.

But as long as I have a pulse, they don’t give a f*ck because their job is to keep me alive so I can pay for my sins. Every inmate sent here, the government pays for, actually the taxpayers pay for. So, you over there with the fat check and nine-to-five job, you’re the one paying for the methadone in my bloodstream right now and the ham and cheese sandwich I’ll eat for dinner but won’t manage to keep down.

I’m close to caving and finding a way to get the drugs I need. People think a man gets locked up, and he’s at the mercy of the state, you become their property…what a f*cking joke. You may lose your name and get a number when you get locked up but you can score whatever the f*ck you need in jail. The correction officers here are more corrupt than the streets they pulled me from. As long as you give them a cut, you can sell, trade, or steal whatever the f*ck you want.

And right now I want a f*cking needle and the shittiest heroin I could get my hands on. While I may be able to score drugs, it ain’t the pure shit like I’ve been used to. It’s the bottom of the barrel shit, that’s been cut down to basically nothing but beggars can’t be f*cking choosey.

“Petra, on your feet!” The C.O. patrolling my cell block shouted as he rattled his keys, trying to find the one to unlock the bars that confine me. I leaned back on my haunches, swipe my mouth clean with the sleeve of my shirt before standing on my wobbly legs.

“It f*cking stinks in here,” he commented as he stepped inside my cell.