Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)(79)

I mean, yeah, don’t get me wrong here—I’m not a t-shirt and jeans gal by any means. I love pretty clothes and putting on makeup, and if I had to list my greatest talents, there’s a good chance ‘walking in high heels’ would be up there. But at the moment, brand names are the least of my priorities.

“Something comfortable,” I say. “Warm, preferably.”

“Comfortable and warm,” she mumbles, scouring through the closet and dresser for what feels like forever before picking out an outfit. “Ha!”

Black fleece-lined leggings and a red slouchy sweater. Nice. I take it from her. “Thanks.”

“Oh, wait!” she says. “You can’t go barefoot!”

I scowl at my bare feet just as she steers toward a terribly familiar pair of red heels. “Oh, Jesus, no. Anything but those. I’ve had a rough enough week, I don’t need to invite that negativity into my life.”

Melody laughs, like that’s funny, but I’m serious. Every time I wore those shoes, I ended up running. And that wouldn’t be a problem, but like I’ve said, I only ever run when being chased by somebody, and that’s not any fun.

Melody tosses me a pair of black boots. “How about those?”

“They’ll work,” I say. “Thanks again.”

I turn to leave but come to an abrupt stop, damn near running into Lorenzo lurking in the hallway. He scans me, making a face. “You’re not dressed yet? Why do you women take so long to get ready?”

I roll my eyes, pushing past him. “Why are you men such *s?”

I hear his laughter as I go into his room, followed by his answer: “Probably because you’re so f*cking slow.”



An old warehouse in the Greenpoint neighborhood of Brooklyn, just across the border from the borough of Queens. It looks like the kind of abandoned building that you’d see as the setting of some low-budget horror movie, broken glass and crumbling bricks, a faded sign barely clinging to the structure, covered in graffiti. People probably cross the street to avoid even walking near it, whereas it looks a lot like the places I slept in after running away so many years ago.

Hell, I might’ve slept here. Who knows?

Trucks idle in the alley beside the place. Three of them, to be exact, identical white box trucks, each backed right up to rusted metal dock doors along the side.

I walk slightly behind Lorenzo and Seven, letting them take the lead since I have no idea what any of this is. The closer we get, the more peculiar it all appears. Metal bars cover the shattered windows, heavy chains and locks on all the entrances, making it damn hard to get inside. It’s eerie. A few guys are already here, gathered in the alley, looking haggard, one of the men even propping himself up against the building, dry-heaving.

“Long night, fellas?” Lorenzo asks. “You look like shit.”

They try to perk up, reacting to his presence, like soldiers being called to attention, but they do a crap job of it. Instead, they end up just grumbling in response, grunting and groaning, as if that’s answer enough. Longest night ever.

Lorenzo shakes his head, walking through the group, his expression hard as he says, “Somebody’s missing.”

“Yeah, uh, De—, uh, Three,” one of the guys says. Four. “Must’ve slept in.”

“Or he hasn’t even gone to bed yet,” Seven says, skirting past everyone as he pulls a set of keys from his pocket and starts unlocking the warehouse.

Three. The blond. Declan.

“Have you tried to get ahold of him?” Lorenzo asks.

“Yeah, got his voicemail,” Four says. “Didn’t even ring. Phone must be dead.”

Four. Jimmy? Johnny? Joey? I don’t know.

“Well, then, he better be dead along with it,” Lorenzo says, “because no longer breathing is the only justification for blowing me off this morning. I don’t care how long your night was, don’t care how drunk you got, don’t care how much * you f*cked... I say be here, you show up.”

He doesn’t even raise his voice, but there’s a subtle rage there, in the quiet evenness of his tone, that makes everyone stiffen with alarm.

“Why are the rest of you just standing here?” Lorenzo asks. “Think because Three is off, doing God knows what, that it gives you all a pass to just hang around with your thumbs up your asses? Get to work. Now.”

They scatter, not needing anymore incentive, heading into the warehouse and shoving the dock doors up. The churning screech of metal makes me cringe. Lorenzo approaches the back of the trucks one-by-one, greeting each driver before handing over envelopes he pulls from inside his coat in exchange for paperwork. His men start to unload the trucks. Seven takes on more of a supervising role, while I linger in the alley, pretty damn confused.

I feel like my teacher just announced a pop quiz when I don’t know the material. Shit.

Totally bombing this.

They’re halfway through the first truck, pulling out big wooden crates and hauling them into the warehouse, when I approach Lorenzo, who is flipping through paperwork, squinting, like he’s struggling to read it.

“Forgot your glasses?” I guess.

His gaze flickers to meet mine. “I only wear them when I need them.”

I’m almost inclined to point out that he’s looking like he might need them now, but his expression keeps me from verbalizing that. I touched a nerve.