Trust(82)

“You’re not giving the fucking orders here. How many times do I have to tell you?”

“I won’t do shit for you so long as she’s here.” With the back of his hand, he wiped blood from his mouth.

“Jesus.”

“Now, Dillon!”

At this, the man flew into a rage, swinging the gun. It crashed into John’s already-battered face as he coldcocked his brother. Bone crunched; I could hear it. John fell to his knees.

“What have you done?” I dropped down at John’s side, trying to wipe away the blood, feel for a pulse. Trying to do something.

“Just returning the favor,” drawled Dillon. “He broke my nose, so I broke his.”

Curled up on the floor, John remained still. I gritted my teeth and tried to calm myself down, tried to find some sign of life. Slowly, his chest moved in and out. Yes. Thank God. And there stood Dillon, towering over us, all smiles. So damn happy with himself, the bastard. Brother or not, I’d kill him.

“You did more than break his nose, you asshole,” I said. “He’s out cold.”

Dillon frowned.

“How do you think you’re going to get your money now, huh?” I sneered, more pissed off in my life than I could ever remember being. Hadn’t we been through enough already? No. This wasn’t happening. I would not do this again.

For a moment, the meth-head just looked confused, blinking over and over again. “Well, we wait for him to wake up.”

“No,” I said simply. “God, you’re so fucking stupid. You didn’t think this through at all, did you?”

“Don’t talk to me like that.”

The gun got shoved in my face, barrel staring me down between the eyes. And there I stayed, on my knees, the perfect target. Didn’t matter. One mistake, I just needed him to make one mistake so I could bring the asshole down. If I could get the jump on him . . .

“Smart people put their money in banks, Dillon. What did you think?” I asked. “That he’d have it stashed in his mattress or something?”

“It’s drug money. No, there’s no way it isn’t here somewhere.”

“It’s in the bank,” I singsonged.

“You’re lying!”

I was lying. It was easy. Just like John with Chris, trying to get through this alive. If Dillon thought the money wasn’t here, he’d just have to go. “We did different deposits at different places. I helped him set it up, to make sure it was safe.”

Dillon snarled. “Shut up.”

“Fact is, he didn’t trust you. I mean, come on, you’ve been practically stalking him, for fuck’s sake.” My smile was all teeth. “Hello.”

“No!”

“Run, Dillon. Leave. Now. There’s nothing for you here.”

Just like he had with his brother, he grabbed a handful of my wet hair. The gun pressed hard into my forehead. Bet he thought he’d make me cry or piss myself or beg for my life. Not happening.

“It’s just past ten,” I said, cool as can be. “We’ve got friends from the field party coming over soon. Anders and Hang and some of the other guys from the basketball team.”

Nervous, his gaze darted to the door.

“Yeah, a whole bunch of them are coming over to smoke some weed and drink a few beers.”

“You’re lying,” he repeated. Though not sounding quite so sure of himself now.

“Why do you think we were upstairs having a quickie? It’s Saturday night. Party time, duh. We’ve got things to do.”

The gun shook in his hands, his thin lips drawn wide. “No. No one’s coming. Uncle Levi—”

“Can’t stand you,” I finished for him. “But John he just loves. Drives you nuts, doesn’t it?”

“You talk too fucking much.” He yanked at my hair, tearing some loose. Tears of pain filled my eyes, but I didn’t make a noise. I was done playing victim. And still his hand kept jittering, finger caressing the trigger. “Johnny’ll wake up soon. Until then, keep your trap shut.”

“If you haven’t caused him any permanent brain damage. There could be swelling, internal bleeding.” I stopped, saying a quick prayer that this really was all lies. “Is that what you wanted for your brother?”

“I didn’t hit him that hard.”

“Yes you did.”

“Well, I didn’t mean to!”

“Oh, I think you did,” I said. “He needs an ambulance, Dillon. Medical attention.”

Gaze torn, agonized, he stared at John still lying so frighteningly quiet on the floor. That’s when I made my move, smacking the gun, trying to knock it out of his hand. I grabbed at his wrist, putting my whole body weight behind it, knocking him off balance. He was taller than me but sickly and rake thin. At least I had weight on him. A startled sort of sound left his throat. We wrestled over the weapon, me trying to drag his hand down and pry his fingers open. It went off. The clap of the noise like a shock wave, weapon discharging. Nothing I hadn’t heard before. Pain flashed through me, but adrenaline drowned it out.

His hands were slickened with sweat, but it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t strong enough.

Eventually, Dillon threw me off, kicking me in the stomach for good measure. Blood dampened my side and I sunk to my knees. Shit. So this was what it felt like to get shot. It sucked, big time.