N9ne: The Tale of Kevin Clearwater (King, #9)(37)

“Fuck that. Painkillers don’t actually kill pain. They make your mind slow. I don’t mess with that shit. Seen too many people lose everything because of it. Statistically speaking, it’s also the number one cause of death in the US in healthy men and women ages 18-50 and painkillers are highly addictive. You either quit or die; there’s no in between. Seen it happen. Ain’t going down that fucking route. That’s a slow boat to Hell I don’t wanna take.”

“So, you don’t think you’re going to Hell?” I ask.

“Nah, I’m going, I just think that there are better ways to get there.”

“You are annoyingly smart,” I tell him.

“You are annoyingly annoying,” he replies. “And I agree. I’m kind of a genius.”

“I said smart, not genius.”

“It was implied.”

“I don’t know what kind of genius does cocaine to rid pain,” I point out.

“Oh, with blow, you still feel the pain.” He smiles. “But you’re so on top of the world, you just don’t give a fuck.”

I laugh until I remember who isn’t on top of the world right now. The dead men in that Hummer. “Shit, what about the fiery wreckage we left on the road? Aren’t the cops going to be wondering who launched a grenade and blew up that Hummer?”

“It’s being taken care of as we speak,” Nine says, checking his phone, while driving with his knee.

“What do you mean it’s being taken care of?” I press.

“I mean that I have people who are taking care of it. The cops won’t be asking any questions.”

I reach over and help steer the wheel because my anxiety won’t let me NOT grab it.

He gives me a questioning glance, then rolls his eyes and takes the wheel again.

I let go. “Who are these people you keep speaking of? The ones taking care of things?”

“Just people who do that kind of thing.”

“You have people who take care of burnt bodies and the wreckage from explosions?” I twist my lips. “You do know that’s not normal, right?”

“Maybe not to you, but it is for me and most of the people I know. What is normal anyway?”

“Lately?” I rub my temples. “I have no clue.”

I spot a picture on Nine’s dash of three young smiling children. A boy and what appear to be twin girls.

“Who’re they?” I ask, curiously.

Nine smiles, and I hate that it makes my stomach flip. “If you’re thinking that I hang out with the wrong crowd, then you’re right. Because I’m always getting into some kind of trouble with those three.”

“Are those your kids?”

“No, my nephew and nieces. Bo, Miley and Taylor.”

I raise my eyebrows at the girls’ pop star names. “Miley and Taylor?”

He taps his thumbs on the steering wheel. “My brother has a thing for teen pop music, amongst other things.”

“Are you and your brother close?” I ask, feeling the urge to know more.

He cocks his head. “He just tossed a grenade at someone for me. What do you think?”

Our eyes lock, and the heat from earlier rises up between us. I look away, out the passenger window, only to notice that we’ve turned onto a very familiar road. My road.

“You’re taking me home?” I ask, sounding as surprised as I feel.

Nine doesn’t look at me when he answers. “No. We’re just making a stop, so you can get some of your shit. You’re coming with me until we can get this figured out. You’re not safe while Ricci’s men are still looking for you.”

“No, I’m not coming with you,” I say. “I’m staying here.”

He growls and his nostrils flare. “You say that like you have a choice. You don’t. There are people after you. Men who won’t be as nice as to stop at your house to get your shit before dragging you off.”

“So just the dragging off part then?” I yell.

We turn onto my driveway.

“Wait, how do you know where I live?” I ask.

Nine doesn’t answer because he’s laser focused on something out the windshield.

“Fuck,” he swears.

Fuck is right. There are three cop cars on my driveway with just as many uniformed officers standing around them chatting and drinking coffee. All of the furniture that was inside my house is now in a pile in the middle of the driveway.

I can see in his eyes that Nine’s considering turning around, but the cop in the center spots us approaching waves us over. It’s too late.

Nine gives me a warning look and throws the truck in park.

“Don’t say or do anything stupid,” he warns.

We get out and the officer who waved us over approaches. “What’s going on?” Nine asks.

The cop gives him a once-over followed by disapproving look that makes me want to slap the coffee from his hands.

Judgy asshole.

“Are you Miss Lenore Leary?” The officer asks me.

“I am.”

“Good. I’m here upon the request of The First Bank of Logan’s Beach to carry out the eviction. I ask that you remain as calm as possible and do what we ask, and we won’t have any problems here today. Is that understood?”