Throttled (Wild Riders #1)(72)

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There’s this rhythmic sound coming from the front of the house. I think it’s Joey, banging some girl in his room, and I flip over and smash the pillow over my head. It stinks of bad breath and sweat, but I don’t wanna hear the tempo pick up, or the bedframe squeak, or the moans and groans that’ll follow.

But then I remember. Joey isn’t here. ‘Cuz I kicked his sorry ass out for dealing. Not because I just found out and went all narco on him. I’ve known that’s his gig, and I told him I didn’t give a shit what he does at work or outside the house, but the minute he brought his junkie friends through the front door to swap his shit, he was out.

I sit up a little and listen. The sound isn’t rhythmic, and it isn’t coming from Joey’s old room. It’s pounding. At the front door.

I fall back on the mattress and squeeze my eyes shut. Probably Joey.

It’s been three days and I haven’t heard a word from him. No text, no Snap, no voicemail. He cleared out his shit in two hours—he didn’t have much—and last I heard from him was a loud, bitter “Fuck you.” Shitty way to end a living arrangement, but it was his fault it went down like that. I always knew how he got the cash to pay for his room, and I told him I didn’t care. As long as it didn’t involve me, he could do whatever the hell he needed to do to get me his $400 a month. Except bring drugs in my house.

The pounding gets louder. I listen. It isn’t angry or forceful, the way Joey would knock if he’s high on shit and wants to rail on me. It’s softer, insistent, the way a dog wanting to go for a walk might tug on a leash.

I grab my phone off the nightstand. One o’clock in the morning. Who the hell is knocking on my door at one a.m.?

Sara. An image of her long black hair and soft lips flutters through my still-foggy brain. And then I remember: Sara is pissed at me. Kicked me out of her place earlier, sent me home with no dinner and no sex. Some shit about not understanding her needs, not being responsible, not taking life seriously. I know what her needs are—she needs a boyfriend she can parade around the marketing firm where she scored a job a few months earlier. Not some college dropout who earns a living running lights at frat parties.

The banging doesn’t stop. It’s not a polite, sweet dog anymore. It’s a dog who’s like, “Dude. I have to go out right f*cking now.”

I fumble for the bat I keep under the bed. The wood is smooth and cool and I hold it tight. I slip out and head down the hall, bits of cat litter crunching under my feet. My big toe nudges a pile of wet goo and I pull back and mutter under my breath. Goddamn cat gets sick every single night.

I reach the foyer and listen. Someone is definitely pounding on the front door. A few knocks, then a pause, then more knocks. Sherlock is sitting a safe distance away, his ears cocked, his pink nose twitching, and I think for the hundredth time how stupid it is to have a cat instead of a dog. A dog would bark and growl and scare the shit out of anyone. The cat just sits there. Waits for me to do something about the noise so he can go back to sleep. After he throws up a hairball or kicks more litter out of his box.

I take a tentative step forward and lean toward the peephole. My heart races a little, wondering if I’m all wrong about what mad knocks sound like and maybe Joey is out there, wild-eyed and high as f*ck, aiming a gun at the peephole, ready to blow my brains out. He’s my friend—was, I guess—but I wouldn’t put it past him. Because he’s a crazy ass motherf*cker.

I level my eye with the peephole and steal a quick glance. But there’s water on the hole ‘cuz it’s raining outside and all I see is a murky silhouette, like some dark, watery painting.

I clear my throat and move to the left of the door, up against the wall, clutching the bat a little tighter. If someone has a gun, they’re gonna aim dead center, right?

“Who’s there?”

The knocking stops. “Hello?”

It’s a girl’s voice. Not one I recognize.

I step toward the peephole and peer through it again. It still looks like a Monet painting—the one with the fog and the building that looks like Dracula’s castle, all blurry and out of focus—but the figure is more visible. Or maybe I just think it is, because I now know there’s a female voice attached to it, which means the person standing on my doorstep is not my drug-dealing ex-roommate looking for revenge. Or a dog that needs to take a piss.

“Who’s there?” I repeat. Just because I know it’s not Joey doesn’t mean the fear is totally gone. Because there’s still someone knocking on my door at one o’clock in the morning. And if it’s a girl…hell, I don’t even want to think about what that might mean.

“Lydia.”

I frown and mentally go through the list of ex-girlfriends, hook-ups, and old classmates. Pre-Sara, of course. No Lydia.

“I think you have the wrong house,” I tell her through the closed door. Rain taps at the windows and a streak of lightning flashes the sky.

“Nash, is that you?”

She knows my name. Shit.

I set the bat down and turn the deadbolt.