head before pushing off the table. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out a pair of handcuffs; the same ones I was wearing when he walked in. He circles them around my wrists—looser than they were before. “You have one night.” He places his business card in my hand. “An officer will tail you. I suggest you get a drink and think about taking the deal.”
“Fuck your deal.”
He smiles openly for the first time. “Fuck your life.”
Chapter 2
Officer Declan—the poor asshole chosen to babysit me—hasn’t moved from his spot in the last two hours. I flip the business card between my fingers and eye it curiously.
Detective Jackson Davis, right above the Philadelphia Police Department logo.
And his hand-written note: meet me at Colton’s Bar.
“Asshole,” I mumble under my breath.
“I’m the asshole? You’re the one who left and never looked back.”
I flinch in my seat—not from him being here, because I expected that, but because of the harshness of his words. “Jackson,” I greet, watching him take the barstool next to mine.
“I thought for sure you’d at least call. I didn’t expect much, maybe a ‘hey bro, I’m alive.’”
I look over my shoulder for Officer Declan, but he’s no longer there.
“I told him to leave,” Jackson states, getting comfortable in his seat. “So, I’m glad you actually read my note instead of trashing it like I thought you would.”
I dip my head and stare at the beer in my hand. “You said something about a deal?”
After ordering a beer for himself, Jackson turns to me. “I need your help.”
I don’t respond. I don’t know how to. I was already fucked, but whatever he’s offering isn’t going to save me. It’s going to save him.
It takes a moment for him to answer. “It involves you.”
My gaze snaps to his. “What the fuck are you talking about, Jax?”
Running a hand through his hair, he takes a sip of the beer just handed to him. “This stays in the vault. You got it?”
“Sure. Whatever.”
“I’m working on a case. It’s an underground fighting organization, but we suspect it’s more.”
“More?”
“We think it’s a cover for a drug ring.”
“So where do I come in?”
“I need you to fight.”
“I don’t fight.”
“Pretty sure that guy you just put in the hospital would say otherwise.” He blows out a heavy breath. “What the hell did he say to get you so amped?”
My jaw clenches, my fingers curl, gripping the beer tighter. “He said the war was fake and that we were fighting for a cause that didn’t exist.” I search his face, waiting for him to tell me how stupid I was, but it never comes. After a while I add, “I fought so he could wake up every day and not be afraid to leave his fucking house and he thinks—”
“You should’ve killed him.”
I shrug. “Maybe.”
“So?”
“So what?”
“Deal?”
I have no real information on what the hell the deal entails, but that’s not important. What’s important is why. “Why?”
His eyes turn to stone. “They’re selling shit to kids. And when I say shit, I mean shit. It’s like ecstasy on crack or vice versa.”
“And how does that involve me?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
“Because, Ky, I think it’s the same shit that killed Steve.”
Ky: Age Fourteen
“Every damn day,” I mumbled to myself. I dropped my backpack and slowly walked over to the playground. Every day I’d walk past and see the same thing going on—two kids beating the shit out of someone. Normally, I’d walk away and ignore it. Yet there I was—a few steps away from them—and I’d had enough of their crap.
“We know you have money, you little shit!” one of them yelled.
“I don’t!” their victim squealed.
Every.
Damn.
Day.
“Give it to us, you pussy!”
One of the bigger guys kicked the kid already on the ground. It must have been pretty hard because he yelped and shouted, “Here! Just take it!”
I crossed my arms and pushed my chest out. “Hey! Leave him alone!”
In sync, the two bullies turned around, eyes already narrowed. “Stay out of it, Parker. This has nothing to do with you!”
I recognized the tormentors from school. They were twins, two years older than me. Harry and Barry Berry. Clearly their parents were just as stupid as their spawn.
The poor, beaten kid slowly came to a stand, patting down his clothes as he did. He had a busted lip and a cut on his cheek. “It’s okay, Ky, just go home,” he told me.