“Um, a week or so ago, maybe more.”

  “‘Maybe’?” he demanded. “You knew this whole fuckin’ time that your boss was handing out drugs and you didn’t think that I might want to know about this little goddam piece of information?”

  “I, um, I just, um.”

  It was clear as day to Grit that Honey knew that she was backstroking in a sea of wrong. She’d fucked up, and it was painted right on her face.

  “I can’t fucking believe this,” said Grit, his face tight with anger as he stormed over to one of the chairs in the room and shoved it over, the thing hitting the ground with a clatter. “What the fuck did you think, we were just having some fucking booty calls every now and then? I’m paying you money—good money—for information, and now I find out that you were hiding something that could’ve saved my friend’s life!”

  Tears formed in Honey’s eyes. It was clear that she didn’t have a word to say in her defense.

  “Pitt—a man you knew—is dead because of that shit. And if I would’ve known what you just told me earlier I could’ve made a move and shut that fuckin’ place down for good.”

  “I … I just …”

  “You just what?” demanded Grit. “I gotta hear this.”

  “I just wanted to give my boss a chance to prove that he wasn’t the man he turned out to be! I didn’t believe that someone like him could’ve been a … a …fucking drug pusher!”

  “Well, you’d better start fucking believing it,” said Grit. “’Cause I got some news for you: If you’re looking for stand-up guys, you’re not gonna find them behind the bar at a fucking strip club!”

  Grit closed his mouth as he paced around the room. He knew that he needed to take a second to calm himself down. After all, there was information that he needed to get.

  “So,” said Grit. “Tell me now. Tell me everything you know. And no goddamn bullshit.”

  “Charlie, the bartender,” started Honey, still shaken, “gave drugs to Bethany.”

  “I know that,” said Grit. “Tell me why. He just gave her drugs out of the kindness of his heart?”

  “No,” said Honey. “He said that he’d been working on some new stuff and that he wanted her to try it, since she’d had experience with that kind of thing.”

  “Fuck!” shouted Grit.

  He wanted to slam his fist into the wall as hard as he could.

  “That’s what I needed to know,” said Grit. “That’s the proof that I could’ve used two fucking weeks ago. That’s the proof I could’ve used to shut that goddamn place down for good.”

  Honey didn’t say a word.

  “If there’s anything else you have to tell me, you’d better say it now. Because after this, you and I are done. We’re fucking done.”

  Honey opened her mouth to say something. But nothing came out.

  “No,” she said. “That was it.”

  “Then get out. And you’d better quit that fucking job of yours, if you know what’s good for you. Fantasies isn’t going to be open for business much longer. And if you’re thinking about saying a word to your boss about this, just remember what kind of man you’d be doing a favor.”

  “But—”

  Grit held up his hand.

  “No buts,” he said, his tone stern and uncompromising. “Get out. Now.”

  Honey seemed to realize that there wasn’t thing she could say to get Grit to budge. She stood up slowly, took a breath, and gave herself a moment to compose herself. Then, she walked slowly to the hotel room door and left, Grit glaring at her all the while.

  Once the door was shut, the restraint that Grit had been exercising over the last few minutes cracked.

  “God-fucking-dammit!” he yelled, his voice booming.

  He reached for the nearest lamp, grabbed it, and threw it hard against the wall, the light in the room dimming as he pulled it out of its socket. The thing shattered into a thousand pieces. Grit breathed in heavily and slowly. He was full of pent-up anger from everything, and all he could think about was getting revenge for Razor.

  Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow the boys and I break into that fucking place and do what needs to be done. We’ve been playing it safe for too long, and if what Honey said is true, then that’s all the proof I need to move in.

  But as soon as Honey’s name moved through his mind, Grit found himself gripped by a heavy melancholy.

  Was I too fucking hard on her? he wondered. She’s just some stupid, scared kid, after all. This was all a shitload for her to get involved in, and the only mistake she made was trusting her boss’ better nature.

  As Grit considered the situation, he opened the minibar and snatched out a bottle of whiskey. He yanked the top off and swigged, draining nearly half of the bottle. All he wanted to do was drink and fight.

  She fucked up, he thought, she fucked up so badly that one of my men died pointlessly. And God knows how many others have died in the last few weeks from that fucking poison Charlie’s shipping out every day. I was right to be hard on her; she needed to know that her actions had consequences.

  He took another pull of the whiskey, his temper still flaring. Storming out onto the balcony, he looked out over the city. Without thinking, his eyes tracked down to the street below, and he realized instantly that part of him was hoping to catch a glimpse of Honey as she left, as though it was the last time he’d see her.

  The tugging at Grit’s heart only increased in intensity as he considered the possibility that Honey was gone for good.

  She was the one fucking thing I had going for me right now, he thought. I haven’t known a woman like her in God knows how long. And I just threw it away like it was nothing.

  But he knew the damage was done, and there was no going back. And as he looked out onto the city, his mind raced with thoughts of sweet revenge.

  Chapter Eleven

  Honey

  Sadness gripped Honey like a cold fist. Leaving the hotel, she didn’t know what to do with herself. Grit, the father of her baby, had just banished her from his life for good, and the worst part was that she knew on some level that he was right.

  I was stupid, she thought, driving home. Fucking stupid. I knew that Charlie giving away his product was the smoking gun that Grit needed, but I didn’t do anything about it. What did I think was going to happen, that I’d learn that Charlie hadn’t actually done anything? That Bethany was just making things up?

  She shook her head in disbelief. On top of everything, Honey was furious with herself for not telling Grit the news that she’d called him to discuss—the baby. But she felt wrong about it somehow, as though bringing it up while Grit was scolding her for her stupid decisions would’ve been somehow manipulative. Or worse, that his mind wouldn’t have changed at all, that she would be gone from his life, baby or no baby.

  Honey needed to talk to someone. Pulling out her phone, she fired off a text to Bethany. But there was no response. Honey decided to stop by a diner and have a cup of coffee while she thought everything over.

  A half-hour later, the coffee in front of her and her heart feeling ripped in two, Honey realized that she was alone in the world, utterly alone.

  Then, the phone buzzed on the cheap, white diner table. It was a text from Bethany.

  Hey, girl. I’m with Charlie right now, and I’m honestly feeling like I just can’t keep my eyes open. He’s about to leave, but I think I’m just gonna have to go to bed. But I promise we’ll talk tomorrow.

  It struck Honey as a little strange that Bethany would be spending time with Charlie, but she knew that Bethany and Charlie were often the last ones to leave Fantasies, and they’d usually head out for a late-night drink when they did.

  Sure. Sleep well. Talk to you tomorrow.

  Honey fired off the text and returned to her coffee. Resting her head on her chin, she looked around at the low-lifes around her at the diner, a mixture of druggies, punk kids, and thugs. She’d tried so hard to avoid living lives like them, always saving a little money when she could and doing her best to stay away from the drugs and seedy living that came with her line of work. But she knew that when the baby came, if she didn’t have any sort of support system, she’d be screwed. She imagined having to break her rule about sleeping with clients in the back room, spending her evenings screwing strange men for diaper money, no better than a common streetwalker.

  Honey wanted to cry right then and there. Instead, she finished her coffee and headed home, where she fell into a restless sleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

  She woke up the next morning from strange dreams. During the night, Honey imagined walking through dark woods, leading a child by the hand. And though she couldn’t see through the shade of the trees, she could see and hear the movement of wild animals among the trunks. She remembered being gripped by an intense fear and a certainty that the animals were closing in by the second. And there was nothing she could do.

  The first thing did when she sat up in bed was place her hand on her stomach. She still had trouble with the idea that she had a life growing inside of her, and the thought was enough to cause a small tremor of terror to grip her. Suddenly, her dream made much more sense.

  Picking up her phone, she checked it, hoping for both a text from Grit and from Bethany. Instead, there was neither. Honey knew that it was silly to expect an uncompromising man like Grit to contact her and apologize, but she still held out hope. Bethany, on the other hand, would normally wake her up with a text asking to get breakfast, especially after a night when she’d had to take a raincheck on plans.

  Honey needed to talk. She fired off a quick text to Bethany and decided to take a shower. Once she was done, she picked up her phone and saw that there was still nothing from her friend.

  This is fucking weird, thought Honey. That girl’s phone is practically attached to her hand.

  Honey pulled up Bethany’s number and gave her a call. It rang and rang, eventually going to voicemail.

  “Hey, girl,” said Honey, twirling her hair with her finger. “Um, just seeing if you’re still down to hang out and chat. Sorry to bother you, but I just had a really rough night last night. Call me when you get this. Bye.”

  Honey hung up and realized that she’d never once had to leave a voicemail on Bethany’s phone. Bethany was usually so quick with the texts that even phone calls were never really needed.

  Honey prepared herself a simple breakfast of eggs and toast, picking at the food and forcing it down. She wasn’t hungry in the slightest, but she knew that even something as simple as what she put into her body wasn’t her call anymore.

  Now you’re eating for two, she thought, looking in the mirror across from her kitchen table and imagining what she’d look like with a full, pregnant belly.

  When she was done, she cleaned up and checked her phone. Still nothing.

  Okay, this is fucking strange, thought Honey. Is she with a dude or something? No, she said she was with Charlie, and unless those two are knocking boots, which I seriously doubt, then she probably went to sleep early.

  Honey thought about how tired Bethany had sounded on the phone, and wondering if maybe she was just sleeping in. She came up with a handful of rational explanations for what was going on, but none of them sat right with her. Something was wrong.

  Throwing on some simple clothes, Honey grabbed her keys and phone and headed out. She spent the drive over to Bethany’s doing her best to ignore the anxiety that was building in her stomach by the moment. She couldn’t pinpoint exactly why, but something about this whole thing seemed off.

  Once she arrived at Bethany’s place, Honey strode up to the front door and knocked. Moments passed, and there was no response. She knocked again, and just as before, nothing. Honey pulled out her phone and called, and again received no answer.

  What the fuck is going on? thought Honey.

  She looked around the porch for the fake rock where she knew Bethany kept a spare key. Opening the door, the smell of something vile, like old garbage, hit her right in the face.

  “Whoa!” shouted Honey, waving her hand in front of her.

  The first thing she noticed was just how dim the place was. The lights were all off, and the curtains were pulled shut. It was like walking into a cave.

  “B?” called out Honey. “It’s me!”

  Honey stepped into the living room, deftly moving through the garbage that Bethany still had yet to clean up. She walked over to the nearest curtains and pulled them open, casting light on the dingy living room. And as soon as she had a little light to work with, she spotted something on the coffee table.

  There were two needles, two spoons, and a small amount of drugs.

  Shit, shit, thought Honey. She was fucking using again.

  “Bethany!” called out Honey, her heart now racing, a sense of dread taking hold of her. “Please! Where are you?”

  Honey darted around the place, trying to find any sign of her friend. Finally, she came to the bedroom door, which was shut tight. Her stomach tightened into a hot ball as she placed her hand on the knob. She knew that whatever was on the other side wasn’t going to be good.

  Taking one final breath, she opened the door.

  The bedroom, like the rest of the house, was dark and devoid of light. But there was one difference: on the bed, sprawled out, her limbs limp, was Bethany.

  Honey rushed over to her, checking her for any sign of life. Bethany’s eyes were open, her mouth was slack, and her skin was cool and clammy.

  “Bethany!” cried Honey, trying to shake her friend to consciousness. “Wake up! Please, wake up!”

  Hot tears formed in Honey’s eyes and her heart pounded as she looked over Bethany. All around her she saw the signs of what had likely happened—drugs. Honey pressed down on Bethany’s chest, doing her best to imitate the CPR she’d seen on TV. But to no avail. Bethany stayed as limp as she’d been when Honey entered.

  She was gone. And all Honey could do was scream.

  Chapter Twelve

  Grit

  Grit was tired of fucking around. Sitting at the bar of one of the Vandals’ usual haunts a day or so after the farewell party for Pitt, he realized that he’d been spending far, far too much time with his thumb up his ass, waiting around for some stripper to give him the information that he needed to make a move.

  Why the fuck am I being so hesitant? he asked himself, shaking his head as he rolled the glass of whiskey by the bottom of the glass on the bar. I’m acting like a fucking pussy.

  To that end, he’d called up some of the men in his crew to meet him at the bar and figure out a plan. Part of him wanted to just break into the place with guns blazing, so to speak, and rip that fucking strip club out of the ground by its foundations.

  Patience, he told himself. Revenge is good, but I gotta keep a clear head. Getting emotional and making decisions in that state of mind is a good way to make some serious fuck-ups.

  Before he could give the matter much more thought, the doors to the dingy bar flung open and the men from his crew strolled in. There were Stone, Razor, and a couple of others who were new to the Vandals. Grit liked to give the new guys opportunities to ride along with the more seasoned members of the club for serious ops, to give them a chance to show what they were made out of. He hoped that wouldn’t be a mistake tonight.

  Grit stood up from the bar to greet his brothers, throwing back the rest of his whiskey and ordering another as he directed them to a table in the back corner. The men ordered their drinks and headed over. Once everyone was seated, Grit looked over his crew. They all seemed ready, all with the same steely look of determination in their eyes. They were as ready for revenge as he was.

  “What’s the plan, chief?” asked Stone, his hand wrapped around a tall glass of beer. “More recon?”

  “I say we fucking shoot first and ask questions later,” said Razor, anger lining his voice.

  Grit knew that as much as he wanted revenge, Razor was likely itching for it even more. That could be a powerful weapon going forward, Grit understood, but he knew he had to make sure that Razor’s emotions didn’t get the better of him.

  “I got some news about the strip club,” said Grit. “Found out that the bartender there’s been handing out free dope to the strippers, trying to get them to sample it or some shit. Sounds to me like he’s using them as guinea pigs to get his recipes down.”

  Razor slammed his fist on the table.

  “That’s it then,” said Razor. “What more proof do we need than that? We need to wipe this fucking place off the map before anyone else gets killed.”

  “I’m with Razor,” said Killian, one of the newbies, a tank of a man with a shaved head and tattoos covering his neck. “I don’t know what better evidence we’re gonna get than that.”