Chapter 152

Jasmine knelt in front of me on the living-room rug, her knees pressing into the worn carpet. She had a small first-aid kit open on the coffee table, the lid flipped back like a clamshell. A cotton pad soaked in antiseptic dabbed at the split in my lower lip, the sting sharp enough to make my eyes water. She tilted my chin with two fingers, gentle but firm, her perfume, something warm and vanilla, filling the small space between us. Every time the cotton touched the cut, I hissed through my teeth.

"Hold still," she murmured, swapping the pad for a clean one. "You’re bleeding on my couch."

Kim stood at the window, one arm wrapped around her waist, the other hand pulling the curtain back just enough to peer out. Her reflection in the glass looked pale, eyes wide. She’d seen the whole thing—Guy’s SUV, the bodyguards, me on the ground. Her shoulders were rigid, knuckles white on the curtain.

"I still can’t believe it," Jasmine said, voice low. She pressed a butterfly bandage over the cut, smoothing the edges with her thumb. "He just... showed up. In broad daylight. With that." She nodded toward the open safe on the coffee table, its empty interior mocking us.

"Don’t worry," I said, wincing as the adhesive pulled. "This blows over. And then? We’re out of this dump. Eight bedrooms. Three living rooms. Top of a damn hotel. I’m going to take that cunt’s home."

Kim let the curtain fall and turned. "You’re insane. How do you threaten a man like Guy into handing over his penthouse?"

"Simple," I said, flexing my jaw to test the bandage. "First, I need to get inside."

"And?" Jasmine pressed, sitting back on her heels.

"Look, you can’t just waltz into that place, Evan," Kim said, dropping to her knees in front of me. "He won. Stop pretending."

I took her hand, then Jasmine’s. Their fingers were warm, trembling. "I promised I’d protect you, Kim. And you, Jasmine—no more selling yourself, no more withering under those creeps. I keep my promises. You’re valuable to me. All of you. Kim. Jasmine. Tessa. I won’t let anyone hurt you again. Trust me."

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WOMEN - INTERACTIONS

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Jasmine: Interest: 40 / 40★★

Kayla: Interest: 5 / 20

Tessa: Interest: 27 / 40★★

Kim: Interest: 30 / 40★★

Delilah: Interest: 37 / 40★★

Cora: Interest: 100 / 100★★★★★

Mendy: Interest: 4/20

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Progress:

★☆☆☆☆ - 20 Interest: Milestone reward

★★☆☆☆ - 40 Interest: Milestone reward

★★★☆☆ - 60 Interest: Milestone reward

★★★★☆ - 80 Interest: Milestone reward

★★★★★ -100 Interest: Milestone reward

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Select a woman to track progress.

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Five points each. Didn’t care. I meant every word.

Jasmine exhaled, stood. "You’re angry."

"I’m focused," I corrected.

Kim’s eyes searched mine. "How do you even get in? Stopping time?"

I chuckled. "If only you knew."

"Let’s say you do," Jasmine said, arms crossed. "Then what?"

"Don’t spoil the surprise." I pushed up from the couch, ribs protesting. "Gotta meet someone. See you later."

"Evan, stop," Jasmine called as I reached the door.

I didn’t. The door clicked shut behind me.

I hit the stairs two at a time, phone already out, thumb stabbing Tuck’s contact. It rang once. Twice.

"Yo," Tuck answered, voice echoing like he was in a bathroom. "Not a good time right now."

"Big T. Need a favor."

"Man, I ain’t gonna be a bellboy for you again."

"That’s valet, not bellboy. Anyway, I need you in Jerlingen. Now."

A beat of silence. "Jerlingen? You lost your damn mind? That’s Crimson turf."

"Your old crew," I said, pushing through the door into the evening air. "You still got pull."

Another pause. Toilet flush in the background. "Twenty minutes. I’m literally shitting right now."

"Fifteen, T. This is life or death."

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Jerlingen was a shithole of a street, the kind of place where the city’s rot pooled and festered. Cracked sidewalks buckled like broken teeth, weeds punching through the concrete in clumps. Graffiti layered the brick walls in chaotic murals—tags overlapping tags, half-erased by rain and time, colors bleeding into one another like old bruises. Puddles of stagnant water reflected the flickering neon from a busted liquor-store sign, the buzz of its dying bulb the only sound cutting through the low hum of distant traffic. Abandoned row houses sagged on either side, windows boarded with plywood or shattered outright, shards glittering on the ground like cheap diamonds. A rusted shopping cart lay overturned in the gutter, one wheel spinning lazily in the breeze.

The air smelled of piss, weed, and something metallic—blood or rust, hard to tell. Needles glinted in the weeds near a chain-link fence, and a mangy dog rooted through an overflowing dumpster, its ribs showing with every breath. Cops didn’t come here. Not because they were scared, but because they didn’t give a fuck. This was Crimson territory, and the law had long ago written it off as a lost cause.

I stepped carefully, boots crunching on broken glass, eyes scanning the shadows between buildings. Figures lurked in doorways—hoods up, hands in pockets, watching. A low-rider cruised past slow, bass thumping like a heartbeat, tinted windows hiding whoever was inside. The streetlights were mostly out, the few that worked casting weak pools of yellow that barely pushed back the dark. Trash bags split open on the curb, contents spilling out—rotting food, empty bottles, a child’s shoe caked in mud. Somewhere down the block, a baby cried, the sound sharp and endless, echoing off the empty facades.

A heavy hand clapped my shoulder from behind—firm, warning. I spun, heart jumping.

The guy was massive, shoulders like a linebacker, muscles straining against a stained wifebeater. Gold chain thick as my thumb, tattoos crawling up his neck. His eyes narrowed, gold tooth flashing in a smirk.

"Ey, my man," he rumbled, voice gravel and smoke. "What you doin’ wanderin’ round here?"

Before I could answer, tires screeched. Tuck’s beat-up Civic pulled up crooked at the curb, door flying open. He hopped out—big as ever, dreads tied back, wearing a faded Lakers jersey—and the stranger’s face split into a grin. He opened his arms wide.

"Tuck!" he boomed, then dropped the N-word like it was punctuation. "Thought you forgot us, fam!"

"Nah, never," Tuck said, stepping in for a quick hug, back slaps echoing. He pulled back, nodding at me. "You scarin’ my boy?"

The guy laughed, deep and easy, tension gone. "Just checkin’. White boy in Jerlingen? That’s a red flag."

"No time, T," I cut in, glancing around. Eyes still on us. "We need Sick."

Tuck’s face tightened. "Sick? Hell naw."

"I need dirt," I said, lowering my voice. "On a rich asshole. Drugs. Something heavy."

Tuck stared at me a beat, then exhaled through his nose. "Dirt, huh? Aight. I won’t ask what for. Let’s move."

We walked. The street seemed to close in—alleys branching off like veins, shadows shifting. A group of kids on bikes circled us once, staring, then peeled off laughing. Tuck nodded at a few faces leaning out windows, fists bumping in silent greeting.

We stopped in front of a house that looked one storm away from collapse. Sagging porch, paint peeling in long curls, front door reinforced with a metal plate and three deadbolts. Windows covered in black plastic, edges taped down. A pit bull chained to the railing barked once, then laid back down, uninterested. The yard was dirt and broken toys, a rusted tricycle half-buried like a grave marker.

Tuck banged on the door—three hard knocks, pause, two more.

It creaked open a crack. A thin face peered out—dark skin, sunken cheeks, teeth yellowed and jagged like broken piano keys. Eyes bloodshot, pupils pinpricks. Sick. He looked like death warmed over, hoodie hanging off bones, track marks faint on his arms.

"The fuck you want, Tuck?" he rasped, voice like sandpaper.

I stepped forward. "Need to put dirt on someone. Hard. Need a drug—something that’ll stick."

Sick barked a laugh, wet and ugly. "You ain’t puttin’ nobody in dirt with no fuckin’ drug, white boy. That’s amateur hour."

I didn’t flinch. "Then tell me what will."

He sized me up, then disappeared inside. Door stayed cracked. We waited. Wind rattled a loose shutter. The dog whined.

He came back wearing a latex glove, holding a small black USB stick between two fingers like it was radioactive.

"Slip this bad boy in his pocket, his car, his desk—don’t matter," Sick said, voice low. "Then call the cops. Anonymous tip. Say you saw him with it. Fucker’s done. Behind bars by morning."

I pulled on my gloves—still wearing them from earlier—and took it. The stick was warm from his hand. "What’s on it?"

"Best you don’t know," he said, eyes glinting. "Plausible deniability. Two hundred cash. Now."

I swallowed hard. Looked at Tuck.

He groaned. "Aah, man, you a beggar." But he was already pulling out a wad, peeling off two hundreds, crisp and clean. Slapped them into Sick’s palm.

Sick smirked, pocketed the cash, then turned and shuffled back inside. Door slammed. Locks clicked. No goodbye. No nothing.

Tuck stared at me. "What you plannin’ with that?"

"Don’t worry about it."

"Fine. But I’m worryin’ about my two hundred bucks."

"Fair enough."

I slipped the USB into my pocket, weight heavier than it should be.

The plan was coming together.

"I need to make a call," I said, pulling out my phone.

Tuck nodded, already turning. "Fine. I’ll be at the car. Drop you home after."

"Thanks, T."

I watched him go, his big frame cutting through the dim street like a ship through fog. He fist-bumped a guy leaning on a stoop, laughed at something a woman shouted from a second-floor window, nodded to a kid on a bike who called him "Uncle T." The street knew him. Respected him. Even the dog stopped barking as he passed.

I dialed Nala and waited for her to answer.

"Evan?" Nala’s voice, tight with worry. "What happened?"

"We need to meet. Face-to-face. Got some questions about the place you and your brother live in."

A sharp inhale. "He... knows about you, doesn’t he? Fuck. I saw him on my phone. I deleted everything—call logs, messages—"

"Doesn’t matter now," I cut in, keeping my voice calm. "Burney’s. You know it?"

"Yeah," she said, hesitant. "The coffee shop downtown?"

"Tomorrow. Nine AM."

"I’m working at nine," she said. "Can’t."

"When’s your break?"

"One PM. Lunch."

"One it is," I said. "Come alone. Make sure that psycho isn’t tailing you."

"Okay," she whispered. "Evan... I’m scared. What’s going on?"

"Nothing you need to worry about," I lied. "Just be there."

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