The physical pain that rattled my bones and singed my organs, filling my lungs with smoke was horrible, but it paled in comparison to the emotional torment piercing my heart.
I’d promised James, along with both of mi chicas that I would falter no more, but it was a vow I hadn’t kept. I may not have chosen to have a needle plunged into my arm, but my stupidity had caused my fall from sobriety all the same.
And now I was paying for it.
Mightily so.
Pain ravaged my insides, my empty belly twisted as a pair of heels clacked against the concrete steps that led to the basement from the mill’s ground floor.
For a moment, I froze.
But the fear that had seized my heart disappeared when, seconds later, Faye ran into the room, her blonde hair in disarray, plastic grocery bags in hand, and headed straight for me. “Robina Hood!” she shouted, words rushed. “Baby, I’ve gotta get you out of here!”
And just like that, the fear returned.
Before I could ask her what was going on, my stomach, the idiota, lurched. Grabbing the metal bucket I’d spent the last twenty-four hours dry heaving over, I pulled it to my chest just as my throat convulsed.
“What’s”—I gasped—“wrong?”
Eyes wide, Faye dropped the bags to the ground, spilling the contents in all directions. Uncaring of the mess she’d made, she knelt and grabbed an opened package of cucumber-scented baby wipes.
Pressing one of the cool cloths to my forehead, she rubbed her free hand up and down my spine, relieving a bit of the fiery agony lashing my cramping muscles.
“You mean besides the fact that you haven’t let me call James to come help you?” I whimpered at the sound of his name. I both missed and needed Guapo, but I couldn’t call him, not even when every cell in my body screamed for me to do just that.
I’d been beaten.
Raped.
Shot up.
Though he was my solace, I couldn’t face him. Not after the consequences I’d been dealt at the hands of El Diablo, and not after I’d broken my promise to remain clean, even if indirectly.
“Tell”—another heave—“me.”
Unease flickered over her face, matching the panic morphing her features. My spine uncurled, straightening at the sight.
“Faye—”
“One of El Diablo’s soldiers messed up real bad,” she interrupted, voice raspier than I’d ever heard it. “Got popped by the cops on a drug run. So now he’s got a meetin’ with the man that he was supposed to sell the product too.”
My red-rimmed eyes widened. “He’s leaving…”
She dipped her chin. “He is, and he ain’t takin’ Chiquita with him neither.” Her words were as rushed as her quickened breaths; they slammed into me, knocking me estúpido. “I heard him tell one of his lackeys that he ain’t got time to wait for her to come back from the date she’s on.”
Heart pounding, beads of sweat slid down my temples, then my cheeks. Mind racing from both relief and withdrawal, I couldn’t think.
El Diablo was leaving.
And he wasn’t taking Chiquita.
This was the moment we needed.
And the one we’d been waiting for.
Withdrawal or not, I had to move.
Fast.
“I need a p-phone,” I said, rolling from my aching side to my culo. “James he…” I paused, grimacing as bolts of ice streaked through my veins. “He gave me a phone. It’s in the basement of the trap house, tucked behind the—”
“You mean this phone?”
My dry mouth snapped shut, teeth clattering, when she held up a familiar black cell, a devious smile on her face.
“How did y-you…”
“You may be smart, Robina Hood, but I ain’t no dummy.” She winked; my confusion grew. “Saw you sneakin’ down to the basement a while back and knew you were up to somethin’, so I kicked off my heels and followed close behind in case you ran into trouble. Never know what junkie is lurkin’ down there.” She grimaced. “No offense.”
Bolts of pain echoed through my head.
I groaned in response.
“Anyways, I saw you hide it,” she continued, ignoring me. “Knew it must be important, and thought you might be needin’ it now, so I grabbed it ‘fore I left after checkin’ on Little One since she ain’t got no date tonight.”
Jade…
Shoulders slumping, I curled back in on myself. She’s alone, unprotected. And it’s all because of me. I’m such a fuck up. “Mi chicas, are they—”
“They’re both fine.” Pushing a limp strand of hair free from my face, she offered me a shy smile. “But I’d be lyin’ if I said Little One wasn’t downright ticked off about you choosin’ to go through withdrawal here instead of back at the house where she could help you, or better yet, in a motel under James’s care.” She gave me a pointed look. “She understands, though.”
Pausing, she blew out a pent-up breath. “I tell ya, her and Chiquita are just too damned smart to be livin’ this life.” Hand cupping my chin, she gave it the slightest squeeze. “And so are you.”
I loved Faye, but she was wrong.
Very wrong.
“No, I’m not,” I argued, tears blurring my vision. “If I were, I wouldn’t constantly fuck up when it matters most.”
To my dismay, I sounded weak, not to mention, close to breaking, an action that Faye—thankfully—would not allow me to take.
“Are you done feelin’ sorry for yourself now?” she snapped, standing tall. Hands on her hips, she glared down at me, attitude rolling off her aged frame in waves. “’Cause dammit this ain’t you, Robina Hood. You’re a fighter. Me and you, we’ve been through a whole lotta pain before, but I ain’t never, not once seen you stay on the ground after getting knocked down. So don’t start now. Especially not when freedom may only be a few hours away.”
My mind blanked.
She knew?
“Yeah, I know you’re runnin’,” she said, reading my thoughts. “Wasn’t too sure when you’d try
