“Bitch tried to run.” Mick crossed to the glass table. “You’d better not have done all my coke.”

Lisa shrank onto the couch cushion. “You said I could have one line. That’s all I did. I swear.”

Still eyeballing her, he stepped up, opened the square tin, and checked his supply. The glimmer of fear in her eyes pacified him. He nodded, and she exhaled.

That’s what he wanted to see: obedience and appreciation. He was in control. It didn’t matter that Lisa was Sam’s girlfriend. Mick could have her any time he liked. But he was done with whores. The finer things in life were trickling into his grasp, one by satisfying one. He’d come up in the world, and he wasn’t letting anything shove him back down again.

“What are you gonna do with her?” Lisa gave Jewel—curled, shaking, and smelling like fear—a glare. Lisa wasn’t going to let that little bitch ruin what she had going. If one girl escaped, what would stop the others from thinking they could do the same? Mr. K demanded a high level of efficiency, and no one who could testify against Mick would ever walk out of this house alive.

“I don’t know. I have to think.”

He turned to Jewel. Her eyes were squeezed shut, as if she didn’t want to see what was coming.

Smart thinking on her part.

Anger flared fresh in his veins. Tonight’s act of rebellion could ruin everything. This gig was good, but he was tired of worrying about Mr. K’s rules.

He grabbed her by the hair and dragged her toward the back door. She got her feet under her body and stumbled behind him. The yard was a twenty-by-twenty rectangle of concrete and dirt, walled in by a heavy wooden fence that sagged in places. His big pit bull slunk out from behind the garage to greet him.

“Sit.” Cringing, Butch obeyed. If only the girls learned as quick as the dog.

A small metal shed squatted in the rear corner. Jewel stumbled as Mick shoved her into the darkness. She fell onto her knees then curled up into a miserable ball. He handcuffed her to a pipe sticking out of the dirt. Then he walked out, shutting the door and fastening the padlock. Dumb bitch acted like Mick was new at this. He wasn’t. He’d practiced taking a girl to the edge of death and holding her there. Some girls held on a long, long time.

He went back into the living room. His brother was kicked back on the sofa, his posture deceiving. No matter how relaxed Sam appeared, violence flowed just under his skin. His eyes were coke-bright. Mick snorted a spoonful and poured himself a glass of vodka. The numbness slid over him like crushed ice flowing through his veins. Five minutes later, he felt reenergized, as if anything was possible.