Open Wounds by Camille Taylor Page B

penny he earned, he’d kept, even skimming a little off Coleani’s clients. While the rest of Coleani’s sons were drinking, snorting, or fucking away their hard-earned cash, he’d been expecting a rainy day. The only good thing his whore of a mother had taught him before she left was how to save money, and her advice had stuck over the years, even after the memory of her face had disappeared.
    He spared another glance in the rear-view mirror. Shit, the Commodore was still there. He couldn’t exactly skip town with the cops on his arse. How would he lose them? A horn blasted beside him and he realised he’d been too busy looking back at the cop car to watch the road. He jerked the wheel, bringing his car back into his lane.
    Whatever you plan to do, Mikey , you’d better do it quick .
    Up ahead, the amber light turned red and like a man going to his slaughter he prayed for forgiveness should his next stop be meeting his maker. He stamped down hard on the accelerator and shot through the intersection unscathed, then heard the sound of two cars colliding and glanced back to see his shadow stuck behind the crash.
    Michael deliberately slowed, not wanting to call attention to himself. He was a nervous wreck by the time he turned off the ignition outside his apartment building.
    He knew he didn’t have much time, only a small window of opportunity to get lost. He ran up the inner staircase two at a time, the lift having been broken for years, then opened the door to his small one-bedroom apartment and pried up a floorboard where he kept his money. He grabbed his old backpack and stuffed the loose notes into the large section, zipping it up once he cleared out every last fiver.
    He didn’t bother packing clothes. All that shit could be easily replaced. Looking around, he didn’t believe he’d ever miss this place. When Coleani had first offered it to him, he’d thought it a palace — a place of his own. But now he saw it for the dump that it was.
    He chastised himself for wasting time and made his feet move. He reached the door and yanked it open, his heart pounding as all rational thought exited his head. He forced himself to smile as he looked over at seventeen-year-old Toby McLinden, another of Coleani’s boys, a fellow ex-foster home child.
    “Hey, Toby, I was just heading out. Got to make some drops for Coleani,” he told the boy.
    It wasn’t a lie; he had decided to run halfway through his regular drops and still had a shitload of product sitting in his Saab. Hell, he could easily sell that later when he was out of danger, and he would probably need the money.
    He stepped out of his apartment, shut the door behind him, and started down the stairs. He hoped Toby wouldn’t comment on the backpack. He wasn’t sure what he’d tell the teen, and right now his brain wasn’t functioning properly enough to come up with a lie.
    He heard Toby behind him as he descended the stairs.
    Relax, he’s probably just going out. Don’t freak out or you’ll tell him you’re hiding something.
    Toby was the kind to report on his own mother, if he had one.
    The kid was on his heels as he walked over to his car, dropping the backpack on the passenger seat. He’d rounded the hood and opened the driver’s side door when Toby suddenly touched his arm, startling him.
    Michael glared at him. “You want something?”
    “Not me. Coleani. He wants to see you right now.”
    Oh, shit. I’m a dead man.
    “Can’t it wait? I don’t want to disappoint Coleani’s customers.” That was the last thing he cared about, but it amazed him how scared he could be. Hours ago, being stuck in an interrogation room at the LAC had seemed like the worst thing imaginable. The prospect of confronting Coleani was much worse.
    Toby shook his head. “Boss wants to see you now .”
    Michael let out a deep breath, appearing outwardly calm but shitting bricks on the inside. “All right. I’m on my way.”
    “I’ll drive with you.”
    Michael