Twist the Knife (Lost Kings MC #24)

“Aww, come on, you can break the rules for a minute.” He snatches the bag out of my hand and peers inside, then back at me. “I just gotta grab my wallet for a tip.”

A ditzy, and possibly deranged, smile spreads over my face, “Sure, okay, then.”

I follow him inside, stopping to wad a piece of napkin into the lock so the door doesn’t close all the way.

The room’s disgusting—dirty clothes strewn everywhere, overflowing trash can of takeout bags, boxes, and wrappers—but Patrick seems to have no shame about inviting a stranger inside.

He sets the bag on a round table next to the curtained window and pulls out the milkshake.

My breathing freezes. Blood pounds through my ears in a steady, terrified rhythm.

He doesn’t so much as frown at the wilted whipped cream.

Come on, fucker. Take a sip.

He pokes a straw into the hole at the top of the dome and sucks a long, frosty pull from the cup.

A slow exhale passes my lips.

Fentanyl is an extremely potent opioid. With the amount swirling around in that cup, he should feel it soon.

He smacks his lips and sets the cup down. “What’d you say your name was?” he asks.

“Ashley.” I wait for his reaction.

A flicker of recognition at the name his wife chose for their daughter crosses his face, then disappears with a shrug of his shoulders.

Not one fuck given.

A wallet rests in the center of the table. He picks it up, flips it open and pulls out two dollar bills.

Really, you brought me in the room for two dollars?

He drops the wallet on the table and picks up the milkshake again.

Giddiness surges through me as he takes another long sip.

Lap it up, scumbag.

Still holding the cup, he approaches me with his arm outstretched, pushing the money at my face.

I swipe the dollars out of his grasp.

His gaze narrows on my gloved hand and his forehead wrinkles.

“What’re you…” He blinks rapidly and sways on his feet.

“Thanks for the tip.” I stuff it in my pocket.

As if he’d downed a case of beer, he staggers to the messy, rumpled bed and drops onto the edge. He sucks on the straw again.

The sugar rush isn’t going to clear your head. A giggle slips past my lips, and he frowns in confusion.

“What’s…” He clutches his stomach and the cup tips precariously to the side.

“Whoa, mister.” I grab the cup. No reason to spill potential evidence all over the place. “Maybe we should get some food in you instead of all that sugar?”

“Yeah…gimme one dem hot dogs,” he slurs and vaguely points toward the table.