Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 92043 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92043 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
She rolled her eyes. “You’re not hearing me. Your debt has been paid.”
“But I haven’t paid it.”
“No, not you. The detective who’s been around lately.”
Everything went still. “What?”
“He came the day after you fought with Carl and paid your debt plus damages.” She sniffed like Azariah should know all this, like he was the one putting her out by asking too many questions.
Connelly had paid his debt. The day after the fight. Before...fuck!
Connelly had paid his fucking debt without asking.
Connelly had paid his goddamn motherfucking debt and never fucking told him.
Rage began to boil in his gut. To think he’d been so fucking worried about losing his apartment that he’d gotten fucked on camera for money. And the whole fucking time Connelly had already taken care of it. His fragile, newly born trust died a fiery death.
Z wanted to scream. He wanted to curse everything and everyone. He felt so emasculated, so embarrassed. God! What Connelly must have thought when he’d told him last night? Why hadn’t he said anything?
That part stung the most. He’d thought they were on the same page.
He’d thought Connelly was honest. He’d trusted him. Enough to break down in front of him, enough to fucking want more than the endless empty days he was used to.
How dare he do that to Z? How dare he keep it a secret?
His fingers curled into a fist around the cash and he spoke through clenched teeth.
“I see. Thank you, Mrs. Duncan. I apologize for all the trouble I’ve caused. I’d like to give you my notice. I’ll be moving out.”
Shock transformed her face. “But we just settled everything. Why would you—”
“I think it’s for the best.”
He couldn’t believe it. After everything he and Connelly had spoken about the past few days, not once had the guy mentioned anything about paying his rent.
Damn him.
Z had just begun to feel like himself again. He’d been ready to change and ready to hope. Now he was reduced to a whimpering helpless damsel who couldn’t deal with his own problems and needed rescuing. He hated that feeling. He’d accepted that he couldn’t do it alone, but it was still up to him to ask for help. Going behind his back showed just how little faith Connelly had in him. Trust. It went both ways, and obviously Connelly didn’t trust him at all.
It didn’t matter that he’d taken care of himself all these years. That despite everything, he was still fucking alive. He knew better than anyone else what it took to stay that way. Fuck Connelly for taking that away from him.
He headed toward the club. Because there was no way in hell he’d let Connelly ruin the only other thing in his life that meant anything.
He’d reunite with the boys, because they supported him. They understood him.
They didn’t try to save him when he didn’t fucking need saving.
* * *
It was amazing what career criminals thought they could get away with. Sometimes all Connelly had to do was look in the right place to find all the evidence needed to put the scumbags away for good.
This was one of those times.
After he and Raoul contacted PPD about their cold case, Midtown North about the club, and the Organized Crime Unit about the mafia connection, everything clicked into place like it had been waiting for him. They’d gotten the warrant to search the porn studio and found way more than they’d expected, including videos of underage boys starring none other than Castor Stavros himself. Turns out the creep wasn’t just in it for the money.
After the raid on the studio they had all they needed to arrest everyone involved. He and Raoul left uniforms in Red Hook with the crime scene investigators and headed to West Village.
There was a fender bender in Battery Tunnel holding up traffic so they took the Bridge instead. As they drove across the river the sun’s setting glow cast the city in a stunning semi-silhouette. Lights in every skyscraper were already on so that it looked like a million stars. On any other evening it would have been enough to put Connelly in a better mood. But tonight he was too obsessed with making the criminals pay.
Slapping cuffs on the asshole club owner would be a pleasure. Maybe after he was behind bars, Connelly would be able to sleep. He felt like he’d been awake for a week straight. This morning felt like a dream, all floaty sequences and disconnected moments. Even as he looked back on it now with the sights of the city flying past his window, a part of him didn’t believe it really happened.
Last night he hadn’t been able to do anything about Azariah’s pain except hold him. This morning, he’d tried to keep his mind off of the ugliness. But his knuckles practically itched with the desire for violence against the man who’d taken advantage of Azariah’s desperation. He was about to have the law crawling up his rectum and Connelly’s fist in his face.