Page 20 of Creole Kingpin
The condo is loaded with boxes. It hasn’t been tossed. No furniture is broken or lamps shattered. So, no sign of a struggle.What the fuck happened then?
I clear the rooms and then get the fuck out as fast as I came in, wiping the knob, door, and floor clean of blood and my prints.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I grab it. The display tells me it’s Jules.
“Boss, we got a fucking problem.”
“You find her?”
“No, but I got a dead body in the service hallway. Fucker got stabbed in the leg. Bled out.”
“Femoral artery. Fuck. Get his prints and a picture of his face, then get the fuck out. We’re going to find Magnolia.”
Eleven
Magnolia
It takes me over half an hour to get to my house in the Quarter, because I can’t take the chance that anyone followed me. More than ever, I’m so fucking glad I never told anyone other than Mount and Keira that I bought this place.
But Moses knows.
I push the thought of him out of my mind.Ain’t got time for that. I’ve got bigger things to worry about.
I park a block down and walk to my gate with my caftan swirling around my feet, my floppy hat fixed on my head, and my duffel bag over my shoulder. Once inside, I finally take a deep breath.
“Fuck, thathurts.” My side is on fire where he cut me. But this ain’t my first rodeo getting knifed, unfortunately. Hopefully, it’s my last time, though. I’m thoroughly sick of this shit.
Carefully, I pick my way over drop cloths and head upstairs to my all-white bathroom. The bathroom that was never supposed to be stained with blood.
Too bad wishes don’t all come true.
Once I’m inside, I drop the duffel on the floor and bend to unzip it, unleashing a sharp, burning sensation.
I grit my teeth as I dig in the bag. The first aid kit, whiskey, weed, and shotgun come out first. I lay the gun on the white marble countertop within reach, just in case that motherfucker manages to find me. Then I tug off the caftan, carefully peel up the hem of my crop top, and glance down at the wound. He sliced me right through the fucking band of my high-waisted black skirt.
Fucking asshole. I liked this skirt.
As I suspected from the pain, my inspection tells me the wound needs stitches. But that comesafterthe hefty swig of whiskey I take before slipping off my skirt.
Jesus, shit, that burns.
But it doesn’t hurt as much as it’s going to. I splash some of Keira’s best whiskey on the cut and grit my teeth against the fiery pain.
“I’m getting too old for this bullshit,” I murmur to the empty room with a shake of my head and a long sigh.
After digging into the first aid kit, I grab gauze and press it against the cut. The blood is clotting, so there’s no chance I’ll bleed out. Which means I have time to get my priorities in order and rolla nice fat blunt. Because I’m gonna need it.
Once I’m done, I light it and take a long hit, puffing hard to get it burning right. Smoke fills my lungs, and I wait a beat before blowing it out. I glance down at the suture kit, but reach for the whiskey again instead.
“This is gonna fucking suck,” I murmur, then freeze.
Before he even speaks, I feel his presence. I jerk my head up to see Moses Buford Gaspard standing in the doorway of my goddamned bathroom.
“Your stitches are gonna be crooked as fuck if you drink that whole bottle before you start,” he says with a lazy grin.
Twelve
Moses
