But the longer Mickey stared at the stain, the stronger it solidified as the only thing guaranteed to accompany any fucker who moved the kind of substance staining the carpet beneath the passenger seat.
Pain.
Heartache.
Blood.
In the end, it led nowhere else.
Mickey reached out to touch the mark.
Retracted his hand at the last moment and stood, moving on autopilot to the boot of the car.
He yanked it open. It appeared empty, but Mickey knew better. He yanked the loose floor of the boot free, revealing the space where older cars stored spare tyres.
A baseball bat lay beside an unused road safety kit.
A weapon, unless Benito had a passion for American sports that Mickey had yet to discover.
The thought made him laugh, but there was no humour in the strangled sound that left his throat. He picked up the bat, balanced it on the end of his finger like a child as his world turned slowly to stone.
“What are you doing?”
Mickey didn’t blink. He let the bat fall and turned around.
Benito was behind him, dressed in track pants and socks, no shirt, expression twisted with a lethal mix of fear and cautious amusement, as if he believed his own bullshit.
Head spinning, Mickey latched onto the fear. Heknewthat fear. He’d seen it in the mirror a thousand fucking times. “The fuck you think I’m doing?”
“Getting smokes,” Benito snapped. “Not searching my car like a fucking fed.”
Mickey slammed the boot shut and then the back door he’d left open. Numbness threatened the dismantling grief building in his gut, but he pushed it away. He’d spent too long not feeling. However much this hurt, he couldn’t hide from it. Not anymore. He wouldn’t survive.
Fight.He stepped up to Benito and put his fist to Benito’s chest, shoving him back. “I wasn’t searching your car until I found a snowfall of fucking blow under your seat. Guess you missed it when you last cleaned up, and the blood stain in the back. What happened? Nosebleed? Or did you fuck someone up with the bat in your boot?”
“Mate—”
“Fuck off!” Mickey shouted. “I’m not your mate. I never was.”
Benito raised his hands, spreading them peacefully, though his street-fuelled instinct to fight back was clear to see. “You don’t understand.”
Mickey laughed. “That’s what you’re going with? That I don’t understand what a car that moves product looks like? Wow. Go fuck yourself.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I don’t care what you meant. You’re full of shit.”
“I’m not.”
“Yeah. You are.”
Mickey moved to step around Benito.
Benito grabbed him, his strong hand clamping around Mickey’s forearm. “Wait.”
“Get off me.”
“Or what?” Aggression sparked in Benito. His gaze narrowed and he stared Mickey down, blocking his path to the open front door. “You gonna fight me until you slow the fuck down long enough to listen?”