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Ricky told me not to sell, but he didn’t tell me I couldn’t hold an interview.
“Stay the night with me.” Rachel rests her water bottle on the seat beside her. “We’ll pick up tacos and maybe some queso on the way home.”
My eyes snap to hers at the mention of queso, and I hate that my stomach rumbles. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
She knows why not. “I told you, there’s a boy that needs to be kissed. Just think how lonely he’ll be when no one kisses him on his upcoming break. It’s seriously a tough sacrifice on my part, but someone needs to boost his ego. No one wants to watch a sad and broken guitar player unless they’re a hipster at a coffee shop.”
Lying for me is easier than telling the truth. Plus, I’d rather live in a world where I was going to kiss the boy instead of crucifying my soul.
“If you’re going to kiss a boy, I’d prefer for you to kiss Logan.”
I laugh, but it fades when I notice she’s not laughing or smiling with me. At times, Rachel’s too serious for my taste.
Isaiah swept Rachel and West into my life a few months back, and during that process, Logan also became a fixture in my life. Before them, I didn’t do friends, but Isaiah was already exempt from my nonfriendship rule and I made another special exception for Rachel and West. But I did that for my father. Neither of them knows that and neither is aware of the why. Because of how my life works, it’ll stay a secret on my end.
But Logan...Logan is a selfish indulgence. I like him and that’s not fair to either of us.
“Let’s do tacos tomorrow. I’ll buy.” I won’t. I’ll con West or Isaiah into buying, but I’ll still take credit for the tacos because that’s how I roll.
“Logan’s a great guy, and even I notice how he looks at you.”
Logan looks at me like he also really enjoys queso, but there’s nothing serious going on between us. We play. Sort of like we’re seven and playing tag and we’re both continuously “it.” Plus he deserves better than what I have to offer. Even Logan’s aware of that, hence why he asked about my current employment.
My cell buzzes and Isaiah informs me he’s outside and ready to leave. Thank freaking Jesus. “Let’s go before the boys stalk in here looking for you and ruin my chances with guitar boy.”
Before she can say anything else, I grab her hand and lead her through the crowd. A few times I turn in her direction and encourage her to dance with the beat. Rachel doesn’t mind using her body for the purpose of music and neither do I. My body is meant to be used, I just wish sometimes I used it a little less.
Sometimes I’m lonely, sometimes I chase after lust. A few times I’ve been used and there are a few times I’ve used in return. Any way about it, there’s never emotion. Just bodies and it’s pretty hollow and meaningless.
At school, a lot of people call me names, say that I’m evil, label me a slut and even a killer. Maybe it’s all true. Maybe it’s not. Regardless, I don’t have time to overthink anyone’s thoughts or judgments.
People who live in the luxury of a steady paycheck and food in their bellies get too caught up in right and wrong, moral and immoral, good and bad, heroes and villains, even truth and lies. As if we’re all either one or the other. As if we all have a choice. As if I have a choice. But I don’t believe in choices. I believe in survival.
The moment we step outside, the heat of the August night hits us in a way that reminds me why I love being awake after midnight. It’s like walking into a warm bath surrounded by starlight. I was made for warm weather. Maybe that’s because I often feel emotionally cold.
Isaiah’s Mustang growls in front of the club. Logan hops out of the passenger side and moves the seat forward so I can enter the back. His black hair moves with the gentle breeze and he studies me like he thinks I’ll slide in. “Come eat with us, Abby. I’m buying tacos.”
I tilt my head in an annoyed way and he adds, “For everyone.”
I toss a glare into the backseat where West is sitting. If he told them that I only eat when his boss decides to share his lunch or dinner I will publicly castrate him. Because West doesn’t cower, not even from me, he meets my eyes and shakes his head that he’s kept my secret. Not sure if that makes me feel better or worse.
“Tomorrow,” I say and circle back for the club.
Seconds before I’m about to step in, a strong hand catches my wrist and Logan’s dark eyes bore into mine. I suck in a breath. Yes, this boy is definitely made for sin. The type of sin that involves his shirt off, my hands sliding through his mess of black hair, and his lips devouring mine.
“Doesn’t have to be tacos,” he says. “It doesn’t have to be food at all. Just leave with us.”
Logan’s one of the good guys, and my heart honestly twists with the silent expectation he has that I can be one of the good people, too. He’s a poor soul who believes I have a choice and that’s the reason why I won’t kiss him.
I look over at the car and see three other people who also believe I’m more than what I am. Three other people who see the world in black and white. What they want from me isn’t possible.
I fix my tank top over my jeans and straighten as if to pretend I’m just as tall as Logan. I’m no longer the Abby I wish I could be, I’m the Abby the streets have taught me that I am.
A shadow crosses over his face as I permit Logan to meet the girl the rest of the world is scared of. I hate this, but sometimes even I get tired of lying. “You need to go and I need to work. Don’t stop me again.”
“Doesn’t have to be like this,” he says like I expect of him. Even with jacked-up parents, in the end, he gets to choose the hand that’s dealt to him.
Unfortunately for me... “It does.”
This time, Logan doesn’t stop me and a little part of the Abby I wish I could be dies as he lets me go.
Logan (#ulink_f1cd4949-7fec-5254-aa48-8e23a49e538c)
On the crowded sidewalk next to Isaiah’s car, Rachel and I stare at each other. There’s a million requests in those blue eyes and pride demands that I ignore her and walk away.
People weave around us and the stench of garbage decaying in the summer heat blows onto the street from the nearby alley. A group of drunk frat boys make a few comments about Rachel’s physique and before her cheeks can turn fully red, I ease her closer to Isaiah’s car when a guy way beyond his limit almost crashes into her.
“I tried.” I hope to God that will be enough because I don’t want in on this conversation.
“Go after her.” Rachel points in the direction in which Abby fled. “She needs you.”
Abby rejected me and that hit stung. “Here’s where you’re wrong. Abby doesn’t need anyone. She just made that crystal clear.”
“Rachel,” Isaiah calls out from the driver’s seat. “We need to go.”
Rachel combs a hand through her golden locks then sets her frustrated sight on me. “Please, Logan. You’re the one person she’ll listen to. We all saw it. For one brief second, she considered leaving with us. You can’t give up now.”
Hurt and anger rolls through me. “She’ll listen to any of you before she’ll listen to me.”
“She won’t even talk to me or West about the drugs or her personal life or anything. I’m her best friend and I don’t even know where she lives and Isaiah...”
Has washed his hands of Abby and her drug dealing. We all know it. He’ll always protect Abby as a friend, but he’s drawn the line with the drugs. He’s given up on her when it comes to the dealing and I’m starting to understand why.
“Maybe this is a lost cause,” I say.
Rachel’s hand dips to her stomach like she’s experiencing the same ache I am. “Don’t say that. You care for her and she cares for you. Anyone with eyes can see that, plus she responds differently to you than she does anyone else. Abby will listen to you.”
Abby doesn’t listen to anyone. “We aren’t as close as you think.”
Abby and I met this past winter when I was helping Isaiah and Rachel drag race their way out of a bad debt. She walked into a garage, took one look at me and my life has never been the same since.
“No, I bet you’re closer than even I can imagine. Will you please try? I’m worried. Something was off tonight. She needs us. She needs you.”
I rotate away, walk a few feet, and then jerk back. Rachel’s reading me and Abby wrong. Mistaking attraction for friendship. Do I like Abby? Yeah, but Abby sure as hell doesn’t let anyone close, not even Rachel...not even Isaiah.
“Abby and I play games. That’s it. She’ll listen to Isaiah before she’ll listen to me.”
“Abby ignores Isaiah, but she doesn’t ignore you. Abby’s scared. I don’t know of what, but I saw it in her eyes tonight and you know what I’m talking about. That’s why you started playing those crazy games with her.”
Damn Rachel for this, because she’s right. I was concerned, and I wanted to make Abby smile. I hate caring for people who don’t care for me back. “Abby doesn’t know fear.”
“Rachel,” Isaiah calls out again. “You’re going to miss curfew.”
I crack my neck to the side as a wave of dizziness drains me. Fucking blood sugar. It’s either up or down and I’m screwed either way. Rachel steps toward me, her hand out like she could catch me if I fall. “Are you okay? You just went seriously white.”
“I’m good. Just hungry. You better go before Isaiah tosses you in.”
Rachel rolls her eyes, yet slips into the passenger seat of car. “You’re wrong. Abby’s scared and she needs you.”
She shuts the door and Isaiah immediately pulls away, racing down the road to get his girl home before her parents lose their minds.
“I’m right,” I mutter to the sidewalk. Regardless of what anyone else thinks of me, I know fear. I’ve had that bitter taste in my mouth more often than I care to admit and Abby is one of those people born without the gene.
I glance at the club then down the street to where my truck’s parked. I should leave—prove to my dad I’m responsible. Get in the car, test my blood sugar, fix what needs to be fixed and drive home and be back at a responsible time and eat some more protein and fucking green food.
I haven’t tested in hours. Too long. Even long enough I’m aware that I’m approaching stupidity.
But Abby was off tonight and the need to follow her into the club consumes me. It’s a constant throb in my ears. I scrub a hand over my face as another wave of dizziness strikes me.
My cell buzzes. Sly: Screw later this week. Guitarist just messed up bad. They want you to try out tonight. Got your guitar?
Screw me. Yeah. In my truck. Tell them I need 10 minutes.
A cold sweat breaks out on my skin and, on instinct, I start for my truck. Test my blood, get my shit together, do the audition, go after Abby one last time if she’s still around, but after this, I’m done doing the chasing.
Abby (#ulink_b2ab7af1-9dc6-5d03-885d-3aaf366896cc)
My grandmother’s first piece of advice to counteract Dad’s list: the devil dances with those who walk alone on an edge.
She told me that when I was five. Not exactly a bedtime story for a kindergartener, but at the time, it was a life lesson and a warning against my genetics. Too bad I don’t listen because with each step I take toward the table full of men, I’m very much aware of Satan tangoing by my side.
Houston meets me halfway and stretches out his arms like he’s going to hug me and the glare I throw causes him to abandon his efforts. I don’t touch clients and clients don’t touch me. Every good drug dealer has boundaries. But if was going to make an exception, Houston would be it.
Houston’s still smiling though, a good indication he’s high. He’s always high. “Starting to think you were going to stand me up.”
Due to Ricky’s warning, I considered it, but I make nice money off of Houston and I typically make nice money off of anyone he introduces me to. I lost a few clients recently because of graduation from either high school or college, and I’m always on the lookout for a reliable regular.
Houston flips his hat backwards and rubs his hands together like we’re about to make beautiful magic together, but we aren’t. We’re about to make somebody else numb.
“Tell me about him,” I say.
“I’m doing great. Thanks for asking, Abby. Start my senior year next month, my frat wants me to run for an office, and my girlfriend wants me to get a real job or she’s going to dump me. How are you doing?”
I don’t blink. Don’t move. Don’t smile. I would love to like Houston, but can’t afford that luxury.
“Three years,” he says. “You’ve been selling to me for three years and I don’t know shit about you.”
I pick up a lock of my hair and let it fall. “I have brown hair. Now tell me about him.”
He laughs and his dimples show. Doubt his girlfriend will dump a guy who can smile like that. “Fair enough. His name is Mufasa.”
He says it in a deep voice that reminds me of The Lion King and I internally kick myself when my lips twitch. Houston shouts in glee. “I just made you smile.”
“No, you didn’t.” Yes, he did.
“I did,” he sings like he’s six. “I did, I did, I did.”
“His real name,” I practically yell, because yeah he made me smile and that’s close to breaking the rule of showing I care.
“Albert,” he says with that stupid dimpled grin.
I sort of shake like a dog coming in from the rain. “Albert?” Not sure why, but that wasn’t a name I was expecting.
“Albert,” he repeats. “And I know what your next questions are going to be because I’m psychic.” He closes his eyes and puts his fingers to his temples. “My spirit guide is telling me that you want to know how I know him and how long I’ve known him and do I trust him.”
I cross my arms over my chest to stop myself from smiling again. God, I hate liking my clients. “Yes to all of that.”
“Frat, a few weeks, and he’s cool.”
All the happiness disintegrates. This isn’t Houston’s usual ammo. He brings me his high school buddies, guys he’s played soccer with since elementary school, frat brothers he pledged in with...people he has had established relationships with, not someone he thinks is “cool.”
“Popsicles are cool, autumn days are cool, bringing me someone who you’ve known for a few weeks...not cool.”
Houston sobers up and when I peer into his eyes, I spot it—something I don’t often see—he’s not high. Alarm bells are ringing and I’ve overwhelmed with this desperate urge to bolt.
“I need your help,” he says. “And I know dragging you into this is wrong, but I need you to read him. You’ve got great instincts and I need to know if he’s going to cause problems for my frat.”
Oh, for the love of God. My feet are moving in the opposite direction and Houston catches up to me in the crowd. Because he’s twelve of me combined, he’s able to easily pull me into a dark corner of the club.
He may be bigger, but I’m scarier. I lean into him and he cowers. “How dare you fuck with me. Bringing me in here, putting my business in danger because you can’t smell trouble. And when I ask you about him, you tell me he’s cool? You should have never thought of introducing us.”
“I’m being pressured,” he spouts. “The president of our frat got caught a few months back with heroin.”
I freeze. Heroin’s not my thing. I deal pot. Nothing else. I can barely handle the burden of selling something that’s legal in Colorado, to say nothing of selling something that can kill you in a heartbeat.
“He’s been forced to step down, but the college didn’t expel him. A few weeks back, this guy shows. All his paperwork is in line. Shows that he was a member of our frat that was disbanded at another college and when I try to talk to Nationals about it—they stonewall me. He is cool, too cool, and he’s pushing for a dealer. He doesn’t know you’re my dealer. He knows we’re meeting someone tonight, but he thinks it’s a guy, not a seventeen-year-old girl.
“I know how you are. I’ve seen you interview plenty of guys. You’d never tip your hand of who you are, but you can read people, and I need you to read him. Please help me. My frat—we party. Won’t lie. But we don’t deal in heavy drugs and I can’t let my frat brothers go down on petty shit because our president fucked up.”
I roll my neck. Run, Abby, run. “He’ll figure out I’m the dealer, and if he’s a narc, that will only draw unwanted attention to me.”
Houston’s shaking his head. “Already said, we told him the dealer’s a guy and I got my cousin who is in town for the weekend to play the role later. Just interview him like you did all the rest of us and then let me know if I’ve got problems.”
There are two types of people who buy from me. Those who are in search for the elusive good time everyone else seems to be having and those who are striving to forget. Doesn’t matter how many different ways someone tries to slice it, all of my clients end up in the same state of nothingness and numb.
Knowing this, I do know how to read people—I can read their intent.
