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.
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
