Isaiah angles toward me, his hand rubbing at the compass tattooed on his forearm. “Then you’re saying I’ll see you tomorrow? At the garage?”
Swooping in like I normally do. Pissing off his boss as I play with tools that cost more than Grams’s house? No, he won’t and I bite the inside of my mouth to keep the pain from seeping out. “Logan could have died. I can’t do this, Isaiah. I can’t care for them...for you.”
Isaiah’s shaking his head, over and over again. “You’re my family, Abby.”
“And you’re mine and you need to let me take care of you and you need to take care of the rest of them. Don’t come near me again and don’t let them come near me, either. You were right to fear my friendship with them.”
I make it one step before Isaiah grabs my wrist. “Don’t.”
The bunny’s fur is soft against my skin. Isaiah’s hold tough. He’s been my best friend since I handed him his first Pizza Pocket. He’s been my brother since the first time he willingly walked down the street with me, uncaring who my father was, uncaring what being beside me might mean on the streets.
“Linus is taking me to Ricky. Eric is losing his power on the streets and it’s creating a vacuum. Ricky is looking to fill that vacuum and he’s chosen me to be part of the way up. I can’t afford friends and I can’t afford to walk away.”
Isaiah twitches like I stabbed him with my knife. “Leave with me. Is it money you need? Then we’ll figure it out.”
He means it. Isaiah means it more than I could ever comprehend. “Whatever you have, it won’t be enough.”
“So it is money?” he spits. “Then leave with me. Right now. We’ll find another way.”
“And it still won’t be enough. I’m okay with my choices.” I’m dying. This pain of leaving the one person who has loved me the longest even at my worst may truly kill what’s left of the Abby I wish I could be, but no matter how much I care for Isaiah, how much I yearn to be with Logan, I love my grandmother more.
Rising to my tiptoes, I press my hand to Isaiah’s cheek, and kiss the other one. Isaiah crushes his hands on either side of my face and kisses my forehead and then stares into my eyes. “I will always owe you. I don’t care what it is, if you need me, you call.”
I nod, because speaking would cause the already floating wetness in my eyes to fall and crying isn’t a luxury for people like me. As I walk away, Isaiah knows I won’t call. He knows that the choices I’m making are set in stone forever.
Linus joins me as I walk down the hallway and when he opens his mouth, I cut him off. “Say something smart-ass and I’ll fucking kick your ass in this hospital so badly that a ventilator won’t help you breathe again.”
This time, his lips do twitch up. “Welcome back, Abby. We’ve missed you over the last few months.”
Linus reaches the elevator first and pushes the down button. How fitting. I bet he has a key that leads straight to hell.
“That sad show mean you’re on board?” Linus asks.
“I’ve cut them off,” I answer. “I’ve cut them all off. Whatever part Ricky wants me to play, I’m in. That is as long as you kept your end of the deal.”
Linus studies the bunny like he’s never seen one before, which he probably hasn’t, along with joy, happiness, and laugher. “Last time I talked to Logan, he seemed dead set on protecting you.”
And I’m dead set on protecting him. “I kissed him before I was shot and a few hours ago I told him he could pick me up. Now I’m leaving with you. Know many guys who would be okay with that?”
“That’s mean.”
I know. “Isn’t that what you wanted from me? Mozart in the form of a seventeen-year-old girl?”
He raises his eyebrows in approval. “Yes.”
The elevator dings, the doors open, and he and I walk in. My bunny still clasped to my side. The doors close and as we begin our descent down, Linus speaks the words I long to hear. “I told Ricky I was the one who saw the shooter. Logan’s in the clear. As far as anyone else is concerned, your boy took you from my arms near the entrance to the alley. He never saw a thing.”
The breath I release is shaky. So this is how it feels to officially sell what’s left of my soul. “What did you tell Ricky? What did you tell him you saw?”
“Same thing your boy told you. I fingered the two that Logan saw running from the alley and then gave the same vague description of the shooter. Ricky’s buying that it was too dark for me to distinguish. Your boy wouldn’t have told you about the two guys if he knew you’d come running to me with that info.”
Linus is right, but I saw an opportunity to protect Logan and I grabbed onto it like a life raft after the Titanic sank.
“Problem with your plan is that I still don’t know who shot you.”
He’s right again and a part of me wishes that whoever attempted to take me out will try again and this time succeed. I never knew I could hurt so much. The type where your whole body pulsates with the pain. “Last I heard, your job with Ricky meant keeping him and his dealers safe. You have a job to do, do it, and I’ll continue to do mine.”
Whatever Ricky has planned for me is huge because as Linus explained to me last night, he was recently placed in charge of my protection. “Yes, ma’am.”
The numbers continue to go down. Three. Two. One.
Before the doors have a chance to open, I push the button to keep the doors closed. Linus says nothing as he regards me with bored curiosity.
I breathe in once then exhale, desperate for the uncaring cold that will help me exist in this new mode of dealing. That will help me be numb to walking away from all my friendships...from walking away from Logan.
Being around Logan was like a hot bath after a cold day, warm sunshine through a window, velvet and silk against skin. It was a strong hand over terrified fingers. A stuffed bunny being held during a restless night. It was wonderful and freeing and losing it is awful.
Another sharp exhale to mask the quick ache in my heart and I release the doors and leave the elevator to enter hell.
Logan
Practicing with a band is nowhere close to the high of being onstage. It’s a lot of playing the same chords repeatedly, listening to the lead singer argue with the bass player and drummer over what songs they should play or who was off beat.
It’s a lot of routine and control. Not what I craved.
The rest of the guys in the band aren’t arguing now. They’re messing with a cover we’re doing. Attempting to make a pop song heavy metal. It’s a cool idea. One they’re into and one I’ll play once they figure out the arrangement.
We’re in the basement of the singer’s house. The walls are paneled, making the acoustics horrible. A flash of sunlight as the door to the top of the stairs opens. Sly ducks so he doesn’t slam his head on the way down and then straightens when he steps onto the tiled floor.
The guys greet him with fist bumps and a quick hug. Sly used to play with them, when he was my age, when they were in high school together, but then his talents got better. He outperformed them, outgrew them, and in the end moved on to another band, but these guys are still his brothers.
He walks over to me and I set my guitar back in its case. “How was the tour?”
“Fucking awesome.” Sly grins from ear to ear. “Girls, beer, music, and the open road. Doesn’t get much better than that.”
He opens a small fridge on the other side of a short bar, pops open a longneck, and jacks his thumb to the open door. “Want anything? They got water in there.”
I shake my head no.
“How’s the band?”
When I don’t answer immediately, he chuckles. “They still suck?”
I crack a grin along with him. “No more than me. Thanks for setting me up with this.”
“No problem. This is a good group
for you to see if playing really interests you.” From the other side of the bar, Sly leans over to me. “I talked to your mom last week. She filled me in.”
Which means he knows about Abby and the shooting. Sly was Mom’s first serious boyfriend after the divorce. He’s younger than her—by a lot—but they lived together for over two years until she met soul mate number three. Not sure how Mom does it, but she finds a way to force these guys to stay friends with her, even after she crushes them when she leaves.
“You doing okay?” he asks.
“Yeah. Abby gets out of the hospital today.” I check my cell. She told me to pick her up by two thirty, that way I can get her home by three to see her grandmother.
With the beer dangling between two of his fingers he eyeballs me. “Good to know, but I was asking about your diabetes. Your mom said your numbers have been hanging high. Said they’ve been high long enough that your dad wants you to see a specialist.”
I immediately look over at the other guys in the band. They’re still wrapped up in their discussion of the arrangement for the song.
Sly drinks from the beer. “You’re still keeping the diabetes a secret?”
“It’s no one’s business.”
Sly finishes the beer and places it on the table. “When you were a kid, I got it. No one wants to stick out. No one wants to be different and give people a reason to pick on them, but now? You could take me out.”
I scratch the back of my head in an attempt to alleviate the annoyance festering inside me. “I’m not concerned with some third-grade bully shoving me around on the playground.”
“What exactly is it that you’re concerned with?” Sly reminds me of Isaiah with the tattoos and earrings, but Sly has that rock-show flare where Isaiah projects pure badass.
“When people look at you, what do they see?” I ask.
He squints as he tries to process my words. “I don’t know. Some see me as a punk. Some see a friend. When I’m up onstage, most people see me as a rock star. What does that have to do with you and you telling people about your diabetes?”
“I play ball, right?”
“Can play guitar decent, too. Smart as hell. Certifiable.” He widens his eyes to mock crazy. “You like to walk on the edge of insanity.”
I nod—all of those are true. “But when you walk into a room and see me, what’s the first thing you think of?”
Sly’s face falls and he covers his mouth with his hand as if he could hide his reaction, but I know exactly what he sees—the diabetes.
“The moment people know—that’s all I am to them, all they’ll see. I want more than that.”
Sly leans forward on the bar. “Logan—”
My cell rings, cutting him off. Isaiah’s number pops up on the screen. I slide my finger to accept. “Yeah.”
“Abby’s gone,” he says.
I whip away from Sly. “What? What do you mean she’s gone?”
“She left,” he explains. “With Linus.”
My thoughts move too quickly, trying to make sense of what Isaiah’s saying. “She asked me to pick her up.” She was choosing me.
“I know, but she just left with Linus.”
I’m silent. So is he. Isaiah’s words are sinking in.
“Remember what I told you about walking toward someone who keeps walking away?” Isaiah finally says.
“Yeah,” I say, and I think of Abby, holding her hand at the hospital, the genuine smile on her face when the crazy shit we’d do would make her laugh...the kiss we shared.
“Meet me at the auto shop,” Isaiah says. “We need to talk.”
Abby
If horses were easy to get back on, then cars would have never been invented and we’d all have a huge family pet that lived in the garage. But’s that’s not how the world turned out. Somewhere along the way, somebody took a tumble and decided that big monster was terrifying and invented another way to travel.
I may not have fallen off a horse, but I took a hard-hit and I need to find another way to make massive loads of cash.
The day is hot, yet I still have on my hoodie. Sweat is collecting along my scalp and my shoulder is rubbing raw from the extra friction. I don’t typically wear my hoodie during deals in the summer. Just bring with me a smaller amount of supplies and wads of cash that will fit easily into my jeans. Never realized how overconfident I was until now. Until I felt utterly and completely exposed.
My knife’s in my back pocket and it gives me no confidence, but the idea that I’m down a few grand keeps one foot moving in front of the other.
I do my deals in cars. It’s more private that way. Cash and drugs can be handed off on the down low, away from prying eyes looking through the windows and windshield. Most of the time, we do the deal while the person drives. It used to give me a sense of empowerment. I counted the cash, my client’s eyes darted to make sure they received what they paid for and once the deal was done, my client dropped me off at the next corner.
If they drove a block further than I asked, I introduced them to my switchblade, informed them I would make sure they would never find another buyer again if they didn’t pull over. It’s only happened once and then it never happened again. Last I heard, that person was still trying to find a decent seller.
I don’t own a car. I don’t have a license and I barely know how to drive, but for the past several years, I’ve never questioned easing into someone else’s front seat, but then again I was never shot.
Houston’s Nissan sits at the end of the strip mall and my heart picks up speed. I can do this. I have no choice. I’m being tested. I have to prove the bullet only pierced my skin and not my nerve.
In a nice blacked-out Lincoln, Ricky and Linus are watching. My own messed-up version of reality TV.
My cell rings and Rachel’s face appears on the screen. My heart sinks. It’s my best friend. Well, the girl I declared as my best friend. Several months ago, I walked into Mac’s garage and found her falling in love with Isaiah. I figured if she could like him then maybe she could like me. Maybe I had a shot at normal.
I didn’t expect her to like me. I didn’t expect to honestly like her. I really didn’t expect a pure friendship and I miss her. To protect her, I decline her call. Doesn’t take long for my cell to ping with a voice mail and then another ping for a text.
Rachel:
You never lost faith in me when the doctors said I wouldn’t walk again. I’m not losing faith in you because you’ve told everyone you won’t be our friend. I’m still your friend. That’s the thing about relationships—they aren’t dictatorships.
A buzzing in my veins demands I text her back, that I reclaim the friendship I hold dear, but I love Rachel too much for that. I don’t want to put her or any of our friends in danger.
I pocket my cell, wipe my hands on my jeans and walk down the broken sidewalk. This neighborhood belonged to my father. It’s where his father lived and where Dad grew up during the week when he wasn’t spending the weekend with his mother, my Grams. It’s where he built his client base. These streets were where I often played while he worked.
Being here today though is an announcement that I’m back on the streets. A warning to those who think they can take me out that I quickly rebound.
My comeback also feels a lot like a large neon sign pointing out where I’m at and daring someone to take another shot.
When I reach the driver’s-side door, Houston wiggles with his fingers in a hello like a three-year-old and smiles like one, too. There’s a reason I picked Houston for my first sell—he’s easy and voted least likely to own a shotgun.
I slide into the front and when I shut the door, Houston punches the gas. “It’s been a long time since we’ve done this routine.”
I trusted Houston and some of his fraternity brothers enough that we
met at a set location. A bar, a pool hall, whatever was easier at the time. “It has.”
“This because of the narc?” he asks.
“Yep.” Nope, but it’s a great excuse. Linus was able to transfer my numbers and all my data from the cell I crushed to a new one and I was able to push my clients to this week. Some weren’t happy, but I blamed the supply chain.
“Sure it didn’t have anything to do with that drug-deal shooting a few weeks back? Some wild and crazy shit went down the night we last talked.”
“I don’t remember allowing you permission to ask personal questions. I’d suggest changing the subject or shutting up.”
Houston loses his forever smile and I hate that I’m the cause.
“Not to sound ungrateful, but how long are we going to be on probation with you? Trying to get ten guys to cough up all their money before I got here was a pain in my ass. Everyone tried to tell me they’d pay me later.”
I snort and Houston cracks a grin as he takes a right on a red light. Taking advantage of our last meeting with the narc, I made Houston play go-between for me and his frat brothers. It buys me some time to gain my confidence back in selling. “Welcome to my world. Did you fall for it?”
“Hell, no. We’ve got a good stretch here without lights if you want to do this.”
I produce from the pocket of my hoodie ten frat boys worth of pot, which by the way, would be a felony for either me or Houston if we got pulled over. But that’s not what has me feeling twitchy. Thinking of being next to that wall, the memory of the fear flooding my veins as I ran, the sound of the gun as it went off... My lungs constrict and I’m on the verge of hyperventilating.
“Where do you want this?” I ask.
“Bottom of my backpack will do. Your envelope of cash is in there somewhere.”
I root through his pack crammed with folders and books and loose sheets of paper. One book is titled Aerospace Engineering. Dear Lord, not that I’ve ever been on a plane, but now I definitely will never fly the friendly skies. “You’re a freaking hoarder, aren’t you?”