call them and tell them to read horoscopes.”
“You’re the asset I’m worried about.”
“I’m small-time.” I stay that way on purpose. I sell drugs for money. I sell drugs because I’m desperate for more than minimum wage.
I’m protective of my territory—Dad’s neighborhood, my school, the college boys who I make bank off of. I keep my number of clients just high enough to pay my bills and cover my future bills, but low enough that I don’t become any more involved in this “life” than I need.
Ricky’s concern over me—this is “involved” and it makes my skin crawl.
“You have loyal customers because you’re a pretty young girl who makes them comfortable, but they respect you because deep down you’re scarier than any horror movie they’ve seen. You’re smart, brilliant even, and you keep yourself small-time because you think it buys you power, but that’s another discussion for another day. In the meantime, I’m ordering you to stay off the streets tonight.”
I’m silent. He’s silent. My head is right next to the toilet bowl.
“This is an order, Abby.”
“I made plans with friends,” I whisper absently as my forehead hits the cold porcelain. I thought I was smart. I thought I had played this hand my father dealt me well, but like him, I’ve messed up. Stupidity, it seems, is genetic.
“Abigail,” he pushes.
I had made a promise to the one person I dare to love that I would never let this go to Dad’s level. That I would never end up like he did, and I’m failing.
“Tell me you’re going to follow orders,” he says, and a wave of dizziness overwhelms me.
This was only supposed to be a means to an end, and I only needed this to work until I could land a real job. A job that pays well enough to cover the impossible burden on my shoulders. But this phone call—his words to me—I’m in too deep and walking away may never be an option and God help me...I crave options.
“I want confirmation and I want it now,” he demands.
“I won’t sell tonight.”
“Good,” he replies. “That’s good, and soon we’ll discuss your growing position with me.”
He hangs up, I hang up and I close my eyes. Shit. Just shit.
“Do it,” I say. “It’s your turn to bring it, girl, or I’m the king of this night.”
My chest is puffed out and by the way Abby grins from ear to ear, I imagine I must look like a rooster ready to strut and I’m not too far from it. She dared me to climb up the side of the wall and swing from one rafter to another along the ceiling of the bar.
I did it and never broke stride.
The entire club is clapping and shouting their approval. Girls are pushing through the crowd to see the crazy man who just caused a scene, and the guys I’m here with are laughing. Isaiah pats my back then states the obvious. “You’re fucking insane.”
Yes, yes I am.
There’s an ache in my biceps from having to make the big swings from one beam to the next and it didn’t help I went the entire length of the club, but Abby dared me and I like doing anything that pushes the limits. Abby is one of the few people who can keep up with me, and she’s willing to go as far as me in the quest for crazy.
Abby offers a side glare full of pain to three girls who were three steps away from approaching me. They scurry off like they’d met the reaper.
“Block much?” I mumble, even though the most interesting and gorgeous girl in the room is the one standing in front of me.
Abby smirks. “You can do better. Back to business. What do you want me to do? Run naked through the club? Steal the wallet of a frat boy? Flirt with a bouncer and steal his club keys?”
Abby’s a loaded gun, and if you get within a few feet of her, the click of the safety switching to off is audible. People with an ounce of sense back off this girl in an instant, but to me her intensity is an addiction.
“Same thing.” I tilt my head in the direction of the wall. “Start climbing.”
Abby wraps her fingers around my bicep, or at least tries. Her small grip doesn’t fit all the way around. She squeezes the muscle and a jolt of electricity races through my bloodstream. Wonder if she feels the crackle of energy whenever we breathe the same air.
“I don’t have your muscles,” Abby says as an explanation. It’s a pity when she lets go.
“So I win.”
Her hazel eyes narrow on me, unhappy with the idea of losing. “Fine. Lift me up.”
“You didn’t lift me up.”
“I don’t bench-press two hundred pounds with my pinkie.”
I sweep my hand for Abby to head to the wall, but a ball of blond slips in between us. “Nope. Not happening. This is my first night dancing and you two will not get us thrown out. Do you hear me?”
Rachel’s a short thing, but full of spunk and she’s wearing a don’t-mess-with-me expression. She’s been waiting months for a night like this, and neither Abby nor I would want to be the reason it was ruined.
I toss my hands up in a show of submission. “Games for the night are done.”
“Good.” Rachel extends her hand to her boyfriend. Isaiah links his fingers with hers then leads her to the dance floor, leaving me and Abby alone.
Abby sucks in her lower lip like she’s trying not to laugh and I understand the feeling. That was the equivalent of being reprimanded by Mom and Dad for having our hands caught in the cookie jar. Abby and I met because of Isaiah and Rachel. We were two separate parts of Isaiah’s life and then we wound up fighting side by side with Isaiah when things got rough for him and Rachel on the streets a few months back.
“To be continued,” I say. “Unless you’re chicken.”
Abby skims her eyes over me as if she likes what she sees. “I’m not scared of you or your crazy dares.”
“Good to hear.”
Abby steals my bottled water and keeps direct eye contact as she drinks more than half of it in several continuous gulps. When she finishes, she maintains that steady stare. “Remember when we were best friends in kindergarten and we got crazy and messy when we were locked in the art room because we hid under the desks because we didn’t want to do nap time?”
Abby has this devilish glint in her eye that has attracted me to her from the moment we met and that glint has a habit of brightening whenever she looks at me.
I’m attracted to her, she’s attracted to me, but we have a habit of ignoring what’s brewing between us. But that’s all right. Life for us is a game, and we both love to play.
Our group claimed a corner in the back of the club a few hours ago. It’s teen night and the place is crawling with people our age—seventeen, eighteen, a few sixteen-year-olds who should be put in protective custody due to their lack of common sense. Most haven’t been outside their safe bubble and this is their first taste of protected freedom.
Table was easy to claim as three of us in our group are over six foot and scares the hell out of everyone. Isaiah has enough tattoos that most people assume he’s been in prison even though he’s only eighteen. Then there’s West. He’s the golden-haired rich boy who sports a nice shiner from an amateur MMA fight last weekend. It’s the type of bruise that makes you wonder how bad off the other guy is. And me? Doesn’t take long for people to figure out I’m bat shit crazy.
I