*
It’s strange how something like sex, or the euphoria of an orgasm, can pull you away from the things that lay at the forefront of your mind. It’s as if it has the power to erase all memories, all thought process, but only for a while. And when you come down from the high, from the pure physical bliss, all you’re left with is your forgotten thoughts. And as Bailey lay with her head on my chest, her soft slumbered breaths doing nothing to lull my demons, I reached for my discarded jeans on the floor next to the bed and pulled out the tiny bag of cocaine. Then I looked at Bailey, my fingers stroking her hair, and then back at the drugs.
One hit.
I’d just need one hit to clear my head.
To clear the memories.
To clear my conscience.
28
Nate
Three hours earlier
A kid had overdosed. Not just any kid. The kid whose congratulations-on-being-a-perfect-fucking-poster-child party I’d just been to had overdosed. His parents had found him dead in his bed, apparently, and because of his last name, and the wealth and social standards linked to that name, the media was already all over it. Not just the media, but the cops, the users, and the pushers. Fuck, everybody knew about it. And because of that, we had to act fast. We had to cover our bases, and we had to make sure that none of it led back to us and our supply.
For months, everything had been fine—no deaths caused by drugs (at least from what we were supplying). So I thought the last altercation we had with the Francos had sent the message that we weren’t to be fucked with. I’d wanted to find a new supplier, but Uncle Benny had been dealing with the Francos since before I was born and he wouldn’t even consider it. So I put up with the shitty supply and made it clear to Louis Franco that we were close, and we were watching every single fucking thing he did, waiting for him to fuck up so I could cut ties.
He’d fucked up, and he’d fucked up good.
I’d kept everything low key, had made the calls and set up the appropriate meetings, and a couple of hours later, we were pulling into a parking lot of an abandoned motel on the outskirts of Philly. I rolled my eyes when Louis Franco came into view because fuck if he didn’t look like your stereotypical criminal. But, of course, he was a Franco and just like the rest of his family, he wanted everyone to know he ran on the wrong side of the law because his image was more important than his job.
And other people’s lives, apparently.
“You here about that dead kid?” Franco asked as we pulled up in front of him.
I checked my weapon, made sure it was loaded and opened the door to step out.
“I didn’t know it was a meeting where we needed muscle,” Franco added, pointing to Tiny.
After shoving the pistol in my waistband, I stepped out of the car and made my way over to him.
“Augustus Sherman,” Tiny said, and Franco narrowed his eyes at him, confusion clear on his face. Tiny repeated the name, a name I was all too familiar with. “The dead kid?” Tiny continued. “That’s his name. Augustus Sherman.”
Franco laughed. “Well fuck, with a name like that he was begging to be killed.”
I don’t know why it bothered me so much—his disrespect for this dead kid who was literally going places, whose only fault was enjoying the occasional high while still being able to maintain a decent lifestyle. Maybe it was because I’d found myself comparing those kids to Bailey, and somehow that had given me a soft spot for them (at the same time I wanted to punch them out of pure jealousy). Who fucking knows? Either way, I found myself reaching for my gun and holding it to his head. Franco’s eyes widened, just slightly, and behind me, Tiny muttered an exasperated “fuck” almost as if he knew this was coming.
“I’m fuckin’ tired, Franco. I’m pissed off, and I’m tired, and right now, I’d rather just fuckin’ kill you and have Tiny deal with your body than have this conversation, but we all know I can’t do that, so just tell me what the fuck is wrong with your supply.”
His eyes narrowed, and his mouth opened as if he wanted to say something. But then he shut it quickly, his lips thinned to a line. He looked over at Tiny, and then back at me, and I knew the exact moment his hand shifted, reaching for his own weapon. I’d already clicked the safety by the time the barrel of his gun was against my head, and the barrel of Tiny’s was against his.
So there we were, three assholes in an abandoned parking lot in the stark daylight, cars flying by on the highways around us, all with weapons drawn, aimed at our targets, and the only thing I could think about was crawling back into bed with Bailey.