“Your change,” the guy behind the counter calls as I turn for the door.
“You keep it.” I wave him off, not worried about whatever leftover money he’s trying to hand me.
“Dude, this is like eighty bucks.”
I look over my shoulder to see the kid, probably twenty if not younger, standing there with his hand still outstretched and a gaping mouth. I look him over curiously, then decide to take my chances. “Know where I can find smack or blow?”
He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. Not unusual when you toss out words like that to someone who doesn’t know. But something still tells me he can help me out, so I break it down a little more. “Look, kid, I’m looking for speedball. Coke? Heroin? Know who could get me some of that?”
His eyes grow wide, full of suspicion. “You a cop?”
I can’t stop the laugh that burst from my chest. “Of all the cliché shit to say,” I shake my head, dumbfounded that people are that stupid. “Kid, if I were a cop, I’d lie and say I wasn’t. I’m in a hurry. Either you know someone, or you don’t. It’s obvious you don’t have any.”
He gnaws the lip ring sitting in the corner of his mouth, still looking suspicious, but finally nods. “I might know someone who can hook you up. If you have the cash.”
“Let me worry about the money, kid. If they want to make some money, tell them to meet me out back in fifteen minutes.”
“I don’t know if they can get here that fast.”
“I’ll make it worth their while.”
“You—man, you look like the singer from Sons of Sin,” the kid chokes out in disbelief.
“Yeah, I get that a lot.” I nod to the phone in his shaking hand. “Make the call, so I know if I’m waiting or not.”
Ten minutes later, I’m leaning against Bastian’s bike, puffing on a cigarette, when a blue truck pulls up beside me. A guy closer to my age steps out. He takes in the Ducati with a low whistle. “You the one looking to buy?” I nod without moving from my position. “You a cop? Nobody around here could afford a bike like that.”
I laugh for the second time at the pure idiocy. “You think a cop could? They work for nothing. I’m sure there are plenty of people whocouldafford the bike. They just choose not to. Do you want to make some money or continue saying stupid shit?”
His cocky smirk falls into a scowl. He moves to stand directly in my face in some pathetic attempt to intimidate me. I lost the ability to be intimidated a long fucking time ago. “How about I just kick your ass and take your money, pretty boy?”
He seems to get more frustrated when I don’t flinch or acknowledge he even spoke but instead expel the smoke from my lungs into his face with a smirk. “You can try, but I wouldn’t advise it.”
He does one of those douchebag moves, trying once more to get me to flinch. When he fails, he steps back, rubbing his hand over his face.
With my smirk growing, I toss the cigarette to the ground. Gripping him by his shirt, I force him back until he hits the side of his truck. “This is what you’re going to do,” I hiss through my teeth. “You’re going to show me what you have. If it’s what I’m looking for, you’re going to give it to me. I will pay you with this watch on my wrist that’s worth five grand. More than enough to cover. Then you will forget that bike and forget me.” When he doesn’t acknowledge what I’ve said, I pull my fist back, planting it into his gut. “Are we clear?” I ask as he hisses and wheezes.
He nods jerkily. Still scowling as I let him go, he turns to his truck, reaching in for something. I suppose it would’ve been smarter for me to reach myself. For all I know, he’s not getting me what I want, but a weapon instead.
He turns around with the drugs in his hand, and I nearly salivate at the sight. The itch, the desire to get my hands on the object of my affection, strong and powerful, but I withhold from reaching. “I need to make sure it’s good,” I demand.
“It’s good, man.” His insistence doesn’t reassure me.
“Yeah. I’m not taking the word of some dealer I don’t know. Don’t mistake me for a fool. Now, if you want to make the deal, show me it’s good.”
A little while later, I’m back on the road with my stash calling me from the bag at my side. But I still need more distance between River City and me. I can hold out for a few more hours. I can handle the noise for a little longer. I can hold the memories at bay for a while longer.
Who the fuck am I kidding? My memory is what gives me the most grief. My inability to forget is what causes the most torment. I remember everything. Every sin and every crime, the details are always vivid and bold.
I find myself pulling over. My breath quickens, and my heart races. Panic grips me just as it did the very day it happened. My greatest offense, my darkest transgression—the one thing I’ve tried so hard to run from has the bile and acid of my stomach on the ground by my feet.
I climb back on the bike, leaning forward to rest my arms and head on the handles. Trying desperately to push the memories aside, I reach for something happier. I grasp for the bit of goodness. There hasn’t been much, but I have a few moments I can hold on to for a bit.
Searching, searching for something to push away the darkness. Ryder. Zoey. I think of them as I close my eyes, knowing full well how completely insane I probably seem to the passers-by. That air I’ve worked so hard the last several agonizing seconds to grasp leaves me when the vision behind my eyes isn’t any of my friends. I don’t see moments with Ryder or Zoey. My mother’s face doesn’t dance before me.
Instead, it’s honey-blond hair and whiskey eyes that chase the shadows away.
Three months ago
