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.