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?”

“I prefer the term ‘loosely organized.’”

I hide the gallon-sized bag of pot under his mess of crap and withdraw my envelope. A quick count confirms I’m paid in full.

“Ready for me to drop you off or would you like to hang for a bit? Maybe share why you look like something that barely made it out of hazing week?”

My eyes flicker from the passenger-side mirror to the rearview mirror. The car behind us is different than the one before. “U-turn at the gas station and then come back the way we came.”

Houston does and I hate how he keeps bouncing his gaze over at me like he’s my friend or something. I gave up friends and I don’t need to give up any more.

“Was last week really about supply issues?”

No, it wasn’t. I check the mirrors again. No cars behind us. My stomach twists, untwists, then twists again. Paranoia comes with the territory of this job, but I’m walking a fine line. Houston was my easy sell, the rest can be questionable, and I need to chill the freak out.

A buzz with a text from my next buyer. His name is Karl and he’s a newer client. I took him on to make Ricky happy but the guy gives me the creeps. Every time I’m near him the hair on my arms stands on end and I’m bombarded by made-up images of him torturing puppies with lit cigarettes while watching porn on the internet.