“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.

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.”