it rises, it collapses. I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of, at least not anything he can peg me with. Irritation turns to anger, which, like always, makes me brave.
I smile back, a big, shit-eating grin. “Hi, Walsh,” I chirp as I brush past him.
“Whatley.”
Even his smooth, crisp, California voice is flawless, I think as I cut through the wait line and push out the doors. I stand on the porch for a moment, searching the parking lot for his Sexcalade. Almost immediately, I tell myself I don’t care how he got here.
I skirt the building, choosing a trek that takes me right past the dumpster, where I narrowly avoid stepping on a stray eggshell. I cut between two palm trees, find the worn grass path to the outer parking lot, and race through the grove of big oak trees along the river’s shore.
The image of the candlelight on Brennan’s face and the curve of Kellan Walsh’s lips must sear themselves into my synapses, because I see them both in my dreams after I go home, eat nearly an entire re-heated chicken pizza, and fall into a cheese coma.
I run through my stash Friday morning, due in no small part to Kellan Asshole Walsh. I call Kennard again, and in addition to telling me ‘no’, he now seems annoyed.
Out of desperation, I call someone Lora recommends. His name is Matt, and he’s a junior in finance. His magic power: He’s a dealer who occasionally sells large amounts to other dealers.
On the phone, Matt sounds nice. He has a New Orleans accent and the kind of relaxed bass voice that makes me think he’s going to be fat. We agree to meet midafternoon Friday in the parking lot of the local industrial park. I’m so nervous, I consider asking Milasy for one of her anxiety pills before leaving. Since I never take anything anymore, I probably couldn’t drive, though, so in the end, I hop into my car and drive the four miles to the industrial park blaring the free U2 album that popped up on my iPhone some months back.
I find Matt’s hunter green Four Runner where he said I would, in front of a biotech headquarters. I park beside him and unlock my doors. Then I watch with my breath held as a lanky, brown-haired guy in Wranglers, a ripped t-shirt, and work boots climbs into my passenger seat.
Matt is soft-spoken and relaxed, and he seems perfectly non-threatening. He’s happy to take the wad of cash I have on hand and give me two ounces, triple Ziplocked. The only problem is, he won’t sell me more until we meet up at one of his safe houses.
I snort. “Safe for who, you?”
He shrugs. “C’mon, Cleo. You know a guy’s gotta watch himself,” he drawls.
I sigh. “If you say so.”
After we shoot the shit for a few minutes—I find out that Matt is from Metairie, a little town outside New Orleans—he invites me to call him anytime. I just smile and tell him, “Thanks.”
Friday evening passes in a blur of frat parties, where I hand out pot to the few people I owe and try to avoid worrying about Kellan Walsh. If he was going to do something, he’d have already done it.
Once I’m back at the house, and safely in my room, I strip down and let my naked body enjoy the cool air. I take a seat at the desk inside my closet and dial Kennard.
“Hey, Kennard. I’m so sorry to bother you again, but I really need some more. Like... really bad. It’s an emergency for me. So Sunday... can I get a little more than my usual?”
“Psshhh.” I can see Kennard’s brown eyes roll. “I got nothing. I’m all out. My guy’s gone. I don’t know where he went.”
And just like that, my supply is gone. I’m up all night, feeling ill about my drought.
I toss around in bed, considering other high-dollar occupations. I could be a stripper—but I’m not phony enough. As Milasy has pointed out to me in more than one ‘sorority ambassador’ situation, I’m not very good at feigning interest—or anything, for that matter.
I never could convince Brennan that his ineffectual tongue-flicking felt good to me on the one or two occasions I forced him between my legs. There’s no way I could grin for a guy with body odor and wag my barely clad ass in his face.
Maybe I could sell a... what? Selling organs and other bodily fluids on the black market