“He’s been forced to step down, but the college didn’t expel him. A few weeks back, this guy shows. All his paperwork is in line. Shows that he was a member of our frat that was disbanded at another college and when I try to talk to Nationals about it—they stonewall me. He is cool, too cool, and he’s pushing for a dealer. He doesn’t know you’re my dealer. He knows we’re meeting someone tonight, but he thinks it’s a guy, not a seventeen-year-old girl.
“I know how you are. I’ve seen you interview plenty of guys. You’d never tip your hand of who you are, but you can read people, and I need you to read him. Please help me. My frat—we party. Won’t lie. But we don’t deal in heavy drugs and I can’t let my frat brothers go down on petty shit because our president fucked up.”
I roll my neck. Run, Abby, run. “He’ll figure out I’m the dealer, and if he’s a narc, that will only draw unwanted attention to me.”
Houston’s shaking his head. “Already said, we told him the dealer’s a guy and I got my cousin who is in town for the weekend to play the role later. Just interview him like you did all the rest of us and then let me know if I’ve got problems.”
There are two types of people who buy from me. Those who are in search for the elusive good time everyone else seems to be having and those who are striving to forget. Doesn’t matter how many different ways someone tries to slice it, all of my clients end up in the same state of nothingness and numb.
Knowing this, I do know how to read people—I can read their intent.
“Please, Abby.” Houston’s eyes soften as he begs. “There are good guys at risk here. I’m at risk.”
“Fine, but if you ever do anything like this again, I will cut you off.”
I don’t mean it, but the fear registering in his eyes says he believes me. He takes a deep breath and tries to give me his dimpled smile, but it fails. “This is how I’ve got it figured. We just ran into each other and you’re a friend of my little sister. Her name is Mallory.”
Great. Backstories.
“She goes to school at—”
“Save it. Let’s go.” I start for his table first, but he muscles past to take the lead. Yes, I’m partly doing this to help Houston, but mostly to help me. If this is a narc and that frat gets disbanded and those boys get kicked out of school, I’ll lose 50 percent of my clients. That’s not a financial loss I can withstand.
Thank God, Houston’s regained his good humor by the time we reach the table and there are genuine smiles from three of the other guys there. I sell to them too and I don’t miss how their eyes warily jump from me to this new guy. It’s like they’re trying to privately warn me and I appreciate their support.
“I know you,” says Jeremy—best friend of Houston’s since birth. “Aren’t you Mallory’s friend?”
I have to fight to not roll my eyes as that was a bit heavy-handed. The new guy’s gaze snaps to mine and I meet his stare head-on. He’s attempting to read me and he’s not checking out my cleavage. Not a good sign, but he could be gay, so I give him the benefit of the doubt. But then again, he would be checking out Houston because if Houston wasn’t a client, I would be all over that boy.
Houston lops an arm around my shoulders. “Isn’t she cute, Albert?”
Cute? I slug him in the kidney and Houston bends with the pain, yet he laughs. I draw my attention back to the guys and the three I know gape at me in a what-the-fuck mode and the new guy’s eyes are about to pop out of his head.
I jack my thumb toward Houston. “He’s annoying.”
Albert’s lips slightly tilt up. “He is, and my little sister’s best friend did the same thing to me last time I was home.”
I remove a small bouncy ball from my pocket and roll it in Albert’s direction. He picks it up with his right hand then rolls it back. I bounce it a few times on the table, pocket it, then, I’m ready to interview.
“She did?” I ask.
“She did.” His eyes go to the right and up, indicating he’s recalling a memory.
“I know them.” I wave at the other guys and I scan “Albert” like I’m interested in his body, but really, I’m checking out his clothes. Baggy jeans, T-shirt that costs too much to be a T-shirt, a baseball cap on backwards. “I don’t know you.”
“Albert,” he says. “And you are?”
“Curious.”
His eyebrows shoot up and I select a nacho chip from the basket and nibble on it. My mouth squishes to the side. Too salty for my taste, but it’s food and it’s free and I should make Houston buy me dinner for this.
“Tacos or spaghetti?” I ask.
“What?”
“Tacos or spaghetti.”
He glances over at Houston and his buddies. Houston shrugs. “She won’t let it go until you answer. She’s weird like that.”
Yes, I am.
“Tacos,” he answers.
“Disney World or Disneyland?”
“Land.” Which means he’s been on the West Coast and we’re East Coast.
“Ice cream or brownies?”
Eyes to the right again—fourth time in a row. “Brownies.”
“Rolling Stones or the Beatles?”
This one trips people up. They either don’t have an answer, have an immediate answer, or are split. “Stones.”