Shaking my head to bring me back to focus, I shut off my headlights and drive farther down. I don’t bring any unnecessary attention to myself. Not that snitching isn’t a possibility but most of the people down here are junkies, too loaded to see straight let alone be taken seriously by anyone who came around asking questions.
Three successive flashes from a pair of headlights grabs my attention. I drive closer to find a black SUV idling next to a pile of long metal cylinders. I wait a good five minutes, because you can never be too cautious when it comes to shit like this. With the paper bag scrunched up tight to fit inside my back pocket, I get out of my truck. The last two times I came with Dro for a drop-off the cop got out of the car to meet him. I’m guessing he’s not going to give me the same courtesy as he remains in the SUV. In the back of my head I’m wondering if it’s a setup. A sting of some sort meant to catch Dro, but he sent me instead because he knew what would go down. Set me up for his fall. That’s the cynical part of me. It never lets me get too comfortable. But with my luck, this sort of shit wasn’t impossible. Either way, I wouldn’t be going down without a fight. The SIG is exactly where I want it to be, snug at the crack of my ass. I can reach for it easily enough if I need it. When I approach the SUV, the driver rolls down the window about halfway down. A slight tilt of my head allows me to see that it’s the same guy I remember.
He’s what you’d expect a cop to look like. Tall, broadly built, and stocky. He still has that ugly-as-fuck crew cut, but he’s shaved off his beard from the last time I saw him. My eyes flick to the passenger seat. There’s a girl seated there, not much I can tell about her except that she’s not wearing much in the way of clothes, except of course for the sports cap covering her long, black hair, the bill lowered to cover her face. With her jaw moving as she chews on what I can only guess is gum, she keeps her gaze focused straight ahead.
The abrupt “Hey,” is accompanied by a short whistle and a snap of his fingers. When I look at him he stares back with glassy, black eyes. “Got something for me?”
Reaching inside my back pocket, I hand him the brown paper bag. “Three grand.”
He smirks, adding, “Heard your boss got some new product he’s dealing.”
I shrug. “Couldn’t tell ya.”
As his stare narrows, he doesn’t say a damn thing.
“We good?”
“Tell your boss if he wants to keep dealing in my city, it’s going to start costing him a little more.”
Poker-faced, I ask, “How much more?”
“Double.”
“I’ll give him the message.”
He smirks. “Like a good little errand boy.”
Clenching my jaw on the “Eat my dick, motherfucker,” isn’t without effort. Clear as fucking day, I can see the challenge in his eyes, the antagonism that dares me to give him a reason to haul me in, and I sure as fuck am not about to give him one. No matter how much I wanted to spray his car with bullet holes. I wait until he drives off before heading back to my pickup to head home.
Chapter 6
Aylee
It’s Friday and typically we’d be in school right now, but we’ve been given a day off because of faculty meetings. Rachel, Sarah, and I leave first. I’m not overly fond of sitting in the passenger seat so Sarah hops in next to her mother, while I slide into the back. Just as we’re pulling out from the driveway, I see Tim step out of the side door of the house. I watch him through the tinted window as he makes his way to the second car parked in the garage. The black Dodge Durango is what he generally takes to work. Slung over his shoulder is a big, navy blue duffel bag he dumps into the trunk. Just before Rachel drives away, Tim looks up and spears me with black as night eyes. A shudder trickles down my spine at the small smirk he gifts me with. It’s like he knows I’m looking at him. Like he can see me looking at him through the dark glass. I remain unsettled all the way to the hospital.
Beth Israel Psychiatric is a twenty minute ride from the house. I could’ve ridden my bike here, and normally I do, but whenever she can, Rachel likes playing chauffeur. She likes being needed, I guess. I thank her for the ride and she tells me she’ll pick me up in an hour and a half. She idles for a bit, probably making sure I actually go to the group. If she could, I’m sure she’d want to hold my hand and walk me inside herself. Stepping inside the glass revolving door always makes me feel like I’m being swallowed alive. The feeling of claustrophobia that takes me by the throat when I step inside is thankfully brief. I breathe easier when I make it to the other side. The foyer is like any typical hospital. Overly-waxed, white tiled floors, bright florescent lights and uninspired white walls. There’s a reception area directly in front of me with two employees seated behind a long, black desk, both occupied with their respective guests on the phone. The only thing remotely appealing about the winding wooden staircase to my right is the elegantly crafted black wrought iron handrails. Heading to the bank of elevators located farther down the foyer, I make a small detour to the Starbucks facing the first floor waiting area, and come out a beat later with a cup of Venti passion fruit iced tea. Just as I round the corner, I barely manage to avoid colliding with a very pregnant woman and her boyfriend/husband. My immediate apology doesn’t save me from the boyfriend/husband’s wrath as he proceeds to cuss me out.
“Stupid bitch, watch where the fuck you’re going!”
I murmur another apology before hastily escaping further scorn. With no further incident, I hop inside the elevator, press the button for the fourth floor, and exit the cab when it reaches my destination. I’m the only one to get out from the small cluster of eight people who hopped in with me. On both my right and left there are a series of closed doors that continue down the carpeted hallway. Black plaques with golden lettering hang next to each door indicating the names of the physicians and their specialty. Outpatient group therapy is the fifth door on my left. I step inside to find a room of seven familiar faces. They’re all seated around a long, white-topped rectangular table. Every other chair is empty because no one is sitting next to each other except of course for the bleary-eyed couple at the end of the table. Jay and Sylvia. They’ve moved their steel chairs so close together that Sylvia is practically on Jay’s lap. They have their hands firmly interlocked on top of the table as if letting go seemed blasphemous. There are five chairs that remain unoccupied. I take the empty chair toward the back next to Sylvia and it’s not too long before the remaining four trickle into the room rounding out our group of twelve. There’s two clinical social workers in charge of our group. Monday’s, Wednesday’s, and Friday’s group therapy is always lead by Patricia Wallis. While Tuesdays and Thursdays are Regina Petersons’ days. I like Patricia the most because between the two she seems far more experienced at her job than her coworker. She also has a sort of empathy that makes it easy for people to talk to her. So I’m a little disappointed to find that rather than Patricia, Regina is leading the group today.
“I’ll be covering Patricia’s sessions for the next two weeks,” she announces.
“Why?” the girl seated across from me asks curtly.
Pushing her wire frame glasses further up on her nose, Regina sighs. “I’m not sure, Allison. All I know is that she won’t be here for some time.”
“I heard it’s because she got caught giving a handy to one of her patients. Is that true?” While the rest of the room erupts in laughter, I look at Regina for a reaction. Although she tries to remain calm, the expression on her face gives her annoyance away.