Fall Out Girl
Authors: L. Duarte
* * * *
Fall Out Girl
Copyright © 2015 by L. Duarte
Cover design by Sarah Hansen of
Okay Creations
Interior design by
JT Formatting
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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To my husband and children.
Francois de La Rochefoucauld Quote
PATIENCE WASN’T MY strong suit. Yet there I was, sitting on a boulder—poised, self-assured, and cocky. Perfectly masked.
Waiting for someone absolutely pissed me off, especially if it was a client. My foot started to bob, repeatedly hitting the ground with little muffled thuds, displaying signs of my anxiety. I pressed a firm hand against my thigh. To show emotion was the same as cracking open your chest and inviting others to pry out your secrets, dissect your soul, and ultimately judge and condemn you. No, thank you. I had built a stronghold around my heart. No one got in.
Where the hell was Andrew? I glanced at my watch. Tick-tock. Ten seconds late. If he was a no show in the next fifty seconds, I would flee. One of the cardinal rules of a drug delivery: Don’t wait. Junkies are punctual to a fault. Weird, right? But true. Desperation for the next fix is a great motivator.
I had learned that, in this field, tardiness equaled trouble. And I had become an expert on dodging problems, earning the reputation as one of the best hustlers in the area. I pushed off the boulder I was sitting on and stood up.
Thirty seconds.
With a look of serenity far from the way I felt, I opened my compact mirror, mussed my hair, and checked my makeup, a pretense to scan what was behind me without appearing concerned.
Twenty seconds.
I shoved the mirror into my messenger bag and glanced at the interior. The secret compartment, where I stashed drugs, was the way I intended—unnoticeable.
Ten seconds.
“Luna!” An overly-friendly voice called.
I snapped my head up and locked eyes with Andrew. He always gave me the creeps, but he was a stellar client. Cocaine, pot, pills, the works. He was always an eager consumer.
“You’re late,” I said, appalled.
“No, I’m not.”
“Fifty seconds. I don’t do late.”
“Jeez, take a chill pill,” he said with a charming grin that had girls melting their panties.
I noticed a stranger standing behind Andrew and a nervous energy hummed through my skin. My hands balled into tight fists.
“Who is that?” I nodded to the guy, my eyes never deviating from Andrew.
“Oh, this is my boy, Caleb. He moved here over the summer.” Andrew’s arm flung to the guy’s back, propelling him forward and making introductions.
I refrained from rolling my eyes. During transactions, the less emotion on display, the better. But I couldn’t resist the urge to examine the incoming boy. I bit the inside of my cheek as my eyes zoomed in on him, tracing his face and body. He was a typical all-American boy—sharp jaw, green eyes, full lips, disheveled dirty blond hair—in a dire need of a cut, perhaps it was the new trend—broad shoulders, and narrow hips (such a cliché description, I know, but I’m just stating the facts). To add offense to his good looks, he had an unnerving and mesmerizing smile that promoted him to the poster child for the term “golden boy.” Did I mention the dimple? Yep, according to popular belief, an angel had kissed his left cheek at the time of his birth.
Not that I was cataloging him, or anything, I wasn’t. Did I mention that I was an observant person? I was. Besides, the idiot might be a potential future client.
“You know that’s not how I roll.” I adjusted the strap of my bag. Shit, I was counting on this transaction. Cash. Good cash. But I also valued my freedom. Jail had no appeal to me. Unless I did a background check on my clients and anyone observing the transaction, I didn’t deal. There was always another junkie waiting on my endless list.
I circled Andrew, making haste to leave. But Andrew’s boy was faster than I was, and sidestepped, blocking my path.
“What’s the hurry, love?” he asked, with a deliciously husky voice. The cocky smile hadn’t left his lips. (P.S. his lips looked soooo kissable).
I shook my head, discarding the hideous thought. What’s wrong with me? For the record,
I was
a hardcore badass and bitchy teen. I didn’t do attraction to cute, dimpled boys. That idiotic thought was just a lapse in judgment.
I took a hard look at him, my eyes roaming over his body in a contemptuous stare. Had I not known better, I would classify him as handsome with a genuine soul. But I knew better, he was just another spoiled rich boy. Kids like him often came to me, looking for a fix to make their pathetic lives more exciting.
I ground my teeth, another bad habit I knew better than to have. In an attempt to mask it, I inhaled deeply. Big mistake. His male scent, mixed with sweat and some expensive cologne, hit my nostrils and filled my lungs. I felt dizzy—giddy, even. But irritation rescued me from momentary lust and brought me back to reality. In a span of a couple minutes, Andrew’s boy had managed to break two cardinal rules: Invasion of personal space and, the most abhorrent of all, calling me an endearment.
“It’s Luna,” I growled through clenched teeth.
Andrew took a step in our direction; his hands raised, his tone pacifying when he said, “Luna, listen, we’re tight. You know me. I won’t screw you over.”
My eyes, never wavering from the infamous new guy, narrowed.
“C’mon, Luna.” Andrew’s voice pitched higher. He was nervous. Good, let him squirm. It would teach him a lesson.
“Later, Andrew. I’ll be late for class.” I took a sidestep to walk around Andrew’s boy.
That’s when new boy broke the holiest cardinal rule. His long fingers wrapped around my arm, halting me and said, “Listen I—”
Before he completed the sentence, I jerked my arm free and had him in a hold with one arm locked behind his back. (I neglected to mention earlier, but I have a junior black belt in karate). I snatched a pocketknife from my bra. With the blade of the small knife pressed against his neck, I spoke with a calm and menacing voice. “I’m easygoing, Andrew’s Boy, and because I’m in a good mood, I won’t discard a future relationship with you.” I shifted the blade up along his neck. When it reached his jaw, I pressed it, purposefully nicking his skin. “However, it’s imperative that you refrain from touching me, and never, ever, call me by a pet name again.”
A small drop of blood trailed down his neck. “Am I clear?”
“Gotcha,” he said.
With a rush of blood carrying the sound of my heartbeat to my ears, I drew the knife back. Whenever I did a delivery, I was fully armed for warfare, a scowl on my face, a lie on my tongue, and a weapon hidden somewhere in my body. I wiped the blade against my jeans, snapped it shut, and returned it to its safe nest between my breasts. Taking a few steps back, I placed a safe distance between us. With a wink and a smile, I said, “Good-bye, fellas.” I turned on my heel and headed for the back door of the school building.
