Holding on to Forever

by Davis, Siobhan

  “Get fucked, Weston.” I shove at him. “I’m not dating you.”

  A devilish glint appears in his eyes, and I immediately recognize my mistake. I’ve just played right into his hand although I’m not fully up to speed yet.

  He shrugs, smiling. “Girlfriend. Fuck buddy. I don’t care what label you put on it once you understand you’re mine.”

  I’m struggling to release myself from his embrace when he tightens his grip on my neck, digging his nails into my hip as he prods my stomach with his obvious erection. Nausea churns in my gut, and it’d serve him right if I puked on him.

  “Fighting me gets me horny,” he admits, nipping my earlobe. “So, I could do this all day, but we have an audience to please. Act convincing, or I’ll run straight to Carole’s office and inform her that her precious daughter has turned back to her druggy slut ways. I’m pretty sure I overheard my mother telling my father she’ll kick you out of the house and college if you start using again.”

  “I fucking hate you,” I hiss as I force a smile on my face. He takes my book bag, slinging it over his shoulder as he grabs hold of my hand and smashes his lips against mine. It’s more of an assault than a kiss, but I don’t protest, because if I make a scene, it could get back to my mother.

  “You can do better,” he whispers against my mouth before probing the seam of my lips with his tongue. Reluctantly, I open for him, trying not to gag when his tongue invades all corners of my mouth.

  “Good girl,” he says when we break apart a minute later, and I want to tell his patronizing ass to fuck off, but I keep the fake smile on my face as I make my way outside the building with him.

  We walk in silence toward the parking lot, and he keeps a firm grip on my hand. The entire time, I’m grappling for something I can use to halt this, but it’s futile. He’s got me in a bind, and I can’t see any way out. Being beholden to someone like Weston Blakely is akin to swimming in a sea full of hangry sharks, blindfolded and naked, with blood smeared along my bare flesh.

  I might as well just tell him to kill me now.

  But a sliver of self-preservation still lingers in my tissues, and that stubbornness means I’ll suffer through whatever humiliation he has lined up, until I find a way to extricate myself from this mess.

  He roughly shoves me into the back seat of his blacked-out SUV, climbing in behind me. He locks the doors and unzips his pants while I try not to puke. Grabbing my neck, he pulls my face down to his bare cock. “Suck me off, bitch, and make it good, or I’ll fuck your cunt instead.”

  I don’t get the chance to reply as he rams his big cock into my mouth, shoving it all the way to the back of my throat. Tears spill out of my eyes, and I feel sick to the pit of my stomach as I start sucking him, but I cling to my resolve, more determined than ever to find a way to remove Weston Blakely from my life without everything blowing up in my face.

  3

  Adam

  On Friday night, I’m pacing outside a car repair shop in a seedy part of North Charleston, attempting to calm my nerves. The area has a reputation for drugs and violence. I guess the drug trade hasn’t changed much. Donnie, my old supplier in New Jersey, ran his operation out of a car repair shop too. Only Donnie had a side business of stealing expensive cars of the rich and famous. That wasn’t my gig. I’d been too young to drive for him anyway.

  I check my watch.

  Ray Diaz is late.

  I’m half-tempted to call Donnie to make sure he gave me the correct address when headlights brighten the narrow alleyway.

  The SUV is crawling toward me, and my nerves are jacked. I shouldn’t be doing this. I should find a decent part-time job to pay for my sister’s medical expenses, but I see no other way. We have to get her vest fixed or buy a new one. Selling drugs is the only way to make some quick cash. Besides, I’m good at it. I sold dope and pills for years, and I’d never been arrested. I always had my pulse on the neighborhoods, and I knew where cops loitered at night.

  You’ve been out too long. Things might have changed, and you’re in a new state.

  I push my inner thoughts aside. None of that matters. I’m always alert. I always know what’s around me, and as Mom tells me, I’m perceptive as hell. I have to be. Taking care of Mom and Phoebe—especially Phoebe—I have to be alert to her sounds, her breathing, and her emotions.

  Thinking of my sister sends pain slicing through my chest. I can’t let anything happen to her. She spent two days in the hospital, where the doctor pumped her with antibiotics, until she started feeling better.

  The SUV pulls to a stop, and a short stocky guy gets out of the front passenger seat brandishing a gun. The driver, a taller man than his compadre, follows.

  I lift my hands as if a cop is arresting me. “I’m unarmed.”

  Aiming the gun at my head, he stalks toward me. His dark eyes are hard, his mission resolute. “Move and you’re dead.” His deep voice is lethal.

  An all too familiar wave washes over me, and I’m tempted to back out of this stupid idea to sell drugs and run before he pulls the trigger. I’m not any good dead to Mom and Phoebe. But I know his words are just a scare tactic while he frisks me.

  I stand statue-still while the second dude, sporting a thin beard and no mustache, pats my sides, my lower back, down my legs, and straight down to my ankles. He sticks one finger in the air. “All clear.”

  The stocky dude lowers his gun, and, inwardly, I grin. The goon didn’t find the blade in my boot. I’m not about to use it though. But I don’t walk into situations like these unarmed. Still, I make a mental note of the type of men I’m dealing with.

  A tall man climbs out of the back seat. He’s sporting baggy jeans and a New York Yankees ball cap, and the gold bling around his neck probably weighs ten pounds as it glints off the dim light on the side of the car repair shop.

  It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes. Donnie doesn’t show off like this dude. Donnie’s motto is blend in with the crowd. Standing out only draws attention.

  “You must be Wrangler. I’m Ray Diaz.” Ray struts over to the metal garage door. “You understand I have to be careful.” He punches a code in on the keypad tacked to the frame of the door. Within a second, it opens.

  I tuck my hands in my jean pockets. “I’m well aware of the industry.”

  A deep chuckle erupts from Ray. “I heard. Donnie told me you were a cocky punk too.”

  It’s my turn to laugh. “When I need to be.”

  Ray flicks a switch on the wall just inside the garage. Fluorescent lights illuminate the space, and sitting like a precious jewel in a museum is an Aston Martin Valkyrie. I can’t help but lick my lips like I’m about to have sex with a hot babe.

  This black as night car, glimmering before me, is worth at least two mil.

  I wolf-whistle as I forget for the moment why I’m here. “The drug business must be booming in this area.”

  Green flashes like a beacon on a foggy night.

  Green as in cash.

  Maybe my future isn’t the NFL.

  Maybe my plans are all wrong. Maybe I should consider working full-time for Ray Diaz. I could pay Phoebe’s medical expenses for a lifetime. I could also buy Mom a big house on the ocean that she dreams about.

  Ray’s thugs come in, and the one who frisked me hits a button. The garage door closes, the creaking sound snapping me out of my dream state.

  “So, why should I hire you?” Ray asks, anchoring himself to an expensive chest of tools.

  I circle the Aston Martin, my eyes big as basketballs. “Because I can make you money,” I say, not taking my gaze off the pristine black jewel.

  “Tell me how.” Ray orders like he’s already my boss.

  His crass tone makes me jerk, and I pin him with a glare. “It doesn’t matter how. All you need to know is I need the money.”

  Money always motivates people.

  “For what?”

  His two goons stand guard at the door like they’re Secret Service.

  “None
of your business.” Fuck if he needs to know my personal shit.

  “You working for the cops?” Ray’s tone is nonchalant like he’s asking what kind of beer I prefer.

  I fold my arms over my chest and widen my stance. “Donnie vouched for me. So, what’s your problem?”

  He pushes off the toolbox, pinching his thick dark eyebrows. “I like to know the person working for me. Tell me more.”

  I’m sure Donnie told him my real name. I’m also sure Ray has the network to find out where I live and my entire background. But I decide to throw him a bone. I do need the gig. And time is of the essence if I want to get Phoebe’s vest fixed or acquire a new one. Plus, I know if I were in his shoes, I’d want to know the same thing.

  I lift my chin defiantly. “I attend Cypress University. And before you even think to say anything about me selling on campus, that’s not going to happen. I can’t be your dealer there. If that’s a deal breaker, I’ll walk.”

  He scratches his unshaven jaw as he crosses the clean cement floor to a fridge behind the Aston Martin. He returns with two beers and hands me one. He twists his cap off the bottle, and I do the same. I could use something cold to coat the sandpaper feeling in the back of my throat.

  He studies me. “Why don’t you find a job on campus then? Or in town. The city is a tourist trap, I’m sure someone would hire you.”

  I grit my teeth. “What’s your problem?” He’s right that I could probably find a job, but at minimum wage and the limited time to work with school and football, Phoebe wouldn’t get her vest or Mom wouldn’t be able to pay the bills. I thought long and hard about my options, and drugs equals fast cash.

  He takes a long pull of his beer. “My problem is I’m looking for someone with longevity, and you don’t strike me as that type, college boy. I want someone my clients can depend on. You feel me?”

  I don’t know how long it will be before Mom finds a job. And if I’m being honest, I’m afraid to even go down this path. But desperation bleeds motivation, and I’m fucking motivated after seeing Phoebe in the hospital. I also don’t want to see Mom working three jobs again like she had when we lived in New Jersey.

  I chug a few gulps, inhaling the scent of motor oil. “Do you want me to sign a fucking contract?”

  He points the tip of his bottle at me, his dark eyes stony.

  A shiver creeps up the back of my neck at the way he’s studying me. I make another mental note not to piss off Ray. I get this churning feeling in my gut that if I do he’ll put a bullet in my skull.

  He struts over to a round table with four chairs outside an office. “Desperation doesn’t look good on anyone,” he finally says as he waves me over. “But I like you.” He slides into a chair, and I do the same.

  “What about longevity?” I’m compelled to ask. “I can’t promise you that I’ll be selling for you next month.” I want to be as honest as I can. He needs to know I’m not a lifer in this business.

  He rubs his chin. “Let’s just see where this relationship goes.” He wags a finger between us. “Then we can talk about longevity.”

  I’m not sure I like the sound of that, but I will worry about my future later. “So, I’m in?”

  “Let’s talk specifics.” He takes another swig of his beer. “My operation caters to the Molly market. I run the southern half of the state, but most of my money comes from a small area in and around Charleston. We cater mostly to college kids or anyone who can afford the two-hundred-and-forty-dollar bag of Molly pills. There’s a dozen pills in a bag, and some of my dealers bring in about a grand a night after they pay me my cut.”

  I school my features as I’m doing some math in my head. “And my cut?” A grand a night doesn’t sound bad, but it all depends on how many bags I have to sell, and since this will be a part-time gig, I need to get the biggest bang for my time.

  “Ten percent.” He eyes me with hesitation.

  I sit back against the wooden chair. My mind is calculating. I would have to sell forty bags a night to bring in just shy of a grand. I’m not saying it’s not possible, but with classes, homework, practice, and football, I would have to hustle hard or sell on campus, and the latter isn’t going to happen. “I want fifty percent.”

  He takes off his ball cap, runs his gnarly fingers over his crew cut and chews on his lip ring before barking out a laugh. “No fucking way.”

  His arrogant smile contains amusement, and that rubs me the wrong way. I stiffen. He may throw me out on my ass, but Donnie taught me go big or go home. I stab a finger at the Aston Martin. “She yours?” I’m asking to prove a point.

  His greasy forehead creases. “You want one?”

  Fuck yeah. That sweet ride has a thousand horses underneath the hood. The thought of getting behind the wheel, starting the engine, and letting that beauty purr beneath my body makes my dick rock hard.

  I temper my lust for the expensive ride. I’m here to do business not jack off over the car. “If you can afford a two-million-dollar car, you can pay me fifty percent of what I sell in a night.” He’s never going to agree to that, but I’m starting off high so I can negotiate the best deal. Twenty percent is the goal I have in mind. At that rate, I would have to sell twenty bags a night, which is more doable than forty. Even if I sold ten a night, that’s close to five hundred, and in a week’s time, I would be happy with two to three grand. That amount would certainly take care of Mom and Phoebe. Besides, I remember rich assholes in New Jersey who bought up the inventory Donnie gave me in one transaction.

  Ray slaps his hand on the table, the sound exploding. “Who the fuck do you think you are?” His voice rises in pitch, as all trace of amusement evaporates.

  I don’t move or flinch or say a word. I know he wants a reaction out of me or to see if I’m scared.

  His two goons at the door ready their Glocks at me.

  Fuck if I care.

  You should care. Think of your sister.

  I stand. “I guess I’ll find another gig.” I don’t take my eyes off him. I’m not one to waver or run away with my tail tucked in between my legs.

  Another thing Donnie taught me. As frightened as you are of the person you’re making the deal with, don’t ever let them see your fear.

  His chest inflates before he releases all the air through his nostrils. “I know Donnie didn’t give you fifty percent. And you must be high if you think I’ll agree to your demands. But if you’re as good as Donnie says you are then I can offer fifteen percent.”

  “Twenty percent,” I fire back. “And to put you at ease, I’ll even commit to work for you for the next three months.” The latter should satisfy his longevity bullshit. I can’t say I blame him for that. After all, he is running a business, and he wants to keep his clients happy. But I just might’ve stuck my foot in my mouth, because in the drug business, there’s no such thing as long-term employment when the risks are high for all sorts of shit to go wrong.

  He’s thinking hard until his lips curl at the edges. “I’ll take your offer. But you need to do one thing before I hire you.”

  * * *

  Fucking Ray Diaz wants me to sell five bags of Molly tonight to prove to him I can sell.

  The task should be easy until he dumps me on a street corner of abandoned buildings with only two homeless people in sight.

  The night air is humid, and the stench of piss is burning my nostrils.

  “You have three hours. Show me what you got, Jersey boy,” he says before leaving me.

  The five bags of Molly in my jeans pocket feels like lead, and my gut is telling me the fucker set me up to fail.

  I glance around to make sure I don’t see a cop car or a slew of them anywhere.

  He won’t sic the cops on you, bro. He’s got a business to run.

  I cross the wide deserted road of neglected buildings that sit quietly beneath an overpass. Cars whiz by at top speeds, drowning out any noise below.

  This is a perfect place to kill someone. I pluck the blade from my boot while kee
ping my eyes peeled. It’s a small switchblade, so it easily fits into the front pocket of my jeans. I don’t want to scare the homeless or have them pull a knife or a gun on me.

  I saunter over to an old man who is sifting through a shopping cart. He looks up and snarls.

  Taking a step back, I lift my hands. “Whoa! I’m not here to cause trouble. I just want to talk.”

  His neighbor, an oily-haired woman in her forties, perks up from her sleeping bag outside her tent. Both are glaring daggers at me for disturbing their peaceful night.

  “Do you get much company around here?” I ask, keeping my hands in the air.

  The old man cocks his head, his skin leathery and wrinkly. “Not sure of your question.”

  The lady sits up straight, sliding her tired eyes up and down my body like she wants to fuck me. “Are you a cop?”

  A shudder works its way through me, and I need a shower.

  “No, ma’am.” My polite manners filter out. Mom taught me to respect my elders. “I’m wondering if you’ve seen drug deals go down around here?” No sense in sugar coating what I want. It’s not like she’s about to call the cops.

  “All the time,” the old man says. “Racing too.” A glint of excitement is stamped in his cloudy green eyes.

  I toss a look at the wide street. I picture myself behind Ray’s Aston Martin as excitement bubbles inside me.

  Oh, for fuck’s sake. It’s just a car.

  “So, you’ve seen drug deals?” I’m not sure I believe him. The only sign of life is these two. “Any bars or clubs around here?”

  The old man squints at me. “You’re one of those party people who likes doing drugs and getting naked. Aren’t you?”

  I edge back at his odd question.

  “You might want to check the building two blocks down.” The lady points to my left. “Kids act like crazy folk at night in there around this time.”