by Ashley Rose
"Damn," he mutters, his face burying in my neck and I can feel his breath coming out in short pants against my skin. "Fuck, I'm gonna cum."
His words send a shiver down my spine the same way it does every time he says it. I let my head fall back, concentrating on the feeling of him sliding in and out, over and over, soaking up every inch of him.
And he follows me, a guttural groan pulling from his throat. He slams into me hard enough to break my hips and I feel him spill into me. All my muscles finally relax and he slumps against me, his hands moving to support himself the best he can against the door. He whines softly, his face burying in my neck. I dig my hands into his hair, weakly massaging his scalp as I try to stop trembling.
"Jesus fucking Christ," he breathes as he pulls back to look me in the face and we both burst into laughter.
He allows my legs to slide down. I wobble as I try to stand, my body weak from my orgasm, and he reaches down to pull up his pants and retrieve his hat. He sets it jauntily on his head and grins at me goofily, whether it's from the alcohol or post coital giddiness I'm not sure.
"Thanks," he says, pecking my cheek as I shimmy my skirt down to a more appropriate length. "You're one dirty bitch." He chuckles playfully and I smack him.
"Can I have my underwear back please?"
He shakes his head at me. "Nope," he replies, smiling and unlocking the door before slipping past me.
"No?!" I shriek, following him, and he just grins, that stupid little drunk grin. He wiggles his eyebrows at me.
"Come have a drink with me and I'll think about it."
"Lex!" I exclaim for the hundredth fucking time tonight, but a gasp escapes my throat before I can say anything else. A guy suddenly steps into the bathroom, looking at the two of us bewildered.
"Sorry, man," Lex half-apologizes, grabbing my hand and tugging me out of the bathroom.
"Lex!" I whisper again heatedly as he tugs me after him. But before I can say another word he's turning around, pressing me hard against the wall and kissing me fiercely. It nearly knocks the wind from my lungs and I'm reminded of that kiss in Felix's apartment, the music so loud I can feel the bass thumping against my back.
"Leala," he says lowly, after he's left me breathless and panting and wanting more. I cling to each word that falls from his lips like a spider to a web. "We're gonna go back in there and have one more drink, and then I'm gonna take you back to my place..." He cups my cheek, brushing his thumb along my bottom lip, "And we're gonna get high and I'm gonna fuck you until you can't move."
My eyes are wide as he steps back from me. He smiles, and there it is again, that aching pressure in my chest. Love, or a heart attack. Kind of the same thing. He re-situates his hat on his head and licks his lips, causing me to shiver.
"So come have a drink with me." He turns toward the bar and I'm quick on his heels. One drink. For a night full of drugs and bone crushing, muscle spasming, throat splitting sex...
I can handle that.
6
With Monday comes the hustle. He usually takes the weekends slow, making calls and letting some of his runners handle deals, only making a few hand-to-hand meets himself. But Monday is always hectic.
I'm sitting on the couch while he finishes up his cereal in the kitchen. "Tonight is supposed to be a good night," he speaks between bites, looking into the living room at me.
"You getting a delivery?" My eyes focus down at the task in front of me, breaking up a marijuana bud onto a paper plate. Lex always likes for me to roll his joints. He says I can roll tighter because I have smaller fingers, but sometimes I just feel like he's being lazy and doesn't wanna do it himself. Of course that's not too terribly shocking.
"Nope. Turf war. Upped the price and squeezed the supply. Gotta go the other route." He sighs, taking another bite, chewing slowly.
"I thought you got the shit delivered now?" I question him, eyes snapping up to meet his, narrowing a little.
"Depends on the connection, you know that." He waves off my words with his hand before tipping the bowl toward his face to swallow the dregs of milk in the bottom and then placing it in the sink.
I keep rolling his joint and he draws the back of his hand across his mouth, stepping around the kitchen bar and into the living room before continuing.
"I've got two good ones running right now, playing the supply and demand game. You know, all that shit you learn in high school economics." He grins, taking a seat next to me. "But it's like I just told you, shit's bad with the one guy, so I gotta get it from the other. Business is business. That's why it's called the game."
He reaches for the joint, smelling it quickly and licking his lips before fishing into his pocket for his lighter.
"Damn, that's good shit, baby." He presses a chaste kiss to my cheek and I roll my eyes a bit, sinking back against the back of the couch.
"You know I hate it when you go uptown to pick up your shit..." I loll my head sideways at him, eyes focusing on him with intent. "Just to get two ounces from some bitch who works for the street boss. Out there with enough blow to get you locked up for at least five years...fuck." I sigh, shaking my head before looking away from him.
He groans, throwing an arm around me as he takes a long drag, turning his head away from me to exhale, wisps of silver grey smoke curling and dancing their way through the thick, hazy air. He turns back to me, lowering his voice as he speaks right against my ear.
"Chill out with that shit, Leala. I've been doing this long enough, I know what I'm doing. Besides, like I said, tonight is supposed to be a good night. Hey...look at me..."
He slips his arm from around my shoulders to turn my face to his, holding my chin in his fingers. He takes a slow pull, but doesn't inhale, just holds the smoke in his mouth and it rolls out in small wisps from between his lips as he pulls my mouth to his. I inhale, taking the hit from his lips and holding it in, releasing my head back to exhale toward the ceiling as he smirks at me. Shot-gunning, it's called, and I love when he does it to me.
I grin at him, grabbing his face and pushing my mouth to his, sliding my tongue deep past his lips. He kisses me. Soft and slow and he tastes like November, like hot chocolate on stormy nights and weed and crisp autumn air. His hand rests below my ear, his thumb caressing my cheek as our breaths mingle. He moans softly and bites my bottom lip before pulling away.
"I got some of the purest shit you can get off the street coming in," he says. "Almost twenty-five."
My eyes go wide at his words. "Shut the fuck up." I'm almost giddy, sitting up at attention on the couch. This could be so good for business. Pure cocaine is impossible to get on the street. Most of it comes in at about 80 or 90 percent pure on the kilo, but it's cut at least twice by the time it gets into the hands of street dealers like Lex, turning out four kilos at around 20 percent purity.
Sometimes it gets cut three times and you're selling around 11 percent, but you can't get rid of that shit unless you sell in a "dumb market"—college kids or users who are so desperate they just don't care. Lex doesn't fuck with that stuff because he wants to uphold his reputation for having the good shit. That's how you keep business rolling smoothly.
Really, there's no sense in selling pure cocaine, a human body can't handle it. Most users are so used to diluted product that pure coke would be too potent to even enjoy. You're not gaining any profit, and you're just killing your customers. But 25 percent...that's good shit. That's right on the money.
He smirks. "I know. I've been running about twenty, twenty-two in a good batch. That's about the best you can get around here. But this shit is supposed to be legit. Got the call last night."
He takes one more drag before passing me the joint. He doesn't smoke too much before he goes out for the day, just enough to calm his nerves. He knows he still has to be straight enough to handle his business.
"Twenty-five..." I trail off, still not believing my ears. "So are you gonna stock up?" I ask before taking a hit. That's the way you have to play situations lik
e this. If a bad batch of coke comes out to one of your connections, they're usually up front about it. And if it's running around 20 or a little under, Lex just buys a little to stay in the good graces of his supplier and bides his time until better shit comes in. Then he goes for a big purchase.
"Yeah, I might get ten ounces."
Ten ounces may not be much in the grand scheme, but it is for Lex. He usually only runs two ounces at a time, maybe a little more, dealing in smaller amounts just to keep his own ass out of the hot seat. He's dealt with guys who run kilos at a time, and they just end up fucked—getting their house broken into, or getting so caught up in their high-roller lifestyle that they crash and burn right from the start.
My jaw drops to my chest. "That's eight thousand fucking dollars! Probably more than that if it's as good as you say! Can you afford that?"
He scoffs at me, furrowing his brow, raising his voice. "Of course I can! And you know I turn that shit over for more than triple profit. Besides, this guy is cool, he lets me go in half up front and pay out later."
I sigh, leaning forward to snub the end of the joint before sitting back and folding my arms across my chest. "Sounds like a bunch of unnecessary bullshit if you get busted. Twice as much shit in your pockets when they take you in and you still owe the guy half. Do you know how much time you get for ten ounces, Lex?"
He groans, pushing on his knees to peel himself off of the couch with a huffed sigh. "God, would you stop being such a whiney bitch? I can't deal with this shit right now. I've gotta run something on the streets today, I fucked around all weekend." And he disappears into the backroom to get his shit ready for the day.
His phone vibrates on the table. Not his business phone, that motherfucker is always in his pocket. His other phone. I glance over my shoulder and then lean over the coffee table to peek at the screen when I see that the door is shut behind him down the hall.
Damon.
I sigh, loud. It kills me every time he calls. I can't imagine how it makes Lex feel. I look over my shoulder down the hall again. Fuck it. I pick up the phone.
"H-hello?" My voice is quiet, almost a whisper. Why the fuck did I answer the phone? I don't even know what to say to this kid.
"Um...is Alex there?" His voice is deep, but cracks in mid-sentence. I know he has to be fucking terrified, poor thing.
"He's...he's busy right now. This is Damon, right?" My voice is still low and hushed. Lex is gonna fucking kill me.
"Yeah. Who is this?" He's talking quietly too now. I feel like such a sneak my chest starts to get tight. I need to make this quick. Whatever we're going to say, it needs to be said now.
"This is Leala...I don't know if you remember me. I think the last time I saw you—"
"Yeah, I remember you. You're like Alex's girlfriend, right?"
I'm glad he cut me off. The urgency in his voice makes me know that he needs this conversation to be just as quick as I do.
"Yeah. Listen...I know you call Lex a lot, and he doesn't answer, it's just that—"
"How is he? I mean, he's okay, right?"
And my heart breaks. It absolutely breaks for this kid. He's not angry, he doesn't want to know why Lex doesn't answer the phone, he just wants to know if he's okay.
"Y-yeah...he's...he's fine. Look, I don't know—"
“Cause I worry about him, you know. My parents don't talk about him, ever, and I always ask. It's just like...he died. That's what it's like at our house, and I just need to know that he's okay. Cause he's still my brother, you know, even if my parents try to pretend like he doesn't exist."
I sigh, running a hand over my face. "I know. I know, okay? And he knows, it's just...it's been a long time. He doesn't want to get you into trouble, and I think he just feels bad. But listen, I can't stay on here for long, alright?"
"Well, just...tell him I called."
I hear the door open down the hall and my heart jumps into my throat. "Okay...okay." I immediately close the phone when I see Lex's form hovering over me.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
I freeze, phone in my hand. I don't even look up into his eyes. I can tell what look is there just by the tone in his voice. I swallow hard.
"Who the fuck was that?!" He snatches the cell from my hands and I slowly bring my gaze up to his as he scrolls through his phone menu to see the last received call. I'm trembling inside. I know I made a huge, huge mistake.
I bolt up from the couch as his eyes go wide and he lunges for me, throwing the phone to the ground. But I'm not quick enough. He falls onto the couch and I scramble down out of his grasp, but he grabs me at my ankles and hauls me back underneath him, flipping me over by the shoulders and pinning me down hard.
"You fucking bitch!" He spits the words in my face, and I struggle against him, pushing on his shoulders, but he's too damn strong.
He quickly maneuvers all of his weight on top of me, his knees sunken into the couch on either side of my hips, ankles hooked over my thighs, holding my legs still. I feel his fingers digging into my upper arms as he pushes all of his weight down into me. I know he's bruising my flesh to the bone.
I yelp when he shakes me, fingers digging harder into my arms. "I can't fucking believe you would do some shit like that! What the fuck were you thinking? You think it's okay to just do whatever the fuck you want? Huh!? Fucking answer me!"
His crystal blue eyes are wild and maniacal, brow furrowed and teeth clenched. His face is red with anger and exertion from holding me down, but I finally give in, laying limp under him. I want to cry, just to make him feel like a real asshole, but I can't even muster up any tears because I know what I did was beyond fucked up. I crossed the line.
"Holy fucking God, I can't believe you!" He tears up off of the couch, pulling me up just a little by my arms and slamming me back down into the cushions just for good measure. He hovers back over my body, raising a hand overhead and I wince and turn my head, waiting for the blow. This time I think he's actually going to hit me and I almost think I deserve it. But I just wait, and nothing.
He growls and turns abruptly to the wall, punching straight through it with his fist, making a clean deep hole and I jump at the thudding sound of the strike.
Silence.
He's frozen, one hand stuck inside beneath the thick drywall, chest heaving in frustration and rage. I'm scared to move. He slides his other hand up the wall, palm flat and fingers spread wide, and I jump again when he slaps against it, grunting low in his chest.
His shoulders finally relax and his head falls forward, his forehead resting gently against the wall, his back still expanding and falling with his heavy breaths.
I slowly pull myself from the couch and approach him silently from behind, reaching out a hand cautiously and running it across his lower back and around to hold him at his waist. My other hand creeps slowly up his side and over his shoulder, down his tattooed arm to gently help ease his hand out of the wall. His fist is still clenched, blood on his swollen knuckles.
I press a kiss to the nape of his neck and rest my cheek there, his skin still warm and flushed with rage.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." I whisper the words and I feel him nod under my cheek, but in an instant he whirls around, grabbing my face and pushing my back hard against the wall where he had just been standing.
I wince as he grips my cheeks, shooting pain up into my skull as his fingertips align with the bruises Tony had given me from squeezing my face in the same fashion just the other night, the pressure of his hand deepening and darkening the purple that I know will eventually surface.
His jaw is tight and his nostrils flare slightly with his breaths as the heel of his hand rests against my throat, applying the slightest pressure. My breath hitches in my throat, but his eyes are soft now. I know he's no longer raging.
"If you ever...fucking ever pull some shit like that again...I'll fucking kill you. Don't fuck around with me, not when it comes to my family. You're my girl, and I would never hurt you, but I swear to fucking
God above I'll kill your ass," he whispers tight in his throat, and I nod the best I can under his grip.
With a sigh he releases my face and his head falls into my neck. I reach down to take his injured hand in mine, holding it gently against my stomach as I clutch the back of his head and press a kiss beneath his ear.
"I'm sorry."
He pulls away from me and looks into my face and then down at his hand as I hold it gently, his fingers in my palm. He makes a loose fist, closing and opening his fingers slowly. He winces, gritting his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut as he turns his head to the side at the painful sensation.
"Does it hurt?" I push up the fabric of his long-sleeved T-shirt and rub his forearm slowly as he continues to make fists with his hand, trying to return it to functionality.
"Yeah it fucking hurts," he scoffs, finally pulling it away from my grasp and shaking it loosely in the air. "It'll be fine. I gotta go."
And I know I should leave. Probably for a while after what took place just moments ago.
7
It's late. Later than he usually goes out on a pickup. And now he curses himself the entire way there for forgetting how long a walk it was when he decided he could put it off for another hour this afternoon.
He always walks to pickups, just if for no other reason than to stay low-profile. Kinda hard to stay low-profile in an Escalade truck with twenty-two inch rims on it. So he walks.
At least the weather is nice tonight. Crisp air, not too warm, not too cool. The fall season has just started to appear and while the L.A. days are still a bit warm, the nights are just right.
Tonight will be a good night, he keeps telling himself over and over as he walks the thirteen blocks to the corner for the meet. He wonders what kind of girl he'll get sent tonight. Of course they all want to be working when "that cute white boy" comes to pick up his shit, but he's more into looking and not touching.
Too bad for him the exchange has to happen with physical contact. Something natural to a passerby—a hug, a handshake, copping a feel. But usually the delivery girls are the ones copping a feel. Coke groupies, doing anything and everything to get a free hit on a line. Working in the houses, a whole street almost completely abandoned.
