Preppy: The Life & Death of Samuel Clearwater, Part One (King #5)(9)

“That you think you’ve been saved.”

“Well, I’m not dead,” she argued.

“Yet,” I shrugged. “It’s hard to get answers from a flattened corpse. Trust me. I’ve tried.”

She growled and tried to free her arms from my grasp, and that’s when I got a better look at the inside of her arms. Suddenly, it sunk in that this chick wasn’t just covered in bruises, these were pock marks. She wasn’t just some skinny bitch.

She was a junkie.

Bruised. Broken.

Vulnerable.

She was shaking like a f*cking leaf, and with every tremble my dick grew harder until it was begging to be free of its khaki confines.

She gasped, when she felt me hard against her leg, “What…why?”

I raised my eyebrows. “Really? Why? My cock only knows that I’m on top of a naked chick. It’s simple biology. Don’t feel too flattered, I once got a chubby when the lady who runs the deli tried to wipe a mustard stain off the front of my pants.” If she really knew that I was thinking about how her bruises and dried blood looked like art under the moonlight, and how I’d like to paint a line or two on her skin myself, she’d probably scream.

Loud.

I grew even harder.

“What’s your name?” I asked, easing up on my grip, slightly.

“Why?” she asked, warily, her voice now a whisper.

I rolled my eyes. “So I can know what to doodle on the cover of my notebook,” I said, sarcastically. “Okay, so here is how this is gonna go. I’m going to let go of you and let you sit up. Then I’m going to introduce myself, and then you’re going to introduce yourself. Got it?”

She tipped her chin in agreement and never took her eyes off me, even when I let her go. She tried to sit up but was struggling, her muscles visibly shaking from the strain. At the rate she was going I’d be next to throw myself off the tower from the pure boredom of waiting. She swatted at my chest when I picked her up by her hips and pulled her up to a sitting position, pressing her back against the wall. I grabbed her hands in mine. “No hitting,” I said, shaking my index finger at her like I was scolding a toddler.

I released her again and plopped down next to her. This chick was exhausting, but shit I was kind of having fun.

Junkies. Who knew?

“I’m Samuel Clearwater,” I said, extending my hand. I didn’t wait for her to take it, instead I picked up her hand off her thigh and shook it hard, as if to show her how introductions were done. My gaze dropped to the tiny patch of light colored curls between her legs. My mouth watered.

Huh.

Dark hair on her head.

Light body hair.

Interesting little druggie.

“But everyone calls me Preppy.” I gave her delicate hand a hard squeeze. “And you are…”

“Andrea, but most people just call me Dre.”

“Like Dr. Dre?” I asked, excited by her unique name. “That’s f*cking awesome. Please tell me you have a sibling named Snoop. For the love of all that is holy, please tell me that. Shit, never mind, don’t tell me, I’m just gonna pretend that you do.” Her eyebrows squished together like she was trying to figure me out.

Good-f*cking-luck to her. She wouldn’t be the first one.

“So Dr. Dre, you strung out?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“Fuck off!” she spat, turning her head. I grabbed her chin and forced her to face me.

“I can fix that for yoooouuuu,” I sang. Her lips parted. “I can get you what you need to turn this little frown upside down.” I released her chin.

“You just pointed out that I’m strung out, but you’re offering me a fix?” Her pupils dilated, like the junkie part of her already knew the answer to my question.

“Listen, I could take you to a twelve step meeting or I could offer you an all expense paid trip to rehab, but if you haven’t noticed, I’m not your parents, or Dr.-Fucking-Phil, so that’s not gonna happen. A life changing solution, I ain’t got. But H? H I can get you with one little phone call.” She turned her head to the side. “So. What’ll it be, Doc?”

“What do you want??” she asked, and that’s when I knew she was considering my offer. Although, there was more to it than that. MUCH, MUCH MORE.

“Your buddies.”

“What…what are you going to do to them?”

“Does it f*cking matter?” I asked. “Let’s just say that they aren’t going to be offered an all expense paid trip to rehab either.”

“Tell me,” she begged, perking up and sitting straighter. She grabbed my arm and squeezed. “Please, just tell me the f*cking truth.”

If anything, I’ve always been “overly honest” so the truth wasn’t a problem for me. It poured easily from my lips and Dre listened intently as I told her, “I’m going to slit their throats, take my motherf*cking plants back, call for someone to clean up the bodies so I don’t get my khakis dirty, and probably come back up here and smoke a joint afterward. Maybe snort some blow if I feel like a party. Haven’t really decided yet, depends on my mood.”

Dre didn’t respond right away. She seemed lost in thought, staring over the railing as she mindlessly reached up to her neck, pushing back her hair and exposing a fresh bruise/welt combo in the shape of a large hand print. She ran her fingertips over it and her eyes welled up with tears.