Chasing Impossible (Pushing the Limits #5)(40)

Being here today though is an announcement that I’m back on the streets. A warning to those who think they can take me out that I quickly rebound.

My comeback also feels a lot like a large neon sign pointing out where I’m at and daring someone to take another shot.

When I reach the driver’s-side door, Houston wiggles with his fingers in a hello like a three-year-old and smiles like one, too. There’s a reason I picked Houston for my first sell—he’s easy and voted least likely to own a shotgun.

I slide into the front and when I shut the door, Houston punches the gas. “It’s been a long time since we’ve done this routine.”

I trusted Houston and some of his fraternity brothers enough that we met at a set location. A bar, a pool hall, whatever was easier at the time. “It has.”

“This because of the narc?” he asks.

“Yep.” Nope, but it’s a great excuse. Linus was able to transfer my numbers and all my data from the cell I crushed to a new one and I was able to push my clients to this week. Some weren’t happy, but I blamed the supply chain.

“Sure it didn’t have anything to do with that drug-deal shooting a few weeks back? Some wild and crazy shit went down the night we last talked.”

“I don’t remember allowing you permission to ask personal questions. I’d suggest changing the subject or shutting up.”

Houston loses his forever smile and I hate that I’m the cause.

“Not to sound ungrateful, but how long are we going to be on probation with you? Trying to get ten guys to cough up all their money before I got here was a pain in my ass. Everyone tried to tell me they’d pay me later.”

I snort and Houston cracks a grin as he takes a right on a red light. Taking advantage of our last meeting with the narc, I made Houston play go-between for me and his frat brothers. It buys me some time to gain my confidence back in selling. “Welcome to my world. Did you fall for it?”

“Hell, no. We’ve got a good stretch here without lights if you want to do this.”

I produce from the pocket of my hoodie ten frat boys worth of pot, which by the way, would be a felony for either me or Houston if we got pulled over. But that’s not what has me feeling twitchy. Thinking of being next to that wall, the memory of the fear flooding my veins as I ran, the sound of the gun as it went off... My lungs constrict and I’m on the verge of hyperventilating.

“Where do you want this?” I ask.

“Bottom of my backpack will do. Your envelope of cash is in there somewhere.”

I root through his pack crammed with folders and books and loose sheets of paper. One book is titled Aerospace Engineering. Dear Lord, not that I’ve ever been on a plane, but now I definitely will never fly the friendly skies. “You’re a freaking hoarder, aren’t you?”

“I prefer the term ‘loosely organized.’”

I hide the gallon-sized bag of pot under his mess of crap and withdraw my envelope. A quick count confirms I’m paid in full.

“Ready for me to drop you off or would you like to hang for a bit? Maybe share why you look like something that barely made it out of hazing week?”

My eyes flicker from the passenger-side mirror to the rearview mirror. The car behind us is different than the one before. “U-turn at the gas station and then come back the way we came.”

Houston does and I hate how he keeps bouncing his gaze over at me like he’s my friend or something. I gave up friends and I don’t need to give up any more.

“Was last week really about supply issues?”

No, it wasn’t. I check the mirrors again. No cars behind us. My stomach twists, untwists, then twists again. Paranoia comes with the territory of this job, but I’m walking a fine line. Houston was my easy sell, the rest can be questionable, and I need to chill the freak out.

A buzz with a text from my next buyer. His name is Karl and he’s a newer client. I took him on to make Ricky happy but the guy gives me the creeps. Every time I’m near him the hair on my arms stands on end and I’m bombarded by made-up images of him torturing puppies with lit cigarettes while watching porn on the internet.

I blow out an unsteady breath as I have to sell to him next. My face flushes hot and I lean my head against the colder glass of the window. I won’t allow Karl to pull away from the curb. Ricky will say something, but I don’t care. This deal will be done within screaming distance. I can do this. I can do my job.

After him will be Oscar. Oscar likes to try to “mistakenly” touch me. My thighs. My breast. He never gets far and his “mistakes” never last longer than seconds. Selling to Oscar results in hot showers that nearly cause third-degree burns, but Oscar buys more than anyone else. Oscar keeps my grandmother safe.

“Abby,” Houston pushes. “Are you okay? I’m serious, you look like shit.”

“Pull over here.”

Because Houston has played this game before, he does without argument. I put my fingers on the handle and when I crack the door open, he says, “If you’ve got problems, I’ve got ears.”

Great. Even my clients think they’re shrinks. “Next time I want smaller bills.” I ease out of the car and walk away. One deal down without dying. Too many more to go.

* * *

For the first time, I’m thankful for the ramp going up Grams’s porch. My feet and legs ache, my stomach sloshes, and my head and shoulder hurt. I weakly clutch a bag of antibiotics and wish I could take the painkillers the doctor also prescribed, but once again, I don’t possess the luxury of time—not even to heal.