June

Wesley—Eighteen Years Old

One hundred sixty.

That’s how many free deliveries I’ve made for Bryce since my arrest. I’ve counted every single one.

One hundred sixty times two hundred fifty dollars a piece…That’s forty grand.

Forty.

Thousand.

Dollars.

Well, I didn’t make anything. I’m still paying off my debt.

What did I owe Bryce again? Twenty grand.

On my eightieth delivery, I asked him if I was done. He laughed and told me I had to pay interest.

“You’re done when I tell you,” he said.

Part of me thinks about what I could do with that money if I was still getting paid. It’s kind of hard not to. But, every time I go out to do this, I just think of Anna and how I’d do anything to keep her safe. I never go at the same time of day. I never wear the same clothes. I’m trying to be smart about this.

But, at the end of the day, I’m a teenage guy carrying a book bag full of drugs through a bad area. Teenagers in general carrying any sort of bag, going through this side of town, all look suspicious. I’m scared as fuck to get arrested again, and I feel like Bryce could just make me keep doing this forever.

What’s to stop him? This is a pretty sweet deal as far as Bryce is concerned. He doesn’t have to pay a middleman. He can just threaten Anna anytime I ask about being done. He has all the power.

I need to find a way to get power.

“Why don’t you let me go with you tonight?” John says.

“Fuck that.” There’s no way I’m putting him in danger by coming with me. “We’ve been over this before; it’s too dangerous.”

“If it’s too dangerous, then why are you doing it?” he fires back.

“Because I have to. What do you want me to do?” I throw up my hands, frustrated with the same conversation.

He studies me, his chocolate-brown eyes so much like his sister’s. He sighs and nods, resigned. “I know; I just don’t like it. I have a bad feeling about tonight.”

“You have a bad feeling every time,” I point out.

“I have an extra-bad feeling this time.”

“Are you sure it isn’t just gas?”

We both crack up, and I’m relieved to lighten things up with my best friend. He’s leaving for college soon, and it’s almost as if he doesn’t want to leave until I’m done with this whole Bryce mess.

Our laughter dies down, and worry takes over his face again. “Text me when you’re done.”

“Will do.”

The school is pretty much deserted when school’s out for summer, but sports teams still practice, so the locker rooms are unlocked. If someone catches me, I’ll just tell them I forgot something in my locker.

John’s words stick with me as I make my way into the building, and I look over my shoulder to make sure no one is watching me. The gun tucked into my waistband presses against my skin, and I reach down to feel the cool metal under my shirt.

I might be six foot tall and able to bench three hundred pounds, but neither my height nor my weight will prevent bullets from piercing through my skin. I needed a bit more protection if I was going to be making deliveries four times a week.

I know something is wrong as soon as I walk into the boys’ locker room and find Bryce there.

I freeze, the hair on the back of my neck rising. He’s never at the pickup spot. Or at least, he’s never been before.

The sight of him makes my heart race and my muscles tense. “What’s up, man?” I try to act casual.

He sits on a bench, leaning back against the lockers, legs spread open wide, hoodie pulled over his head. He smiles at me, and dread weighs down my insides.

What is he doing here?

“Have you been talking to the police about me?”

“No, of course not.” I really haven’t either.

“Well, someone has. They’re breathing down my neck. They pulled me in for questioning today, and your name came up.”

Cold sweat prickles the back of my neck. “My name?”

“If you try to take me down, I’m taking you down with me,” he spits.

“I haven’t talked to anyone! You think I want to be arrested again?” I hold my hands up, trying to show my innocence.

“All I know is that I don’t trust you,” he says, nostrils flaring.

His pupils are dilated, making his eyes look black. He’s high on something, and I sure as hell don’t trust him either. The gun at my waistband is a hot brand. I know he carries, and I keep scanning his figure to find where his gun is.

“I’m not sure what you want me to do to convince you.” Sweat breaks out on my upper lip and drips down my back, but ice pumps through my veins. I need to get out of here.

He reaches between his legs and pulls a book bag out from under the bench. He kicks it, sliding it over to me.

Keeping my eyes on him, I slowly reach down, grab the bag, and push my arms through the straps. Part of me wishes I could record this conversation, try to get some morsel of proof to take to the cops.

“Maybe it’s time to end this arrangement.” It’s not the right time or place to bring this up, and I know this the moment the words leave my mouth.

He pulls the gun from his waistband so fast, it’s a blur until all I see is the barrel pointed at me.

“I couldn’t agree more.”

I stare down that barrel, at the trembling hand gripping it tight, at his index finger as it grazes the trigger. Hands up, I stand very, very still. “Take it easy, Bryce. What do you want me to do?”

“I’m not going to jail.” He repeatedly shakes his head, the gun wobbling with his choppy movements.

“I don’t want to go to jail either. It isn’t me talking to the cops.”

“You think you’re better than me, but you’re not.”

“I know I’m not, Bryce. I’m not better than anybody.” I take a small step forward. My options are to either get the gun out of his hands or get my gun. Though I have a feeling, once he sees my gun, he’ll be more likely to shoot me.

“You’re just a piece of shit like me.” His eyes are wild.

I take another small step forward, my hands raised high in front of me. Four feet separate us. If I could get just a little closer, I’m sure I could knock the gun out of his hands. My heart beats frantically against my chest.

Is this really happening right now?

“No one is going to miss you.”

I see the moment his index finger starts to squeeze and think it’s now or never. I jump forward, tackling him to the ground. I focus on the gun and push his arms to the side, pointing it away from me. The book bag on my back thwarts my balance, and as I struggle to pry the gun out of his hands, he senses my lack of balance and pushes me to my back. He gains control for a second before I overpower him. I’m stronger than him, but he has a good grip on the gun. We roll and grunt, Bryce shouting, spit flying all the while.

I’m afraid to lose track of the gun, fear and adrenaline making me equal parts strong and clumsy. Any second, he’s going to pull the trigger, and whether it’s on purpose or by accident, it won’t matter much if it hits me. First, the gun is out to the side. Then, it’s in between us, and I pull his hands to get them out to the side again. I just want it away from me.

The sound of the gun firing is beyond loud in the small space. So loud, it leaves me stunned and deaf. My ears ring, and I feel as if this is happening to someone else.

Someone else is on the floor, struggling with an armed, high lunatic.

Someone else is bleeding.

Someone else keeps struggling to get the gun out of Bryce’s hands.

Someone else pushes the gun against Bryce’s stomach and holds it down as it goes off again and again.

Someone else flops onto the floor, lying there as blackness fills the room.

It’s not me though. I’m not stupid enough to get myself into this situation.

In the edges of my consciousness, I know this is bad. I know that, if this blackness doesn’t swallow me whole, the gun tucked in my pants and the bag full of drugs on my back will pose a big problem.

It’s almost a relief when everything turns black, and I don’t have to think anymore.