Josh

 

 

Ritchie shows up at the pharmacy at six on the dot. He’s a drunk and a liar, a criminal as much as I am, but he’s punctual. Gotta give him that.

He frowns down at me where I’m sitting on the ground by the back door to the pharmacy, his bushy gray hair standing straight out in every direction. His old ‘fifties style glasses are lost in the mess up there somewhere. Smudged with greasy fingerprints. Forgotten in the haze of JD for breakfast. I can smell it on him from here.

“What do you want?” he asks bluntly.

I grunt as I stand up. My ass is frozen solid, numb from an hour of waiting. My legs tingle as they wake up grudgingly. “Product, man. What else?”

His frown deepens, the lines well-rehearsed on his old, tired face. He shoves the door open without looking back to see if I’m following. He knows I am; hands stuffed in my pockets, eyes immediately roving the shelves. Shopping.

“You were just here last week.”

I shrug even though he can’t see it. “Business is booming, what can I say?”

“I don’t have much to spare.”

“I’ll take what I can get.”

He glances over his shoulder at me. He squints, forgetting his glasses. “You mean what you can afford.”

I pull out the wad of cash in my pocket. “I’m flush at the moment.”

Ritchie’s eyes squint harder. “I might have a few things,” he mutters.

His inventory levels always rise when I have cash in hand. It’s amazing how that happens.

“I need the favorites for sure,” I tell him. “Uppers mostly. All the speed you got. Gotta be ready for the end of the semester.”

He nods in understanding. “Finals.”

“Yep. Nobody’ll be sleeping in December.”

“Are you sleeping? You look like shit.”

I smirk. “So do you.”

He grunts, turning his back on me. He finally remembers his glasses and pulls them down over his eyes as he heads deeper inside the pharmacy. We’re heading back to the office where he keeps the ‘overflow’; samples given to him by a pharm rep he’s in good with or handed over by people in town who don’t want or need the remains of their scripts. He holds events in town three times a year gathering the excess, encouraging people to clean out their medicine cabinets to avoid using expired drugs. He’s supposed to dispose of them safely, and in a way he does. He sells them to me and I find them buyers. New homes where they’re able to live up to their full potential.

Recycling at its finest.

“I just got a bottle of sedatives yesterday,” he tells me as I trail him down the dark hallway to his cramped office. “They’re supposed to be for dogs, but you might be able to use them.”

“I’ll take a few, but like I said, I need uppers.”

“I don’t have many.”

“You still got that bottle of Ritalin?”

“It’s half-empty.”

“It’s half-full to me.”

Ritchie snorts, unlocking his office door. I don’t follow him inside. To say the space is cramped is not being dramatic. It’s tiny and full to bursting with shit. On top of his many other vices, Ritchie’s a hoarder. He never met a piece of paper he didn’t like and he refuses to go digital. Every spare inch of wall is covered with filing cabinets identical to the ones I’ve got at home, only his are full. Every script ever written and filled in the town of Opal for the last thirty years is stored inside this room. Pops’ heart pills. The painkillers I got when I busted my wrist six years ago. The antibiotics Harlow went on when she came down with that ear infection that nearly took her hearing in her right ear. She was only thirteen. Her dad wouldn’t let me see her so I climbed the ivy up the side of the house and snuck in her room every night. I brought her Twix and cold cans of Pepsi. We fell asleep with our heads pressed close together.

She told me I was her best friend.

I told her she was my only friend.

Ritchie unlocks a drawer in his desk. It slides out with a screech that pierces the quiet office, making me flinch. It also rattles with product, a sound that’s music to my broke ass ears.

He pops the cap on an orange bottle, emptying the contents into his palm. A quick, expert count and he dumps them back inside. “Is thirteen enough?”

“More than.”

“Do you want them all?”

I do the mental math, subtracting the cost of the Ritalin from what I have in my pocket. It’ll take almost everything. I’ll have enough for some of the sedatives too. Maybe a few painkillers if he’s got ‘em. “Yeah, I’ll take it. Five of the downers too.”

“They’re low dose dog meds,” he reminds me.

Buyers don’t know that, I think to myself.

“Makes ‘em cheaper, right?”

Ritchie hums unhappily in agreement, reaching for another bottle. He quickly counts out five small, white pills and adds them to the bottle of Ritalin. “Do you want me to write it all down?”

“No, I’ll remember what’s what.” I glance around the room at nothing in particular. “You got anything new coming in?”

“Sally said she’s bringing me the next Viagra in a week. Something new to the market. It’s supposed to have some interesting side effects for women.”

“Pregnancy?”

“Orgasms.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Really?”

He nods, rifling through the drawer. Hardly paying attention. “They’re spontaneous. And aggressive.”

“Aggressive how? Like painful?”

“She said none of the women are complaining. Including her.”

“How many are we talking?”

“One pill will last four hours. The average test subject experienced six unassisted orgasms an hour. I imagine that you can do the math.”

“Jesus.”

He looks up at me over the rim of his glasses, his old eyes shining with amusement. “That’s what she said.”

“I sure as shit bet she did,” I laugh.

A half-hour later I’ve got a pocket full of pills and a promise to be back next week to score tickets on the Orgasm Express. I can think of a few regulars who probably wouldn’t mind killing a Saturday afternoon in their dorm riding that wave again and again. And again. And again.

Science is such a beautiful thing.

It’s getting light when I head home. The ground is covered in dew, birds are starting to stir. To chirp and caw at me as I pass under them. Cars are cruising sleepily down the street heading toward work or school or whatever gets a person’s ass out of bed this early in the morning. I’ve got class in less than an hour. Just enough time to stop off at home, eat a cold Pop Tart, and lock up my new stash. If I can move this lot quick, it should be enough to pay my late tuition and get some food in the cupboards. Power’s staying off, though. No more milk for me for a while.

I pull my keys from my pocket as I roll up on my place. I’m searching for the right key, my head down, my mind everywhere but where it should be. It’s no surprise I don’t see the hit coming, but it’s still fucking irritating.

I see a blur of movement and shadow out of the corner of my eye right before a fist connects with my face. It sends my head flying back, my feet stumbling on the cracked walkway. I almost go down, but I get my footing at the last second. Just in time to take another hit. Same side, but this time on my jaw. I’m on a delay, registering the pain from the hit to my eye as my jaw is being hammered. Time slows down. My brain checks out and sends my body into autopilot.

I strike back at the shadow, my fist connecting with something soft and hard at the same time. My knuckles explode in a burst of pain, my keys digging into my palm so hard I know I’ve broken skin.

“Hold him from behind!” the shadow shouts.

Arms grab my elbows. Someone pulls them back painfully as the guy ahead of me pummels me in the stomach. The air in my lungs vacates in a painful rush. My vision flares, my head pounding. I throw it back hard. My skull connects with something, my teeth clattering together as the guy behind me shouts angrily. I’ve hit him in the face. Hopefully I’ve broken his nose.

The guy in front of me doesn’t stop his assault. He hits me again in the face, on the other side this time. It hurts like a fucker. My cheek connects with my teeth and warm blood floods my mouth.

“Fuck, man, I think he broke my tooth!” the guy behind me yells.

I lean back into him, using him for leverage, and I kick both feet up into the air. I connect with the other guy’s chest. The blow sends him tumbling backward. He lands on his ass on the dead lawn. When I land, I immediately lift my foot and bring it down hard on the other guy’s. It feels soft under my heel, meaning he’s wearing sneakers or something. Nothing to protect him.

He yells, his hold on me loosening. One quick jerk and I’m able to wrestle free, rounding on him.

I’ll never admit it to anyone, but I immediately run through the women’s self-defense device from Miss Congeniality; SING.

Solar plexus. Instep. Nose. Groin.

One hit to the soft spot under his ribcage, and I hear the satisfying sound of air rushing out of his lungs. Another stomp on his instep throws him off balance. In the gray light of the morning, I can see blood trickling from his nose where I’ve already hit him. It’s not broken, but it’s not happy, so I punch him as close to it as I can manage. He grunts roughly, grabbing at his face, hobbling on his mashed feet. I’m praising Sandra Bullock, about to finish off his balls, when I get tackled from behind.

That’s how I know who I’m dealing with. I couldn’t see him in the shadows cast by the house, but when the other guy gets me around the waist and takes me into the grass like a linebacker on crank, the pieces come flying together. Because I sold him the fucking speed.

Bryan lands on me like a ton of bricks. He immediately uses his advantage to punch me in the face again. Same eye as before. Then my stomach. I’m gasping for breath, reaching blindly through blurry eyes for his face so I can shove his eyeballs back in his skull, but the guy is quick. He moves out of my grasp and starts digging through my pockets. He has the bottle of pills before I can stop him.

“I got it,” he yells at the other guy. “Let’s get the fuck out of here!”

I reach for him. I miss. He kicks me in the side, and I’m no doctor, but I’m pretty sure he cracks a rib. Or two. I’m groaning, writhing on the ground and clutching my aching sides when he leans down over me. He gets his face in close, making sure I know it’s him. That I’m listening.

“Don’t ever threaten me again, motherfucker,” he snarls. His eyes are wide. Wild. He’s high as hell right now. “Next time I’ll cripple you, you hear me, you inbred piece of shit?”

I grimace, fighting for breath. For clarity. “Fuck you, second string.”

He snaps his face forward, his forehead connecting with the cartilage in my nose. I hear it more than feel it when it breaks. The warmth of my blood spilling down my face, over my lips, registers before the pain. But when it comes, holy shit. It’s real. Blindingly real.

I don’t see him and his buddy leave. I hear their feet on the sidewalk as they jog away. I don’t bother looking because I’m much more focused on the burn in my side. The pain in my face. The cold of the ground under my back. I stare at the stars fading out of the sky as I try to breathe. In and out, so painful I worry I’ll black out.

I need to get inside before the neighbors see. I don’t want anyone calling the cops, and I don’t want a reason to talk to Harlow’s dad. I couldn’t look her in the eye again if I took help from that son of a bitch. And I want that more than anything right now; to see her face. To look into those cool green eyes and ask for her help. She’d come if I called her. Just tonight she tried to tell me that if I ever needed anything she’d be there. And I’m pretty clearly in need right now.

I reach into my back pocket, fumbling for my phone. My sight is screwed, my right eye swelling shut already, but I’m able to bring up my contacts. I scroll down to the H’s, finding the number I need.

I hit CALL with shaking fingers.

It only rings three times.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” I croak weakly. I lick my lips, swallowing thickly. It tastes like copper. Like defeat. “I need your help.”