I haven’t tested in hours. Too long. Even long enough I’m aware that I’m approaching stupidity.

But Abby was off tonight and the need to follow her into the club consumes me. It’s a constant throb in my ears. I scrub a hand over my face as another wave of dizziness strikes me.

My cell buzzes. Sly: Screw later this week. Guitarist just messed up bad. They want you to try out tonight. Got your guitar?

Screw me. Yeah. In my truck. Tell them I need 10 minutes.

A cold sweat breaks out on my skin and, on instinct, I start for my truck. Test my blood, get my shit together, do the audition, go after Abby one last time if she’s still around, but after this, I’m done doing the chasing.

Abby

My grandmother’s first piece of advice to counteract Dad’s list: the devil dances with those who walk alone on an edge.

She told me that when I was five. Not exactly a bedtime story for a kindergartener, but at the time, it was a life lesson and a warning against my genetics. Too bad I don’t listen because with each step I take toward the table full of men, I’m very much aware of Satan tangoing by my side.

Houston meets me halfway and stretches out his arms like he’s going to hug me and the glare I throw causes him to abandon his efforts. I don’t touch clients and clients don’t touch me. Every good drug dealer has boundaries. But if was going to make an exception, Houston would be it.

Houston’s still smiling though, a good indication he’s high. He’s always high. “Starting to think you were going to stand me up.”

Due to Ricky’s warning, I considered it, but I make nice money off of Houston and I typically make nice money off of anyone he introduces me to. I lost a few clients recently because of graduation from either high school or college, and I’m always on the lookout for a reliable regular.

Houston flips his hat backwards and rubs his hands together like we’re about to make beautiful magic together, but we aren’t. We’re about to make somebody else numb.

“Tell me about him,” I say.

“I’m doing great. Thanks for asking, Abby. Start my senior year next month, my frat wants me to run for an office, and my girlfriend wants me to get a real job or she’s going to dump me. How are you doing?”

I don’t blink. Don’t move. Don’t smile. I would love to like Houston, but can’t afford that luxury.

“Three years,” he says. “You’ve been selling to me for three years and I don’t know shit about you.”

I pick up a lock of my hair and let it fall. “I have brown hair. Now tell me about him.”

He laughs and his dimples show. Doubt his girlfriend will dump a guy who can smile like that. “Fair enough. His name is Mufasa.”

He says it in a deep voice that reminds me of The Lion King and I internally kick myself when my lips twitch. Houston shouts in glee. “I just made you smile.”

“No, you didn’t.” Yes, he did.

“I did,” he sings like he’s six. “I did, I did, I did.”

“His real name,” I practically yell, because yeah he made me smile and that’s close to breaking the rule of showing I care.

“Albert,” he says with that stupid dimpled grin.

I sort of shake like a dog coming in from the rain. “Albert?” Not sure why, but that wasn’t a name I was expecting.

“Albert,” he repeats. “And I know what your next questions are going to be because I’m psychic.” He closes his eyes and puts his fingers to his temples. “My spirit guide is telling me that you want to know how I know him and how long I’ve known him and do I trust him.”

I cross my arms over my chest to stop myself from smiling again. God, I hate liking my clients. “Yes to all of that.”

“Frat, a few weeks, and he’s cool.”

All the happiness disintegrates. This isn’t Houston’s usual ammo. He brings me his high school buddies, guys he’s played soccer with since elementary school, frat brothers he pledged in with...people he has had established relationships with, not someone he thinks is “cool.”

“Popsicles are cool, autumn days are cool, bringing me someone who you’ve known for a few weeks...not cool.”

Houston sobers up and when I peer into his eyes, I spot it—something I don’t often see—he’s not high. Alarm bells are ringing and I’ve overwhelmed with this desperate urge to bolt.

“I need your help,” he says. “And I know dragging you into this is wrong, but I need you to read him. You’ve got great instincts and I need to know if he’s going to cause problems for my frat.”

Oh, for the love of God. My feet are moving in the opposite direction and Houston catches up to me in the crowd. Because he’s twelve of me combined, he’s able to easily pull me into a dark corner of the club.

He may be bigger, but I’m scarier. I lean into him and he cowers. “How dare you fuck with me. Bringing me in here, putting my business in danger because you can’t smell trouble. And when I ask you about him, you tell me he’s cool? You should have never thought of introducing us.”

“I’m being pressured,” he spouts. “The president of our frat got caught a few months back with heroin.”

I freeze. Heroin’s not my thing. I deal pot. Nothing else. I can barely handle the burden of selling something that’s legal in Colorado, to say nothing of selling something that can kill you in a heartbeat.