That would make two of us.
I don’t want to, I write. She trapped me.
“Yeah, Haven has that way about her,” he remarks as he rubs his jawline. “Want some advice?”
I shrug then scribble, Sure.
“Find a way out of it before things get too intense,” he says, lowering his hand to the table. “You don’t want to piss Haven off, because pissing Haven off means pissing Marellie off.”
My mouth sinks to a frown. He’s telling me what I already know.
Any advice on how to do that? I scrawl across the napkin. Because I tried to tell her no, and that didn’t seem to work.
His eyes drift to the ceiling as he contemplates. “I’d just ride it out until her obsession passes.” When I give him a puzzled look, he adds, “I’ve known Haven forever, and every once in a while, she goes through these phases. One month, all she wanted was ice cream. The next month she’d wanted cake. When she got older, her sweet tooth turned into guys.”
So you’re saying, if I ride it out for a month, she won’t bother me anymore.
“If old patterns repeat, then yes.”
Thanks. I feel like you just saved my life. I should pay you or something.
He chuckles as he reads what I wrote. “Nah, kid, I like helping you.” His gaze sweeps the table, and then he lowers his voice. “You’re one of the few left here who are still good.”
His voice conveys an underlying meaning, but I’m not positive what that is. I never get the chance to ask him, either, because moments later, Doc enters the room with a duffel bag in his hand.
Everyone falls silent.
“We have big plans tonight, gentleman.” He drops the bag on the floor, slips off his jacket, and rolls up his sleeves. “Big, big plans.”
Doc is an average height and weight, middle-aged man who dresses in fancy suits, unlike most of Elderman’s men. His wealth and manner of air shows he’s much higher up on the food chain than someone like me and Big Tim. Everyone respects Doc, too, or at least fears him enough not to question anything he says or does. I’m not certain yet. I haven’t seen Doc do anything like Marellie, but I’ve heard rumors about some of the stuff he’s done for business. He treats me decent, though, so for now, I’m not going to look too much into his darker side.
Once Doc gets his sleeves rolled up, he faces Big Tim. “I need you to take Morless and Wenley and unload the truck.”
Big Tim nods then motions at Morless who’s sitting at the end of the table. “Let’s go. We got truck duty.”
Morless gets up from the table and follows Big Tim out of the room without asking questions. Five people remain in the room, including Doc and me.
“As for the rest of you,” Doc says to the remaining men. “Elderman needs you at the warehouse ASAP.”
My heart rate accelerates. I haven’t been to the warehouse in Wyoming yet, so it could possibly be the one. But I don’t let myself get too hopeful as I rise from my chair; I’ve already been to seven locations and all were busts.
“Except for you, Ryler,” Doc says to me. “You’re with me tonight.”
Usually, he just sends me with Big Tim or Wenley to make a drop to one of the smaller dealers. I never go with Doc directly, mainly because he is higher up on the chain of command. So either I’m moving up in the world, or I’m in trouble.
Both outcomes unsettle my stomach, and the nausea grows when Doc removes a gun from his holster and places it on the table in front of me.
“You’re going to need this tonight.” He offers me an encouraging smile, as if it will somehow lessen my tension. “Do you know how to use one?”
I cock the gun. Unfortunately, I do.
His smile expands. “Good.” He grabs the other gun and checks the bullet count before tucking it back into the holster. “Don’t use it unless you absolutely have to.”
I nod and start to tuck the gun into the back of my jeans.
He raises his hand. “Just a second.” He grabs a holster from the bag and chucks it to me.
I slip my arms through the holster and tuck the barrel into the pouch on the side. The weight of the gun is a painful reminder of how deep I’m getting into the drug trafficking world.
What if they want me to shoot someone tonight?
What if I have to shoot someone tonight?
What if I kill someone?
What if I get killed?
What if I’m getting set up to be killed?
Fuck. I really wish I could text Stale, but the move would be too risky right now.
Doc collects a black hoodie from the bag and tosses it to me. “Put this on over the holster.”
I obey, slipping my arms through the sleeves and zipping the jacket up.
He nods approvingly. “This is going to work, just as long as you don’t get too nervous.”
I hesitate then dare sign, “Can I ask what we’re doing?”
“I’m afraid, son, that telling you would take the fun out of all of this.” He grins then pats my shoulder as he heads toward the hallway. “Come on. We have a long night ahead of us.”
We leave the bar and climb into Doc’s 1968 Plymouth Barracuda. Then he drives through town and toward the freeway with the radio cranked up. Songs like “Psycho Killer” by Talking Heads and “Folsom Prison Blues” by Johnny Cash flow through the stereo. I try not to put too much thought into his song choices, but it’s difficult. Even with the gun, I don’t feel safe. Besides, I don’t want to shoot anyone, don’t want blood on my hands.