Between Now & Never (4 page)

“That was during a low point, a’ight? So don’t freaking lecture me. I know where to draw the line now. How to use, when to stop. My mom freaked, though, and signed me up for rehab—expensive rehab. And she got herself in prison trying to fund it. Feds took it all when they took her down.”

I let out a deep breath. Heat mounts, silence stretches on. A cross hanging from the rearview mirror sways back and forth like it, too, is being pulled in opposite ways under the tension. Some moments feel surreal. You ask
why
and get nothing. Your question hangs in the air.

When I was a kid everything seemed black and white. Now I wonder if sometimes the bad guys aren’t always what they seem.

I open the door, my gut twisting as an underlying principle wars against that thought. I am who I am—a straitlaced FBI agent’s son. The agent who put Vic’s mom away. And I have no interest in drugs. I step out of the car.

“Where are you going?” Vic asks, popping open his door and jumping out.

I slam mine shut. “Home.”

“Just like that, you’re out?” Vic huffs. “Some friend, Cody. Some friend you are.”

I turn. “Some friend
I
am? You dupe me into a back-alley drug deal and then dis on me as a friend?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t make sense, Vic. None of this does.”

“You’re right, Cody. None of this makes sense to
you
. Rich boy. Got everything you ever want. You don’t understand a thing.”

“Yeah, okay, let me tell you what I understand,” I say. “Your mom’s in prison. She got herself there trying to get you off drugs. And you do what? You sell
drugs
to pay back for your mistake?”

“Shut it!” Vic yells. “Just shut your pretty-boy mouth and run on home.”

Headlights flash around the corner of the building, signaling an approaching car. We both jerk back. I freeze.

Shadows outline Vic’s eye sockets, making them look dark and hollow. “Get back in.”

Fear rides on his voice, setting my nerves on edge. Vic has no idea what he’s doing. He’s terrified. Where does that leave me?

I scoot up against the brick wall and give Vic a pointed look, adrenaline pulsing through my veins. “Trust me, Vic, I’m the last guy you want to be a part of this.”

One call. That’s all it will take.

“Get outta here,” Vic says.

The rumble of the car amplifies as it makes the turn and starts toward us. If I bolt now, they’ll see me. At the last moment I slip around the corner of the building. I duck behind a jumble of grocery carts near the Dumpster and duck down. The car pulls up alongside Vic and stops. Red. A Porsche. Tinted windows. I can’t quite make out the plates.

Trapped. I’ve pinned myself into a corner. I can’t make a run for it now.

Dad is going to
kill
me.

I second-guess my impulse to hide here. I second-guess everything.

The passenger door opens and a man steps out. Black tank and jeans, flat-billed hat, a tattoo sleeve covering his entire arm. Caucasian. Strong. He actually doesn’t look much older than us. A second, shorter guy steps out from the driver’s side. Pale skin. A head of thick hair—a mullet. A cloud of smoke seeps from his mouth after he takes a long drag on a joint. “Vicky boy.”

I whip out my iPhone. My thumb hovers over it, hesitating. My dad, police, my dad, police: the options ricochet in my mind before I go for something else entirely, the choice my brother Jimmy would have rooted for.

I press record
.

My phone makes a bleep right as the driver slams his door shut, masking the sound. Quietly, I let out a long-held breath, fully aware that I’m doing what an eight-year-old Jimmy would have done in this situation: record the drug deal like a special agent wannabe—the last thing I want to be.
Smart, Cody. Real smart.

My finger slides over to stop the recording, but I think better of it at the last moment. I flip the switch to silent first. Still, even if I call the police, the dealers will hear my voice.

I focus on the conversation late, knowing I should have tuned in long ago.

The dude in black says something I can’t quite make out.

“So when do I meet Ian?” Vic asks.

“You don’t,” the guy in black says.

Ian, Ian, Ian . . .
I convert the name to memory.

“You deal through us,” the mullet guy says, flipping through a stack of cash Vic handed him. I keep my breathing in check. Silent. Vic doesn’t have enough. My mind reels at the harsh reality. And this
is
real.

Mullet reaches the end of the cash pile and pauses, his chest deflating with obvious disappointment. He pulls the joint from between his lips and flicks it, sending it straight at me. “Where’s the rest of the money, Vic?”

The joint tumbles to the asphalt and rolls under the grocery carts, losing momentum when it touches my foot. Silently I pick it up, the distinct smell reaching my nose. Weed for sure.

“We’re cool, man, we’re cool,” Vic says. “I’ll get you the money.”

The dealer in black, intimidating in build, shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his silence telling me all I need to know. I drop the joint.

“The money, Vic,” dude in black growls, holding his hand open. The streetlight casts enough of a glow on his features for me to get a quick shot of his face on camera.

Vic mumbles something I can’t make out, a confession. This whole thing went from bad to worse fast, as I expected. I feel it in the air. I can’t see very well behind these carts, so I lift one foot and touch it down. Toe, heel, toe, heel, dodging pebbles and rocks scattered over the pavement. I stay hunched down step-by-step until I can look around the shopping carts. I refocus on the scene as Mullet pulls something out. I peer around the cart for a better look as the slide of a gun snaps into place, releasing an echo that shoves my nerves into overdrive.

I panic, all concentration lost. Dad had me training with firearms by the time I was seven. Still, nothing can prepare anyone for this.

A bullet is in the chamber now. Means there wasn’t one there before. This guy is trying to intimidate Vic and it’s working. It’s working on me, too. At best, these guys want to scare Vic, get what they want from him. But these dudes could very well be high on drugs, screwed up in the head, like Dad said.

The meaty guy in black seizes a fistful of Vic’s shirt. He’s a good three inches shorter than Vic, yet he still manages to spin him around and shove him up against his car.

“Get the money, Vic,” he says, his lips curving into a twisted grin. “That sister of yours, the one with the tight little body? I wouldn’t mind getting my hands on that.”

Julianna.
Something lurches inside me as his words ring loud and clear. Vic shoves against him in a flash of rage. Clearly pissed, the dude in black smashes Vic’s face, knuckles thudding into flesh with a nauseating thump.

He sinks punches into Vic’s ribs and stomach. The sight guts me out, leaving me immobile. Useless. Staring.

My hand wraps around one of the rocks at my feet before I think about what I’m doing. I’m officially crazy. Desperate. No time to back down now.

Vic isn’t putting up a fight and he’s smart. He’s outgunned.

One,
I count and swallow hard.
Two.
No way is this going to end well, but I wind up anyway, committed to instinct against what is probably my better judgment.
Three.
I pitch the rock over the carts, sending it flying in a high arc toward the other end of the empty alley. It crashes into the rocky landscaping at the edge of the asphalt.

Both dealers reel around toward the sound, facing away now. Vic turns and looks straight at me.

I shake my head slowly. Twice.

“We got company, Vic?”

“No.” Vic shakes his head. “Not that I know of.”

Mullet walks to the edge of the alley, his grip tight on his gun as he investigates. Dude in black has both hands knotted into fists. Vic looks like he’s holding his breath. I realize I’ve stopped breathing altogether. I take a shallow breath in, a quiet, controlled process that makes my lungs burn. In . . . out. In . . . out.

“It’s nothing.” Mullet returns, giving Vic a death look. “I want the rest of the money in hand by next Friday.”

“You got it,” Vic says, wiping at the blood on his lip.

The dude in black pulls out what looks like a sucker and hands it to Vic. “To tide you over.” He laughs, his open hand smacking Vic’s cheek twice.

Mullet flicks his wrist. “Get outta here.”

Vic doesn’t waste time. He’s in his car the next second, his clunker roaring to life. Then there’s a pause, like Vic’s second-guessing, holding back. For me.

At last he takes off, and the dealers move toward their car.

I grip my phone, ready to catch their license plate. Call the police.

My phone makes a deafening beep, a discordant echo that shakes every cell in my body and puts my pulse on hold. I muffle the sound too late. I glance down.

The realization of how loud it was hits me in slow motion. I look back up, veins surging, my senses heightened as I find both dealers’ full attention drawn my way.

Buh boom, buh boom
. My heart thrusts against my rib cage. Emergency alert—stupid message intended to save lives is about to end mine.

Both guys hunch down, their guarded expressions curious, agitated. . . hungry.

Buh boom, buh boom
. It beats in my ears now, rushing blood. Raw fear. Every nerve ending charged with pent-up adrenaline.

Run.
Run.

Their eyes strain for a nanosecond before zeroing in on me. It’s time.

My feet hit the pavement, rocks kicking up as I push off into a full sprint.

I jump the half brick wall, glancing over my shoulder to find the dude in black in hot pursuit behind me.

I pick it up like I never have before and dart into the road, headlights blinding me as an SUV screeches to a halt. My arm flies out, muscles clenching with fear. The hood meets my hand, sending a shot of pain through my wrist and knocking my iPhone from my grasp. My phone crashes to the pavement, flips up, and collides into the ground again. I scoop it up. The SUV driver lets his horn wail, long and loud.

Can’t let it shake me up. No time. I sprint through the parking lot, arms pumping, legs flying. This is no video game.

I imagine a bullet whizzing past my head. I imagine worse.

Any sane person wouldn’t shoot, right? Not out in the open like this. But sanity could be long gone for these guys, like Dad said.

I bring my phone up to eye level as I dash around a row of cars. A crack slices through the screen and tiny fissures radiate out from it. I curse.

I dare a glance behind me as I approach the mall entrance, relieved. I’ve lost my tail. I hope. He’s nowhere in sight. For now.

I whack my phone against my other hand. Nothing. I curb my speed at the last second and swing the door open, sliding in. A lady jumps aside and gasps. I pant, my throat burning, a sensation of hot liquid trickling down.

“Sorry,” I breathe out and tear down the empty hallway. I scan for security and push the power button on my phone to no avail. Shattered. Useless. Dead.

I slow my pace and look back. I imagine guns in a mall.
A shooting.
Because of me. No.

A memory springs up, a story my dad told me about a fugitive he and two other agents stumbled upon. It turned into a chase. Through a mall. The fugitive was smart. Bought a new outfit, slipped out through a utility door, and got away.

I slide into Buckle and grab the first hat I walk past. Snag a shirt. I’m at the register four seconds later with my wallet in hand.

The employee smacks her gum, looks me over like we have all the sweet time in the world. I realize I’m panting, sweating, and starving from moving forty-nine boxes and escaping a gun-wielding drug dealer.

“You know,” she says, “there’s still twelve minutes before the mall closes if there’s another store you’re trying to get to.”

“No, I’m just . . . sort of in a hurry.”

She scans the hat as I glance behind my shoulder. Still no one. I wonder if I could be this lucky.

“This is snaz.”

I whirl back around. “Huh?”

She holds up the hat, alternating glances between it and me. She smiles. Giggles even.

Oh, jeez.

“I love fedoras,” she says and winks.

“Fedo-what?”

“Fe-dor-a,” she breaks it down like I’m dumb and holds up the plaid hat. “This is a fedora hat. The green and blue will go good with your eyes.”

I slap my debit card down on the counter and she gets the hint, picks up the pace. “Thank you,” I say, trying my best not to be rude. An idea springs up. “Hey, can I use your phone?”

“You don’t have a cell?”

I hold up my shattered iPhone. She makes a sad face at it. “That sucks. Here,” she says, and holds out the store phone. “What number do you want me to call?”

I pause. Saying
911
might not go over so well. I check the entrance behind me again, wondering if 911 is even necessary. Or I could call the nonemergency police number, a number I don’t have. I could ask this girl to look it up for me, but she’d think I was a nutcase after I dashed in here like I did.

Or I could tell her everything. Maybe she’d think it was cool, like she’s part of something big. People love this stuff. Usually.