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“And what was that, exactly?”
“We’re looking to take a trip to the spliffs of Moher, if you get me?” He chuckled, waggling his brows.
I stared blankly back at him.
“We need drugs.”
“Jesus, Gibs,” Hughie groaned, dropping his head in his hands. “Tact, lad. Tact.”
“Drugs?” I cocked a brow. “And you came to me because?”
“Because we’ve heard the rumors,” another one said.
I arched a brow. “Rumors?”
“From Hughie,” the big lad offered up.
Hughie groaned loudly. “Jesus, Gibs.”
“He said you’re off your trolley on drugs and I really need to borrow some of those.”
“Thanks a fucking bunch, Gibs,” Hughie spluttered, taking a safe step back.
I locked my gaze on the big one. “And you thought that I could help you with that?”
He nodded brightly.
“Look at me, asshole.” I gestured to my training gear. “Do I look like a dealer?”
When he didn’t immediately say no, I narrowed my eyes. “I’m not a fucking dealer.”
“But you do have contacts, right?” he offered back, tone coaxing. “You know, friends in low places and all of that jazz? You are from Elk’s Terrace, aren’t you?”
“One: I’m not your friend. Two: The fact that you’re insulting me to my face by insinuating that I’m from a lower place than you deserves a smack in the mouth. And three: I’m not doing shit for you. Now, clear off.”
“I accept all three of those reasons as being fair and true,” the big fella replied. “And I honestly would oblige you by clearing off, but I really need those drugs for my captain.”
“Your captain.”
“Yeah, my captain.” He nodded eagerly. “He’s having a hard time right now—a really fucking hard time. He had this procedure before Christmas, you see, and the poor bastard is as stiff as a poker from it. All I’m looking for is something to help relax him.”
“Gus, is it?” I asked calmly. “Is that your name?”
“Gibsie,” he corrected with a sheepish grin. “It’s Gibsie, although my mother calls me Gerard—”
“I don’t give a shit what your mother calls you,” I interrupted, leveling him a warning look. “And as for your captain and his procedure? Tell him to go to a doctor and get a prescription like everyone else.” Turning back to Hughie, I added, “Don’t come back here, Biggs.” I pointed to the big ape beside him before adding, “And especially not with him.”
“But he can’t write me a prescription for weed!” the big lad blurted out. “Please? Come on, man. It’s just a little weed.”
“What part of ‘I’m not a dealer’ are you having trouble with?”
“I know, I know, you’re not a dealer, blah, blah, blah. I heard ya,” he reeled off. “But if you could make an exception just for tonight, then I would really owe you one.”
“You already owe me,” I muttered. “The last five minutes of my life that I’m never getting back.”
“You can come to our party tonight,” he offered. “It’s at Hughie’s gaff. It’s nineties-themed—”
“No, it’s not, Gibs.”
