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He nods. “I used to get more shipments, but now I’m growing so much—so much good shit—that I only get a shipment once a month. It helps supplement in case something happens to my crop, and it gives us seeds to continue cross-breeding. The plants we’re getting tonight are pretty young, so they’re small. We’re only getting twenty of
them.”
“Only!” I laugh.
As we start down the highway, headed for the east side of town, Kellan explains that he bought the abandoned toy factory at a bank auction; it has doors on the back that open like a garage. He tells me he’s in the process of remodeling so he can sell it. Until then, it’s used for deals like this.
The east side of Chattahoochee is the “bad” side of town. Even I, who rarely leave campus, know that. And tonight, the evidence is everywhere. Shadowed figures with bowed heads shuffle along the uneven sidewalk that runs alongside the street. Run-down cars idle in front of decrepit-looking buildings. We pass a violent jade Mercedes Benz with flashy rims, and my eyes slide to Kellan.
“Do other drug dealers know you?” I ask.
He smiles tightly. “I don’t have any criminal enemies, Cleo. I’ll open the warehouse doors with this—” he taps a flip-down compartment in the ceiling of the Escalade—“and we’ll drive in. The doors will close right behind us. In the main garage area, there are no windows to the outside. No one will see a light in there and come to see what’s up. There’s an office attached, and all the lights will be off there too.”
I chew my lip, and his hand spreads over my knee. “I’ve got a good security system, baby. Just because of the neighborhood it’s in.” He nods at the digital clock on the dash. “By the time we get there, Manning and Pace will already have things all settled. Only reason I go too is prudence.”
“You mean you don’t trust Manning?”
“Not at all,” he says. He takes a left at a litter-strewn intersection and we drive slowly down a dark, one-way street. Kellan reaches up to touch the ceiling, hits the brakes, and a second later, we’re driving into darkness. “I trust him,” he says calmly as the dark garage looms around us. “But this is my thing. I’m the one in charge, so I should be here with him.”
Just as my throat starts feeling uncomfortably tight, someone flicks the lights on, and I’m stunned to find we’re in a large open space, almost like a skating rink, with creamy, sheetrock walls and a smooth, cement floor. About a dozen yards in front of us is a large white van, and by it, Manning’s Harley.
“Lights flick off when we open the garage door, and flick back on once we’re in,” Kellan explains. He lifts his hand off my knee and tugs the bill of his cap in what seems like a nervous gesture.
Manning and a short, pot-bellied man walk out from behind a white van, and Kellan nods. “See the old guy?” I note the man’s torn jeans and Pink Floyd t-shirt. “That’s my Uncle Pace. I’ll check things out, we’ll do some back slapping, and then you and me are out. It should be simple.” He winks, and I try to calm the riot rushing through my veins.
“I wanted you to see how easy this is,” Kellan explains as he adjusts his cap again. “So if you ever had to do it, you’d know how.”
“If I ever had to—”
Truman barks when he sees Manning, and I watch Kellan’s face tighten as Pace raises his hand in a wave.
They both start toward the Escalade, and Kellan says, “Wait here. Manning is picking the stuff up. Don’t know why he’s on his bike.”
My stomach twists as Kellan saunters over to them. I never noticed until now what a nice swagger he has. In a t-shirt and jeans, it’s easy to admire.
I watch as Manning holds out a hand and Kellan clasps it in a friendly shake. It’s weird, though, because as he does that, I see tension in his back and shoulders. Manning’s face is serious. Kellan holds out one arm, and Pace holds out both hands.
I can’t hear what’s being said, but Manning’s face tightens, and Pace looks unhappy. Kellan’s arm slices the air. Manning touches his shoulder. Kellan takes a long step back.
Over the dull roar of the Escalade’s AC, I hear someone shout.
Kellan? The low boom echoes through the empty warehouse. Pace gets right in front of Kellan, reaching for his shoulder. Kellan pushes him. My heart hammers as I crack my window.
Manning looks unhappy. Do I trust him? He seemed like a good ole boy.
Kellan grabs Pace’s collar. “Don’t you fucking mention Lyon! EVER! Goddamn fucking Pace!” I can’t hear what Pace says back, but it doesn’t go over well with Kellan. He shoves Pace’s shoulders. Manning grabs Kellan’s arm, and Kellan takes a swing at Manning.
“Get out of here.” I think that’s what he growls. Manning doesn’t move—I think he’s saying something I can’t hear. Kellan scoffs. His face, which I can see from the side, looks as if he’s laughing at Manning—but his shoulders are still heaving. Manning shrugs and gets on his bike. He looks pissed, but I hear him crank it, so that must mean he’s leaving.
For the next minute, my attention is split between Manning riding slowly out the garage door, and Kellan as he and Uncle Pace begin to go at it again.
Shit!
Pace grabs Kellan’s arm, and cold fear sweeps me. Kellan shoves his chest, and for the first time, Pace looks angry. Kellan gets up in his face, and after something else is said, he shoves Pace again.
My mind races. Is Pace a nice guy? Does he know I’m in the car? What if he hurts Kellan? I crack my door open, because I want to feel more mobile.
Kellan’s voice booms through the warehouse. “I am!” Pace says something and he gets up in his face. “Oh no, you didn’t think. Fuck you, Pace. Fuck you,” he sneers.
