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“Cleo... Calm down.” He opens the lid and I freeze. My heart stops. My blood runs cold. “I assume you have an explanation for this... what do the kids call it? Weed?”
I drag a deep breath into my lungs. I blink frantically, frowning. Then I widen my eyes. Innocence. “Yes. Of course I do. It isn’t weed.” The words just roll out. Like a boulder someone pushed off a hill, once I’ve got my story moving, there’s no stopping me.
He arches a brow, and I grab the Mason jar from him. I hold it out in front of me and shake my head. “This isn’t weed.”
Arched brows. Pursed lips. “No?”
I shake the jar, causing the heady-sour scent of marijuana to waft up into my face. “You see... there’s actually a story here. An impressive story, about this... stuff. Not a story for the newspaper kind of story,” I babble. “More a fun times around the campfire sort of story. But trust me, this is definitely not weed.”
“No?”
“Nope.” I grin maniacally and open the baggie. I pinch off a piece of one of the buds with sweaty, trembling fingertips and hold it over my head, as if it’s a prize. “I made it in organic chemistry lab. It’s a project. That’s my major.” It’s not, but how would he know? “To catch criminals. It looks like marijuana, and it smells like marijuana...” I seal the baggie. Toss it up and catch it. “But it’s not. You want to experience my product in a hands-on way?”
I hold it out to him and find his face expressionless. He takes the bag. Unzips it. Inhales.
I’m counting on him to not recognize marijuana. I’m counting on him to be the bastion of morality he seems to be.
I’m counting on him to be gullible.
I’m not counting on that knowing smile. A wolfish smile. I’m not counting on the shrewdness of his eyes, or the subtle way he leans in.
His smile broadens, revealing sharp, white teeth. Another deep breath into the baggie; his wide shoulders rise, then relax. “You’re right. It does smell just like marijuana.”
I nod. “Got an ‘A’ on my project with it. Can I have it back now?”
He blinks. “I’m s
ure you did.”
I reach for the bud, but he draws it back.
“So what is it, exactly?”
“It’s an oregano-based herb. Kind of like, you know, oregano on steroids.”
He holds it up in the fluorescent light. The crystals on the buds glitter a little—promises of fun times for someone else, and cash for me.
“Wonder if it tastes like weed,” he muses.
“It doesn’t,” I say quickly. “So I’ve been told.”
He bites off a small piece. Frowns. Chews a few times on his front teeth. I swear to God, I almost faint. His eyes find mine. “It tastes like marijuana.”
“Like you would know.” I shoot him a ridiculing look—a sure sign that I’m all out of moves.
He holds up what remains of the piece he bit, then reaches into his pocket and retrieves a shiny Zippo. His mouth flattens and his brows scrunch in concentration. “I wonder if it burns like weed.”
I pluck it from his fingers. “NO! What’s wrong with you? You’ll set off the smoke alarms!”
He looks again into the bag then smirks at me. But it’s not a smirk; it’s like... a smug, aggressive look. One that says, “Got ya.”
“Cleo. You have four jars of this. Why?”
I lock my jaw and debate not answering. His hard eyes force me. “For class,” I breathe.
“I don’t believe you.”
“That’s not my fault.” I loosen my shoulders and recover some of my cool. I wonder if this would be easier if he weren’t so damn hot. A guy with a patchy goatee, or a guy with really bad acne, him I’d be schooling in privacy and all sorts of noble-sounding principles. “I’m sure someone like you could never see the point in creating a good synthetic. Pretty soon, this stuff will transform the drug market. Cops will use it all the time. My professor thinks it’s incredible.”
