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I was aware, and I didn’t fucking care.
She’s got to be feeling it, even now. Shit, I can still feel it, on my knees, where I skinned them. And it took me a few days to get past the ache. I’m fit, so is she, but she bore the brunt of it.
So, if I’m fucking sore, how the fuck is she doing?
I even called, but as usual, MG didn’t pick the fuck up.
Maybe I went a step too far. It doesn’t matter that we both wanted it, but—
“Jac?”
“What?” I snarl the word at Carlos, who’s magically by my side now.
“There’s a call? About drinks with an associate tonight?” He holds out the phone, and I take it. Then I hand it back.
“Tell them I’m busy.”
He does.
“Come on, Carlos. I’m in the mood to get drunk off my balls.”
* * *
My fucking head pounds the next day, and not just because of the hangover from my bright idea of getting wasted.
Carlos banged a girl in the bathroom of the upmarket club after letting her try some of the coke we shift. Coke he really shouldn’t be carrying with him.
She walked funny when she came out of the bathroom.
She was off her tits on white powder, and he…wasn’t. So I don’t think he’s using. Still…he shouldn’t have it.
We distribute but don’t sell.
Fuck, I’m not judging. I love cocaine. Love the heart racing surge of confidence and adrenaline it gives. Love how it cuts drunkenness in pieces and sobers you up.
I stopped doing it when I was in my early twenties because even then I could see the merits of selling and not using, and I fucking hated coke dick. Nothing worse than losing the edge of the erection. Of being unable to come because there are too many drugs in your system.
I’d rather bang a hot babe and get my rocks off than get off my balls on drugs.
Someone needs to put that on a fucking poster.
Using is just a messy slope I want no part of. So, I distribute, don’t use and don’t carry. The only drug I do apart from alcohol is a little weed. And even then, it’s less than once a year.
I need to be on my game.
I fucking love control.
But I’m paying for the booze right now. Shit. Teaching someone a lesson, like I’m doing now, is less fun when I’m hurting.
The asshole I’m dealing with’s gonna get the brunt of it all.
I hold my hand out and Carlos—who’s wearing his sunglasses indoors, a sign he’s hurting, too—stands close to me and gives me the white handkerchief. I wipe off the blood and put my foot on the man’s groin. Dude’s groaning and stupidly trying to get up.
“We’ll try again, Trevor,” I say. “Owing money to the Quinate is bad. Owing money to me is worse. But…” I lift my foot, only to bring it down on his cheek and push him hard. “Trying to rip me the fuck off lands you a bullet between the eyes if you’re lucky and a nice torture session before death if you’re not.”
Trevor whimpers and the other people in the swank office—two of my men and six of his, who are all packing—watch intently.
I’m fucking Jac Miller. I’m Quinate.
