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“I’m not psychic.” I love Courtney. She’s like the little sister I never had, but she’s got the emotional capacity of a bucket of paint. I ask, “Which direction did Lane go?”
“Lane was headed toward the Green Room.” There’s a dip in her voice and a subtle flinch at “Green Room.”
I lift my eyes heavenward. Don’t get me started on the fucking Green Room. At any new location for a party, she’ll not pass the imaginary line designated for our main event.
Tonight, our event is hosted at a warehouse. On other nights, it’s at some abandoned, decrepit building. One might ask, why not host the parties at any of these rich bitches’ mansions or second homes.
Shit, one could further inquire, why not have it at my home? Not an option. One, my parents are the head of a Scottish crime syndicate. Mom and Dad trained me in the art of torture, yet even they wouldn’t approve of my antics. Two, these rich fucks thrive off the exclusivity of partying somewhere new and dark. This is slumming it. The warehouse offers a gothic aesthetic. To assholes who fear their shadows, it’s the perfect scenario.
I dip around girls grinding against each other and DuPont’s lame excuse for a football team.
I grab the roach from above my ear, light up, and puff. The dance floor fans out to where a crowd faces the opposite direction. Shouting punctuates the music, and fists of money wave in the air.
In the center of the fray is a rented boxing ring. Guys hoist ass and tits on their shoulders so the chicks can see. Through a haze of cigarette smoke and the stench of blood, two fighters are knuckled up. A Black guy straddles a white dude on the floor, giving him the old ground and pound. The almost victor might as well be dead center of the Roman colosseum.
As the crowd parts for me, I nod at those I recognize. Others, who don’t know me, keep their eyes averted, never acknowledging me. The affluent never look someone beneath them in the eye, whether it’s from fear or guilt or the lack of giving a fuck. I look every single person I pass in the eye. That’s how I see all the demons swimming in their gazes. Unless, of course, light shines back, which is like finding a fucking unicorn.
An Angels cap becomes visible as a chick swings her leg from off a football player’s shoulders in front of me. I only know one Angels fan, and DuPont students only wear labels.
I post up next to the high school dropout. We watch as the guy on the ground wrenches himself up in an explosive backflip. A few fist pumps later, Lane notices me. “Cam, I got some good shit for you.”
“I’m good.” I toke at the blunt until the bits burn my fingertips. I blow in his face, dropping the slither and mashing it out with my boot. “What do you have for my clients?”
He slides cash out, telling me about the different pills, edibles, and drugs he expects to sell tonight.
My eyes flicker away from the stage. “Lane, I’m gonna show you some real love tonight, bro.”
His eyes light in shock. I’m not the most welcoming business associate. “Can I go into the Green Room?” Lane begs.
“N0. Even better than,” I lie. It doesn’t get any better than the Green Room, where fucking sessions are recorded. After a broken leg from a dirt bike stunt at the age of fifteen, I stumbled upon a new hobby. A girl let me livestream her sucking my cock using my phone. At my old high school, we’d take the girls into the woods and record them too. Instead of rich fucks paying to play, I had a diversified clientele of geeks, nerds, and freaks tossing cash for action. While I’ve grown up chasing money, I switched tactics at DuPont Academy this year, which has, without a doubt, been more lucrative. These bitches are easy, but they require incentive.
Now, the Green Room’s a pay-per-view type of deal. While everyone’s fucking everyone, my cameras catch all the angles. Each lens is tagged. The duo, trio, or whoever is in the footage with the most views gets a gift. A close second behind spending their daddy’s money, vying for attention never gets old.
“Let’s make an announcement.” I grab Lane’s shoulder, my hand biting into his flesh. Uncertainty blanches his face until I move the ropes and gesture. Lane climbs up. I hop up next. Blood’s smattered all over the canvas. There’ll be more, and not before our main event.
“Who’s ready to get fecked up tonight?” I shout out.
“Hell yeahs” and “fuck yeahs” assault my eardrums.
“Which one of you motherfeckers told me Lane’s pills had you going on a trip you didn’t fecking ask for?” I ramp up the Scottish accent, channeling my older brothers. The bitches love it, and it keeps the guys in line. The main thing is that the accent reminds everyone I’m a fuckingMacKenzie.
There’s silence. Rich bitches know snitching isn’t allowed. But they did. And who did they go to?
Me.
Fucking crybaby asses.
I’m the hype man, HR, and the snake in the grass ready to filch them of their last hundred-dollar bill all rolled into one depraved asshole. I back my voice with bass. “Can’t fecking hear ya! Speak now or forever hold your peace.”
A few hands go up. A group of rowdy bitches snarls that their grannies have better brownies.
Lane shuffles a few steps, but he stops when a few wrestlers from my old school block his path on the opposite side of the ring. Everyone has a role here.
“Sticks and stones in his weed, too.” Another guy laughs out.
“Ya know what they say about sticks and stones, Lane?” My fist rockets out, crushing his nasal bone. He timbers to the ground, clasping his nose, staunching a stream of blood. At the shouts and rounds of applause, I yell, “I’m gonna get a new supplier for ya.”
Deafening roars blast my eardrums.
