“You’re a doctor?” I ask, skeptically.
“No, but I play one on TV. BRB, kids!” Preppy runs back to his car and comes back seconds later with a huge Styrofoam cup.
“Shit, yeah, give me that.” Nine grabs the cup with his good hand. Holding it between his knees, he forgoes the straw, popping off the plastic lid. Raising it to his mouth, his Adam’s apple bobs up and down in quick succession as he swallows.
“What exactly is a Preppy super smoothie?” I ask. Whatever it is, it has to be good because Nine doesn’t even pause his swallowing to breathe until the cup is completely empty.
Preppy smiles proudly. It’s kind of like a regular smoothie, only better. Let’s see…” He ticks off ingredients on his fingers as he lists them off. “Locally sourced organic fruit and veggies You’ve got your blueberries, strawberries, bananas, spinach…oh, and of course, kale. You gotta have kale. It’s a superfood. Or so my wife tells me. Anywhoseit, that’s all blended together with a yogurt made from non-GMO grass-fed cows right here in Logan’s Beach. It’s so fresh it’s practically right from the teat.”
Nine wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Much better.”
“See?” Preppy says triumphantly. “Preppy’s super smoothie works yet again.”
Nine sits up, suddenly seeming more alert and in a lot less pain. However, he’s still bleeding. He rips his shirt at the bottom and starts to tie it around his wound, but he can’t do it with one hand. “Here, let me,” I say, taking the fabric and tightening it around his wound. “There. Hopefully, this will stop the bleeding for a while.”
When I look up, I realize how close my face is to Nine’s, and suddenly, I’m aware that my breasts are pressed to his side. He licks his lower lip while staring at mine. My entire body heats.
I’m reminded we’re not alone when Preppy continues talking from outside the car. “I think I forgot an ingredient…”
I crawl back over to the driver’s seat, but the lingering heat and the memory of his touch, the feel of him growing hard beneath me, lingers. I think it’s stayed with him too because his eyes rake over me slowly, from my neck to my breasts then back to my lips.
I shiver.
The cocky asshole smirks when he notices the hair on my arms standing on end.
Preppy finishes off whatever tiny amount of smoothie might be left in the cup with a loud slurp then presses his fingers together and closes his eyes, silently mouthing the ingredients yet again. Suddenly, his eyes spring open and he snaps his fingers, “Oh, yeah. I almost forgot!” He holds his thumb and index fingers an inch apart. “There also may or may not be a wee smidgeon of cocaine in it.” He leans into the car “Just kidding!” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “There’s a shit-ton of cocaine in it.”
Chapter Fourteen
LENNY
The tension in the truck is thick and choking me. We narrowly escaped a high-speed car chase where we were being shot at.
And that kiss.
It was as explosive as the grenade.
I am way too sober for this.
“Tell me something. How does cocaine help your pain? Wouldn’t say…a painkiller be better?” I ask.
“Fuck that. Painkillers don’t actually kill pain. They make your mind slow. I don’t mess with that shit. Seen too many people lose everything because of it. Statistically speaking, it’s also the number one cause of death in the US in healthy men and women ages 18-50 and painkillers are highly addictive. You either quit or die; there’s no in between. Seen it happen. Ain’t going down that fucking route. That’s a slow boat to Hell I don’t wanna take.”
“So, you don’t think you’re going to Hell?” I ask.
“Nah, I’m going, I just think that there are better ways to get there.”
“You are annoyingly smart,” I tell him.
“You are annoyingly annoying,” he replies. “And I agree. I’m kind of a genius.”
“I said smart, not genius.”
“It was implied.”
“I don’t know what kind of genius does cocaine to rid pain,” I point out.
“Oh, with blow, you still feel the pain.” He smiles. “But you’re so on top of the world, you just don’t give a fuck.”
I laugh until I remember who isn’t on top of the world right now. The dead men in that Hummer. “Shit, what about the fiery wreckage we left on the road? Aren’t the cops going to be wondering who launched a grenade and blew up that Hummer?”
“It’s being taken care of as we speak,” Nine says, checking his phone, while driving with his knee.
“What do you mean it’s being taken care of?” I press.
“I mean that I have people who are taking care of it. The cops won’t be asking any questions.”
I reach over and help steer the wheel because my anxiety won’t let me NOT grab it.