Chasing Impossible

Unfortunately for me... “It does.”

This time, Logan doesn’t stop me and a little part of the Abby I wish I could be dies as he lets me go.

Logan

On the crowded sidewalk next to Isaiah’s car, Rachel and I stare at each other. There’s a million requests in those blue eyes and pride demands that I ignore her and walk away.

People weave around us and the stench of garbage decaying in the summer heat blows onto the street from the nearby alley. A group of drunk frat boys make a few comments about Rachel’s physique and before her cheeks can turn fully red, I ease her closer to Isaiah’s car when a guy way beyond his limit almost crashes into her.

“I tried.” I hope to God that will be enough because I don’t want in on this conversation.

“Go after her.” Rachel points in the direction in which Abby fled. “She needs you.”

Abby rejected me and that hit stung. “Here’s where you’re wrong. Abby doesn’t need anyone. She just made that crystal clear.”

“Rachel,” Isaiah calls out from the driver’s seat. “We need to go.”

Rachel combs a hand through her golden locks then sets her frustrated sight on me. “Please, Logan. You’re the one person she’ll listen to. We all saw it. For one brief second, she considered leaving with us. You can’t give up now.”

Hurt and anger rolls through me. “She’ll listen to any of you before she’ll listen to me.”

“She won’t even talk to me or West about the drugs or her personal life or anything. I’m her best friend and I don’t even know where she lives and Isaiah...”

Has washed his hands of Abby and her drug dealing. We all know it. He’ll always protect Abby as a friend, but he’s drawn the line with the drugs. He’s given up on her when it comes to the dealing and I’m starting to understand why.

“Maybe this is a lost cause,” I say.

Rachel’s hand dips to her stomach like she’s experiencing the same ache I am. “Don’t say that. You care for her and she cares for you. Anyone with eyes can see that, plus she responds differently to you than she does anyone else. Abby will listen to you.”

Abby doesn’t listen to anyone. “We aren’t as close as you think.”

Abby and I met this past winter when I was helping Isaiah and Rachel drag race their way out of a bad debt. She walked into a garage, took one look at me and my life has never been the same since.

“No, I bet you’re closer than even I can imagine. Will you please try? I’m worried. Something was off tonight. She needs us. She needs you.”

I rotate away, walk a few feet, and then jerk back. Rachel’s reading me and Abby wrong. Mistaking attraction for friendship. Do I like Abby? Yeah, but Abby sure as hell doesn’t let anyone close, not even Rachel...not even Isaiah.

“Abby and I play games. That’s it. She’ll listen to Isaiah before she’ll listen to me.”

“Abby ignores Isaiah, but she doesn’t ignore you. Abby’s scared. I don’t know of what, but I saw it in her eyes tonight and you know what I’m talking about. That’s why you started playing those crazy games with her.”

Damn Rachel for this, because she’s right. I was concerned, and I wanted to make Abby smile. I hate caring for people who don’t care for me back. “Abby doesn’t know fear.”

“Rachel,” Isaiah calls out again. “You’re going to miss curfew.”

I crack my neck to the side as a wave of dizziness drains me. Fucking blood sugar. It’s either up or down and I’m screwed either way. Rachel steps toward me, her hand out like she could catch me if I fall. “Are you okay? You just went seriously white.”

“I’m good. Just hungry. You better go before Isaiah tosses you in.”

Rachel rolls her eyes, yet slips into the passenger seat of car. “You’re wrong. Abby’s scared and she needs you.”

She shuts the door and Isaiah immediately pulls away, racing down the road to get his girl home before her parents lose their minds.

“I’m right,” I mutter to the sidewalk. Regardless of what anyone else thinks of me, I know fear. I’ve had that bitter taste in my mouth more often than I care to admit and Abby is one of those people born without the gene.

I glance at the club then down the street to where my truck’s parked. I should leave—prove to my dad I’m responsible. Get in the car, test my blood sugar, fix what needs to be fixed and drive home and be back at a responsible time and eat some more protein and fucking green food.

I haven’t tested in hours. Too long. Even long enough I’m aware that I’m approaching stupidity.

But Abby was off tonight and the need to follow her into the club consumes me. It’s a constant throb in my ears. I scrub a hand over my face as another wave of dizziness strikes me.

My cell buzzes. Sly: Screw later this week. Guitarist just messed up bad. They want you to try out tonight. Got your guitar?

Screw me. Yeah. In my truck. Tell them I need 10 minutes.

A cold sweat breaks out on my skin and, on instinct, I start for my truck. Test my blood, get my shit together, do the audition, go after Abby one last time if she’s still around, but after this, I’m done doing the chasing.

Abby

My grandmother’s first piece of advice to counteract Dad’s list: the devil dances with those who walk alone on an edge.

She told me that when I was five. Not exactly a bedtime story for a kindergartener, but at the time, it was a life lesson and a warning against my genetics. Too bad I don’t listen because with each step I take toward the table full of men, I’m very much aware of Satan tangoing by my side.

Houston meets me halfway and stretches out his arms like he’s going to hug me and the glare I throw causes him to abandon his efforts. I don’t touch clients and clients don’t touch me. Every good drug dealer has boundaries. But if was going to make an exception, Houston would be it.

Houston’s still smiling though, a good indication he’s high. He’s always high. “Starting to think you were going to stand me up.”

Due to Ricky’s warning, I considered it, but I make nice money off of Houston and I typically make nice money off of anyone he introduces me to. I lost a few clients recently because of graduation from either high school or college, and I’m always on the lookout for a reliable regular.

Houston flips his hat backwards and rubs his hands together like we’re about to make beautiful magic together, but we aren’t. We’re about to make somebody else numb.

“Tell me about him,” I say.

“I’m doing great. Thanks for asking, Abby. Start my senior year next month, my frat wants me to run for an office, and my girlfriend wants me to get a real job or she’s going to dump me. How are you doing?”

I don’t blink. Don’t move. Don’t smile. I would love to like Houston, but can’t afford that luxury.

“Three years,” he says. “You’ve been selling to me for three years and I don’t know shit about you.”

I pick up a lock of my hair and let it fall. “I have brown hair. Now tell me about him.”

He laughs and his dimples show. Doubt his girlfriend will dump a guy who can smile like that. “Fair enough. His name is Mufasa.”

He says it in a deep voice that reminds me of The Lion King and I internally kick myself when my lips twitch. Houston shouts in glee. “I just made you smile.”

“No, you didn’t.” Yes, he did.

“I did,” he sings like he’s six. “I did, I did, I did.”

“His real name,” I practically yell, because yeah he made me smile and that’s close to breaking the rule of showing I care.

“Albert,” he says with that stupid dimpled grin.

I sort of shake like a dog coming in from the rain. “Albert?” Not sure why, but that wasn’t a name I was expecting.

“Albert,” he repeats. “And I know what your next questions are going to be because I’m psychic.” He closes his eyes and puts his fingers to his temples. “My spirit guide is telling me that you want to know how I know him and how long I’ve known him and do I trust him.”

I cross my arms over my chest to stop myself from smiling again. God, I hate liking my clients. “Yes to all of that.”

“Frat, a few weeks, and he’s cool.”

All the happiness disintegrates. This isn’t Houston’s usual ammo. He brings me his high school buddies, guys he’s played soccer with since elementary school, frat brothers he pledged in with...people he has had established relationships with, not someone he thinks is “cool.”

“Popsicles are cool, autumn days are cool, bringing me someone who you’ve known for a few weeks...not cool.”

Houston sobers up and when I peer into his eyes, I spot it—something I don’t often see—he’s not high. Alarm bells are ringing and I’ve overwhelmed with this desperate urge to bolt.

“I need your help,” he says. “And I know dragging you into this is wrong, but I need you to read him. You’ve got great instincts and I need to know if he’s going to cause problems for my frat.”

Oh, for the love of God. My feet are moving in the opposite direction and Houston catches up to me in the crowd. Because he’s twelve of me combined, he’s able to easily pull me into a dark corner of the club.

He may be bigger, but I’m scarier. I lean into him and he cowers. “How dare you fuck with me. Bringing me in here, putting my business in danger because you can’t smell trouble. And when I ask you about him, you tell me he’s cool? You should have never thought of introducing us.”

“I’m being pressured,” he spouts. “The president of our frat got caught a few months back with heroin.”

I freeze. Heroin’s not my thing. I deal pot. Nothing else. I can barely handle the burden of selling something that’s legal in Colorado, to say nothing of selling something that can kill you in a heartbeat.

“He’s been forced to step down, but the college didn’t expel him. A few weeks back, this guy shows. All his paperwork is in line. Shows that he was a member of our frat that was disbanded at another college and when I try to talk to Nationals about it—they stonewall me. He is cool, too cool, and he’s pushing for a dealer. He doesn’t know you’re my dealer. He knows we’re meeting someone tonight, but he thinks it’s a guy, not a seventeen-year-old girl.

“I know how you are. I’ve seen you interview plenty of guys. You’d never tip your hand of who you are, but you can read people, and I need you to read him. Please help me. My frat—we party. Won’t lie. But we don’t deal in heavy drugs and I can’t let my frat brothers go down on petty shit because our president fucked up.”

I roll my neck. Run, Abby, run. “He’ll figure out I’m the dealer, and if he’s a narc, that will only draw unwanted attention to me.”

Houston’s shaking his head. “Already said, we told him the dealer’s a guy and I got my cousin who is in town for the weekend to play the role later. Just interview him like you did all the rest of us and then let me know if I’ve got problems.”

There are two types of people who buy from me. Those who are in search for the elusive good time everyone else seems to be having and those who are striving to forget. Doesn’t matter how many different ways someone tries to slice it, all of my clients end up in the same state of nothingness and numb.

Knowing this, I do know how to read people—I can read their intent.

“Please, Abby.” Houston’s eyes soften as he begs. “There are good guys at risk here. I’m at risk.”

“Fine, but if you ever do anything like this again, I will cut you off.”

I don’t mean it, but the fear registering in his eyes says he believes me. He takes a deep breath and tries to give me his dimpled smile, but it fails. “This is how I’ve got it figured. We just ran into each other and you’re a friend of my little sister. Her name is Mallory.”

Great. Backstories.

“She goes to school at—”

“Save it. Let’s go.” I start for his table first, but he muscles past to take the lead. Yes, I’m partly doing this to help Houston, but mostly to help me. If this is a narc and that frat gets disbanded and those boys get kicked out of school, I’ll lose 50 percent of my clients. That’s not a financial loss I can withstand.

Thank God, Houston’s regained his good humor by the time we reach the table and there are genuine smiles from three of the other guys there. I sell to them too and I don’t miss how their eyes warily jump from me to this new guy. It’s like they’re trying to privately warn me and I appreciate their support.

“I know you,” says Jeremy—best friend of Houston’s since birth. “Aren’t you Mallory’s friend?”

I have to fight to not roll my eyes as that was a bit heavy-handed. The new guy’s gaze snaps to mine and I meet his stare head-on. He’s attempting to read me and he’s not checking out my cleavage. Not a good sign, but he could be gay, so I give him the benefit of the doubt. But then again, he would be checking out Houston because if Houston wasn’t a client, I would be all over that boy.

Houston lops an arm around my shoulders. “Isn’t she cute, Albert?”

Cute? I slug him in the kidney and Houston bends with the pain, yet he laughs. I draw my attention back to the guys and the three I know gape at me in a what-the-fuck mode and the new guy’s eyes are about to pop out of his head.

I jack my thumb toward Houston. “He’s annoying.”

Albert’s lips slightly tilt up. “He is, and my little sister’s best friend did the same thing to me last time I was home.”

I remove a small bouncy ball from my pocket and roll it in Albert’s direction. He picks it up with his right hand then rolls it back. I bounce it a few times on the table, pocket it, then, I’m ready to interview.

“She did?” I ask.

“She did.” His eyes go to the right and up, indicating he’s recalling a memory.

“I know them.” I wave at the other guys and I scan “Albert” like I’m interested in his body, but really, I’m checking out his clothes. Baggy jeans, T-shirt that costs too much to be a T-shirt, a baseball cap on backwards. “I don’t know you.”

“Albert,” he says. “And you are?”

“Curious.”

His eyebrows shoot up and I select a nacho chip from the basket and nibble on it. My mouth squishes to the side. Too salty for my taste, but it’s food and it’s free and I should make Houston buy me dinner for this.

“Tacos or spaghetti?” I ask.

“What?”

“Tacos or spaghetti.”

He glances over at Houston and his buddies. Houston shrugs. “She won’t let it go until you answer. She’s weird like that.”

Yes, I am.

“Tacos,” he answers.

“Disney World or Disneyland?”

“Land.” Which means he’s been on the West Coast and we’re East Coast.

“Ice cream or brownies?”

Eyes to the right again—fourth time in a row. “Brownies.”

“Rolling Stones or the Beatles?”

This one trips people up. They either don’t have an answer, have an immediate answer, or are split. “Stones.”

A boy after my own heart and once again to the right. “Cool.”

I eat another taco chip and let the boys share conversation for a few minutes. They discuss an upcoming dance the frat is holding and I mentally mark the date. I’ll need more supply than normal that weekend.

Right as their conversation is about to switch, Albert says to me, “If you’re in high school, then why are you here?”

I raise my wrist and dangle the annoying orange band. “Teen night. I should ask why college boys would want to hang here tonight.”

Houston jerks his hand to the right. “Jerry’s still a minor.”

Jerry has a fake ID and Jerry must also not trust Albert if he’s keeping that a secret.

“Did you come alone?” Albert asks.

“No, but my friend is doing a guy in the bathroom and watching doesn’t turn me on.”

Houston chokes on a chip. Serves him right.

“Seriously, why here?” I push. “No alcohol is being served here tonight and I would have left Jerry’s sorry, minor ass at home. Would have thought college boys would be searching for trouble.”

Albert looks left and my Spidey-senses prickle along my skin. “We’re meeting up with somebody.”

“Anyone I know?” I cast a sideways gaze at Houston. “Mallory will be pissed if you’re trying to set up her friends with your friends. Remember how well that worked last time?”

I have no clue if that’s true or not, but I like watching people scramble to think fast.

“We’re here to meet my dealer,” says Houston. Well played. Albert straightens and Houston gestures to me. “She’s cool so don’t freak.”

I prop my elbows on the table and tilt my head, purposefully letting him think I’m attracted...to him. “Interested in buying?”

Albert scratches his nose. Not a good sign at all. “Yeah.”

He could be nervous. Maybe it’s his first time buying. First timers have a guilty look about them, but he’s too put together for the I-don’t-want-to-go-to-jail fear.

“Ever bought before?”

“Yes.” The boy doesn’t blink and I believe him.

Have you ever put anyone in handcuffs and then escorted them to the back of a police car after you bought the drugs? “I haven’t bought before.” Truth.

Albert smirks. “Are you the type that mooches off of everyone else’s supplies?”

I smile and it’s the type that causes Houston and his friend to back up. It’s the one that belongs to the streets and it’s the type that makes the invisible devil beside me cackle. Albert’s eyes narrow in on it and then he retreats a centimeter.

“Yes,” I answer. “I’m a parasite. There’s a reason creatures like us have survived as long as we have.”

I wink at him, and Albert’s trying to figure out if I’m flirting or if I’m threatening his life. Sometimes, at least with me, it’s a fine line between the two.

My cell buzzes, and it’s Rachel. Logan stayed behind for you. Just text or find him for me. He looked pale before we left. Like he was sick.

My stomach drops and I scan the club. Just damn. The boy was supposed to go home.

“Problem?” Houston asks.

“My friend’s done screwing around.” Now he’s just screwing with me.

“You.” I point at Albert. “My grandmother always said, ‘You are all sons of the light and sons of the day. We do not belong to the night or to the darkness.’ I’ll be honest, I’m a darkness girl. Which way do you swing on that?”

Albert blinks. Several times, and it’s the expression of awareness. It’s a Bible quote and he recognizes it. His fingers drum the table and there’s a tan line on his left ring finger. This guy’s married or was married and I don’t know any frat boys with that lifestyle.

He smiles and laughs and it’s almost convincing, but he’s lied too many times for me to buy it. “Darkness.”

“You boys should go home soon,” I say as a tease. “Up and early for church.”

Two of them roll their eyes and Albert adds, “I don’t go to church.”

I nod like I agree. “Have a great life, Albert. See you later, Houston.”

I steal another chip and I walk away, my eyes roaming the room for Logan. Stupid boy staying stupid behind and possibly causing stupid problems for me.

“Hey!” It’s Houston and because he’ll hound me, I slip off into the shadowed corner again. “What the hell was up with the Bible quote?”

“He goes to church,” I say.

Houston tosses out his arms. “So do I and I still smoke pot. That doesn’t mean he’s a narc.”

“But you wouldn’t lie about it. He lied. I don’t care if you’re a priest, I’ll sell to you. In fact, I do sell to one, but I won’t if he lies. Albert’s hiding something. He’s a liar, and if I were you, I’d watch your back. Do me a favor, Houston. Don’t bring anyone else to me as a client for a while. You need to clean up your own household before you bring guests to mine.”

Houston jams his fingers through his hair causing his hat to fall off. “Fuck.” After he cracks his knuckles, he says to me, “Are we still good?”

“We’re going to have to switch up how we do things. Not just with you, with everyone in your frat, but I’ll figure that out later.”

Houston shoves his hands into his pockets and his shoulders sag forward, reminding me of a child discovering it’s possible to disappoint a parent. “I’m sorry I brought this trouble.”

“Just don’t bring it again. I’m serious. I can’t afford to be busted.”

Houston leaves and I text Logan. I told you I needed to work. Not cool. Where are you?

Nothing. An annoying silent response. Typical Logan.

Rachel wants me to find you. Says you’re sick. Do you need me to play hero?

The smirk feels good on my face. If that doesn’t get Logan all hot and bothered and ready to play, little else will. But the smirk wilts as each second passes with no response. I loathe the tickling sensation of fear licking in my stomach.

Not fucking cool, Logan. Are you okay?

“We got a change up for everyone here,” calls the lead singer from the band. “A friend of ours is going to show us what he’s got on lead guitar.”

People near the stage scream and clap and I’m about ready to throw my cell against the wall. Stupid, stupid boy and stupid me for stupidly somewhat liking him and him thinking he can get away with not answering me.

“Give it up for our boy Logan.”

My eyes rip up, go for the stage, and my mind shifts into reverse, fast-forward, rewind, and then that smile that’s associated with the devil slides across my face.

Logan stands strong on the stage. Guitar strapped across his chest. Baseball cap backwards on his black hair. And when he strikes the strings of the guitar, those biceps flex beautifully.

That chord just struck a lot deeper than anyone could have imagined. Past my bones, past my muscles, and it’s created a nice warmth that’s curling around my belly. Liquid warmth.

The logical part of my brain demands that I walk away, but he’s the one that scared me by not answering back. He’s the one that’s causing all these alien emotions stirring in my veins.

Yeah, I shouldn’t kiss Logan. I should definitely leave a boy like that alone. But he returned and he’s the one that climbed onto the stage and is looking addictively sexy with that guitar.

Yep, shouldn’t kiss him, but I already told Rachel, I’m going to kiss the guitarist tonight. Wouldn’t want that one to be a lie, now, would I?

Logan

I lay my hand over the strings to stop the reverberating and the crowd goes insane. The lead singer, Danny, turns his head to me, grinning like a wolf over meat. “You killed it, brother.”

The blood’s pumping hard in my veins, and it’s a hell of a rush. I try not to think too hard if I’ll experience this same rush night after night, but for now—I’ll take the high.

I made more than a few mistakes, but not nearly as many as their other guitarist. I’m not the best around, but I’m not the worst. Just looking for a rush. Just looking for a way out.

I pull my guitar off and Danny walks over to me. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re in. I’ve got to talk to the rest of the band, but I can’t imagine them saying no. We’ll let you know.”

We share a short shake and the other members of the band pat my back as I walk off the stage and head to my guitar case. The beat still pounds through my body. Sly taught me my first chords when I was seven and I’ve been messing around with the instrument since.

Two girls slide into my space right as I lay down my guitar. One redhead. One blonde. The redhead touches me and her intent is perfectly clear. “Hi.”

“Hey.” Both girls are tight, wound up and ready to go. Already bypassed a few girls today because of Abby, and when I offered Abby more, she chose to walk away. Maybe I should stop my chasing now and take on these two to help me forget.

“You rocked it out,” she says.

“Yeah, he did, and now you need to leave.” Abby slips between me and the two girls. They shuffle away, and if they say anything, I don’t hear it as I’m too busy enjoying how Abby’s eyes devour me. “I didn’t know you played.”

Same damn reaction every time I see her—a quick burn in my veins. Hazel eyes, soft red lips, long chestnut hair that has loose waves, and a body that begs to be touched.