Rebel Roommate

Chapter 8: Sam

A shadowy guy kneeled on a square of concrete surrounded by dying grass with a flickering lighter.

Crack.

We both jumped again, even though I knew to expect it. The sound ricocheted off a solid metal fence surrounding the yard to bounce into the open kitchen and magnify itself over the thudding bass music.

Crack. Pop.

"Fourth of July came early," a voice behind us said with a thick Texas accent.

I turned to see a very overweight white guy flanked by two black men. The guy had about seventeen chins drooping down his blue and white checkered shirt, dark hair slicked to the side. Beady eyes that never focused on one thing for more than a second bounced around the room hummingbird-style. He and his bodyguards took up the length of the kitchen, effectively blocking the living room exit.

"Slim," I guessed.

"I know you?" the big dude asked.

So his name was an obvious, ironic twist. No nametag needed. "I know Hill."

"I know Hill, too, the seedy punk. He wants my territory." His accent stretched the words into several extra syllables. "Show me this peace offering of his that he mentioned."

I fingered the broken snap inside the sleeve of my jacket and swallowed. This was the first time Hill had ever made me do a delivery. I was usually the money guy in the week I'd been trying to pay off Rose's one million dollar debt to Hill. What if somehow he was playing with me by sending me here?

"Out back," I demanded. I could hop a fence faster if I was next to one.

The two black guys shifted closer, pressing me in, faces blank.

Crack.

I was pretty sure no one jumped that time but me. A drop of sweat slid down the side of my neck.

Slim's hummingbird stare narrowed in on me and stayed there. "Right here."

I gave a short nod, trying to think of all the ways I could worm myself out of this if things went sour. In other words, be more like Dad. My short-lived political science major never did teach me the art of spinning lies into semi-reasonable truths. I lifted a hand inside my jacket, which made the two guards jerk their fingers to their waistbands.

Pop. Crack.

The sound sucked the air from my lungs. It took several seconds before I realized neither of them had fired a gun. Several seconds I couldn't move, couldn't breathe, even though I wanted to rush outside and kill the fucker lighting fireworks.

"Slowly," Slim warned.

One of the bodyguards lifted his shirt to reveal the butt of his gun and stroked it like a d**k. I suddenly wanted to join the projectile vomit guy in the living room.

"Easy, Sam," Tony muttered next to me.

I glanced at him and couldn't remember a time when I'd seen him stand so still. I inched my other hand up and eased the plastic-wrapped package out of my jacket.

This had to be done. #sorrynotsorry

I flung the package at Slim with a shaky arm. One of the guards snagged it out of the air. His buddy handed him a knife, and he stabbed into it with the precision of a surgeon. With the tip of the blade, he lifted a small amount of the white powder to his nose, forehead lined in concentration. He sniffed but didn't inhale. Once. Twice. The guy obviously knew his heroin.

"How pure is it?" Slim asked to no one in particular, his beady gaze rolling over the room.

I had no idea. Before I could answer, an uninterrupted series of cracks spiked the tension in my body to the highest level. Sweat leaked down my sides in rivers. I glanced at the back door, wanting to make a move to shut out the sound, but didn't. Not in front of the guy who wanted to whip his gun out so he could molest it.

And behind the cracks and bass beat, a siren wailed. Far away but coming closer. The police on the way to bust up the party two houses down? Or this one?

Slim and his two bodyguards didn't seem to notice all the noise, or were so used to it, they could ignore it.

Not me. Every explosion, every second the siren grew louder twisted my tense muscles into a frayed noose close to snapping.

Tony hadn't moved since this whole s**t storm began. I could practically hear his brain turning over every second to analyze it.

The guy with the blade of heroin darted his tongue out to taste it. When he slipped it back into his mouth, his eyes bugged out of his head and he lunged for the kitchen sink. He yanked the tap water on and spit, gagged, scrubbed at his tongue until one word fell out: "Strychnine."

"Rat poison," Slim growled.

Oh, s**t, no.

The gun molester jerked it from his waistband and pointed it at my head.

I lifted both hands and froze. Questions lodged at the back of my throat, ready to hurl out, but they were all meant for Hill. He'd set me up. The bastard set me up. I was so dead.

The approaching siren sped on by. While staring down the barrel of the gun, I felt my chances for survival sink along with my stomach. The cops coming here could've been the distraction I needed to get out of here alive. To jail, but alive. Now, though, I was so f*****g screwed.

Movement out of the corner of my eye, then crackcrackcrackcrackcrack. Fireworks exploded all over the middle of the kitchen floor. That time I welcomed the distraction, because for one second, Slim and his bodyguards' eyes shifted away from me.

I didn't think. Just moved.

I barreled into the guy with the gun and knocked it from his hand. Then, with a sharp turn into him, I smashed his nose with my elbow.

Slim, red-faced and breathing hard, rushed at the gun as fast as a three-hundred-pound man could.

Tony locked eyes with mine from inside the doorway and shouted something I couldn't hear over the blasts. It probably had something to do with getting the f**k out of there.

I sprinted after him, the hairs on the back of my neck spiked with the threat of bullets coming after us.