What We in the 'Biz Call, "A Fixer-Upper"

You May Collar the Wolf

"I think I should start a crew."

"...What exactly does that mean?" Looking up from his round of Modern Warfare, Ryan blinked at Jeremy. Jeremy feigned casualness, staring intently at the small carburetor on his workbench.

"Just..." Jeremy made a vague motion. "I think we could make something out of this, you know? Gavin's here all the time now, and it feels like we're turning into some sort of team. You feel it, right? You like Gavin."

"Gavin and I do engage in human interaction, yes." Ryan set down his controller. "What does that have to do with Crew?"

"Not Crew, a crew."

"Accrue?"

Jeremy spun on the swivel, the squeak of plastic on plastic filling the room. He waved his hand and said, "a group that runs together, watches each other's backs. And...I don't know. Does heists and stuff."

"Jeremy, that's called a gang."

Jeremy threw a rubber stress balls at Ryan's head.

Well accustomed by now, Ryan moved his head aside and let it bounce off the opposite wall. "What are you going to do with a gang? We're not exactly running large operations here."

A few more robberies here, intercepting some other dealer's supplies there, most of what they generated paid the bills and went to staving off Gavin's—extravagant—debt.

"But we could," Jeremy insisted. It was all he could do to keep from moving his arms wildly along with his imagination. "We could start making a name for ourselves, pull together something real."

Ryan stared at him, that look that could either be boredom or contemplation written into the strength of his jaw. Despite himself, Jeremy realized he was holding his breath; he hadn't quite come to terms with how much Ryan's approval now meant to him.

With a slow breath out the nose, Ryan tilted his head. "Heists, huh? That does actually sound...fun."

A smile found its way to the corner of Jeremy's mouth. "By fun do you mean you get to kill a lot of people?"

"Well I mean, if they get in the way..."

It shouldn't make him laugh—because deep down he knew there was something newly wrong about Ryan, something he had put there—but he did laugh and kicked his partner lightly in the shoe. The unset faded, and Jeremy swung back around, placing his hands among the wires with a confidence he hadn't realized he was missing.

Jeremy left the supermarket with one hand full of grocery bag and the other managing both his car keys and an open bottle of Four Loko. Apparently, the only thing capable of stopping him was a man with a cane and a face that screamed he was willing to kick anyone's ass at a moment's notice. "Hey. I heard you're starting a crew."

Jeremy blinked, looking over his shoulder and then back at the man who couldn't be more than a year older than him. "Uh, I might be. Why?"

"Because I want in, dumbass. Jesus Christ, why else would I be ganking you outside the Walmart? I'm not selling girl scout cookies. How else you want me to join up, huh? Am I gunna pick your pocket and then you act all impressed and offer me a job? Kiss my ass."

The man never took a breath between words, an unending tempest as he stood stock-still in the middle of the parking lot. He was strongly built, with a mop of curly brown hair under a beanie, but no other way to pick him out of a crowd. Jeremy found himself disoriented by the torrent of both information and insults pouring from the man.