Heartless People

TWENTY-THREE

It was many and many a year ago, in a kingdom by the sea

—Edgar Allan Poe

CAMILA

Parking outside my old house, I took a deep breath and enjoyed the cold air. It was only the beginning of fall, but it was still cold enough to see my breath in the air. It was like walking through a warzone.

There were broken shards of glass and splintered wood everywhere, and walls that were just standing, no longer connected to anything.

This was my home. It is my home.

Who would have thought it would be nothing but rubble only a year after my leaving. Lauren told me to rebuild, but there didn't seem to be a point. It would be a new house without any memories. Even if
it was nothing more than a pile of burned ash in the middle of nowhere, it was still my home and I could remember everything. I could still remember the choices I made here

### (Flashback)

I frowned, cutting the line of coke once more and rubbing it between my fingers. It was the real deal. Finding high quality shit like this cost a small fortune. Leaning into my fathers seat, I glanced at
the four guards, each standing at the pillars in the corners. They were all on edge, rats who weren't sure if they were on a sinking ship or just fighting through a hurricane. Rumor had it that we were
tapped; bleeding money, some would even say. They were right.

Things were falling apart. The Jauregui were buying out half the damn west coast, the Valeros were steamrolling Italy, and the Cabello-Giovannis, we were dying. Half of them hadn't seen my father in over a month, and figured he was sick. The other half thought Id slit his throat as he slept.

Part of me wanted to just let it fall. There was no way I could run all of this on my own. I could let it die with my father, and I would be able to work my way through school; I had just gotten my acceptance letter to UCLA this morning. I could walk away from this right here and now. I could leave Miami. My things were packed; I already had my ticket, and yet, I couldn't tear my eyes from the brick that sat on the desk in front of me. Twenty thousand dollars of smack just sitting there, tempting me.

I glanced up at the greasy, sweat stained, blonde haired man in front of me. For the last three weeks, he had been going around the streets like an idiot, talking about how he knew where to get the realist shit. No one believed him. I mean, why would they? He was wearing clothes he must have stolen off a corpse, his hair was so dirty it dropped flakes all over his shoulders, and his shoes looked so worn out, I wasn't even sure why he bothered. He looked like a
homeless junkie.

When word got to me, I asked for him and the smack. I didn't really think he would bring it though.

Pulling out the drawer, I grabbed a stack of hundreds before dropping them on the table.

He rushed to the stack of money like it was bread and he was starving. He might have been. Its good, right? Like I said, one hundred percent cocaine. The best there is.

"Where did you get this? Mr?"

"Brooks. Beau Brooks, and I got word of this real big wop back east. People are whispering about how hes got mountains of this shit, just lying in his warehouses; millions of profits just being chewed up by damn rats. Im telling you, girlie, I got the connections —connections your father and I should speak over. Im sure he'll like them."

"My father is not here. When he's not here, you speak to me. So lets hear it, I will decide if its worth it or not." Crossing my legs, I waited as he paced in front of me.

"I'm  not sure if I should be telling a kid this,"  he finally said.

"A kid? Do I look like a kid to you? Besides, this kid is also the one that gave you ten thousand dollars, cash." I tried my best to keep my composure. His eyes went straight to my exposed legs before looking back at me.