Toe Tag, You're It

one

Staring out onto the horizon, I removed the cigarette from my mouth as smoke ghosted from my lips, letting it cloud into the early summer breeze. I ran a hand through my hair quickly before pulling my phone from the pocket of my jeans.

Twelve texts and seven hundred and five fucking billion missed calls. Typical.

Placing the cig back between my teeth, I began scrolling through the desperate pleads for attention on my phone. Eighty percent were from Dre, my older brother. The rest belonged to the rest of my suitors, I suppose.

I can't really blame Dre for worrying about me. After all, I had been gone for about three days... which is a little longer than the few hours I had initially told him I'd be gone for.

He probably assumed I'd been jumped, or worse--killed. Which isn't exactly an over-exaggeration considering my career field; drug dealer. Fuck, I hate that title. It sounds so, I don't know... wrong. I prefer something along the lines of "businessman." As in, I do my business and you mind your own.

My eyebrows knitted together as I skimmed the angry messages Dre had sent me. I thumbed back a quick response, something along the lines of I'll be back soon, before sliding my phone back into the back pocket of my skin tight jeans.

Fuck skin tight jeans. Why did I ever decide these were a good idea. Deciding that skinny jeans are better than baggy jeans was probably one of, if not, the worst decision I have ever made in my entire life. That's including my decision to buy lethal weapons, and including my decision to start selling drugs. That's how deep my pool of regret has become.

I shook my head slightly, ridding my mind of useless thoughts regarding my fashion choices. I dropped the cigarette to the ground, putting it out with the sole of my worn out vans. You'd think that someone as concerned about their fashion choices as I clearly am, combined with someone who reels in as much dough as I do, I would wear shoes that aren't worn to the ground. But nope.

I shook my wrist slightly until the sleeve of my jean jacket hiked its way up my arm, allowing me to check the time... on my solid gold Rolex, if I may add. 9:36pm. Shit. Dre really will kill me, and I'm not even being sarcastic. He is very capable of doing so. But hey, he's the guy who raised me, and he sure as hell didn't raise a kid who'd back down from a death match. But in all seriousness, he'd kick the living shit outta me if I didn't come home soon.

Taking one last look over the city of Los Angeles, I dipped my head down and climbed into my Charger--my beautiful, matte black Charger with customized red hubcaps that I love with every ounce of my fucking being--and revved the engine a few times before peeling off.

It's so damn easy being cocky when you're, well, me.

As I made my way onto the highway, I began to pick up some steam, speeding at well over 100mph at this point. I was very aware that every minute that passed, Dre would be that much more angered. I didn't need to deal with more than his usual amount of shit.

I shut off the radio as soon as some mainstream pop song came on and plugged the auxiliary chord into my phone. Within seconds of one-handed fumbling on my phone, Sleeping With Sirens began blaring through the high quality speakers I'd gotten installed recently. Yes, Sleeping With Sirens. Don't even start with that "I thought thugs listened to hip hop," shit. Sorry that low-riding junkies mumbling incoherently doesn't get me as fired up as a couple of angry emo kids screaming about their problems.

Screamo just fuels the pit of fire and hatred I have for the world that resides within me. Gets me fired up. And pissed. But it ain't the music I listen to that makes me angry, it's the fact that I have to deal with brainless dumbasses and assholes every day of my life. And don't start with the "but didn't you choose this lifestyle?" shit, because I'm well aware my lifestyle is all based on my own actions. Doesn't mean I'm not allowed to bitch about it.

I pulled up in front of our enormous, modern-looking house and parked sloppily, not really giving a fuck about how parallel the car was to the curb. It's not like we lived on a busy, family-filled street where my shit parking job would affect everyone else's lives. We lived in a residential area full of stuck up, rich, white assholes who were either off on business trips fucking women other than their wives, or in marriage counselling working out the affairs they'd just racked up on said business trips. Besides, crashing their Audis and Maseratis and Lamborghinis is probably the least of their concerns, considering they each have two or three more in their five-car garages. Privileged assholes.

"But Calum, don't you have a bunch of sports cars too? You're being a little hypocritica--" blah, blah, shut the fuck up. I know, but I'm trying to make a point here. Old white dudes suck, end of story.

I hated our neighbourhood. It's hard to be a drug dealing badass when everyone who lives around you is some sort of businessman or lawyer who looks down on you just because you're a kid. I'm not even a kid, I'm fucking nineteen years old. How much did you accomplish by nineteen? Did you make a name for yourself? Because I sure as hell did. Albeit in an illegal way, but still. I'm sure as hell your agenda at nineteen didn't include owning sports cars and a mansion bought with your own money that didn't come from your parents who'd provided everything for you growing up... So fuck you.

I sauntered up to my front door, not even bothering with fumbling for my keys, knowing that Dre would have purposely left it unlocked in case I'd lost them but still managed to find my way back home. I mentally--and physically--prepared myself for my encounter with Dre. I knew he'd be fuming, and I had to be ready to take any punch or jab at my body and/or ego that he was bound to throw.

I stepped inside, not even bothering to be quiet, knowing he was awake, awaiting my arrival. And once I'd stepped inside, a sick, sadistic smile crept itself onto my face the second I laid my eyes on the angry prick waiting in the centre of the room.

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A/N: I do all my updates on my phone so they'll probably all be insanely short like this and full of autocorrected errors, and I apologize.

Cal is a cocky little asshole, isn't he? I love it sndjfkdjjs