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tw: heavy smut
Rafe Cameron blew out a long exhale of smoke, before dropping the cigarette to the ground and stomping it out. His irritation wasn't just expressed in the roughness of his actions, but the coldness of his voice. "You promised me my shit by four o'clock, man. What the fuck?" It was nearly five in the afternoon already, and Rafe Cameron-the addict-was feeling the uncomfortable effects of missing his usual cocaine dosage.
Barry, his supplier, fiddled on his cell phone, and sent an aggravated look at the kook. "It's a little late. Cool your shit."
"I'm not cooling anything," Rafe snapped. "You promised me five fucking grams of coke and you're telling me you ain't got shit here? Not even one fucking line?"
"Obviously, not. You think I want your dumb ass hanging around when you don't have to?" Barry scoffed, waving a hand in his direction. "What, you think I'm hiding it because I enjoy your company? It's late."
Rafe huffed, loudly, angrily. He grit his teeth together.
Barry's trailer, which was usually busy with people, was empty at the moment. There were a few junkies outside on lawn chairs, but none lounging in his living room like normal. That must have been because it wasn't a weekend, which was when Rafe normally came. It was a Monday afternoon, and most pogues were out trying to scrounge up money from whatever shitty job they could find on this side of the island. Rafe usually wasn't here Mondays either, but things were different now. He didn't just sell coke anymore, he used it. Rafe was an addict, and he couldn't wait until the weekend for a fix like he used to.
Which made him all the more angry to be stuck here, without any impairing relief.
He heard shuffling from down the hall, where a few bedrooms were. Then, Rafe reminded himself that the place wasn't empty, people lived here. He wasn't sure how many, but Barry normally had at least a couple girls living in the trailer at a time. Junkies who'd do whatever he asked for a few free grams of whatever their drug of choice was.
Rafe felt a flush of disgust remembering how those girls would parade themselves around the living room on busy days, grabbing whatever man that was desperate enough to risk an STD for an easy lay. Now, Rafe wasn't a saint. He'd messed around with a hooker before. It wasn't uncommon for kooks to hire them for college parties. But messing around with an old junkie at Barry's trailer? He'd never even considered it.
Barry brought him out of his thoughts by again trying to say, "Just take a seat, relax-"
"I'm not relaxing," Rafe spat.
Barry rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath, "Fucking rich kids." They were the worst kind of clients. Entitled and impatient. Barry then loudly asked Rafe, "How about you take a seat and smoke a joint? On the house."
Rafe narrowed his eyes at the drug dealer, like it offended him. "Just get me my shit." He crossed his arms, leaning against the wall of the busted up mobile home.
