𝐋𝐢𝐚𝐫, 𝐋𝐢𝐚𝐫 | 𝐉𝐉 𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐤

71. shoupe is hot.

S E V E N T Y - O N E
shoupe is hot.

I want it on record—I think this is a categorically awful idea.

Not only are we involved in international drug smuggling, but we'll be illegally entering another country and aiding a murderer in getting away with said murders. I'm pretty sure that makes as an accessory after the fact.

But, we're incredibly low on viable ideas, and John B—for some unknown reason—seems quite fond of his father.

I can't say I'd be willing to commit so many crimes for my father.

I take the lead, mainly because I can't wait to get away from creepy fish man. JJ doesn't take long to get with the program and catch up with me; he jogs over and sticks his hand out for the keys.

When I don't immediately hand them over, he shakes his outstretched palm. I still don't hand them over.

"Mabel, I love you, but you are not driving," he decides.

Well, if he wanted to drive so bad, he had an eternity and a half to be the first to grab the keys. "My driving is fine," I glare at him. He's always so rude about my driving abilities; sue me for not knowing how to park without being taught, it's not my fault no one told me that slamming your breaks on was bad for you break pads, and so what, I'm sensitive and would rather crash them run over a bird.

He contemplates for a second, then drops his hand. "Okay, I trust you," JJ concedes.

"Thank you." I grab the door to the truck and swing it open, my eyes scan the interior—it's messy and old, it also smells overwhelmingly of pot and must. Then I zero in on the stick, it's well-worn. That fucking dick. "You knew, you prick!" I lob the keys at his forehead, and he's too busy smirking to catch them.

Manual. My arch nemesis.

"Educated guess," JJ shrugs. He picks the key ring up from the grass by his boots.

"My driving is still fine." I defend myself.

"Sure, sweetcheeks," he smirks.

I walk around the other side and slide in. It's one of those old trucks where there aren't designated seats; it's just one seat with three seatbelts. Fun. John B gets in the opposite side, making a little Mabel sandwich. Fishy boy did say it'd be a tight squeeze.

When JJ turns the car on, I try and get the aircon working, I fiddle with the controls, and nada.

"You have to be joking. All this and not even the aircon is working? I am going to skin that man alive. I'm not joking. I'll get that knife from the kitchen—you know the really sharp one? The one you almost cut your thumb off with," I ask JJ, who just nods with an amused smile. "Yeah, I'll grab that one. Then I'll Google how to do it so he stays alive, then I'll choke him with fish guts. But you'll have to do that, I'll throw up if I touch them."

"Okay." JJ nods, beginning to drive.

"He's such a fucking creep, too. I think he's a nonce. Honestly, we should just drive to South America in this car and sell the weed, raise some money, buy Massive John off Singh and live happily ever after. If he comes for us, I will slaughter him and his firstborn child. You think I'm joking? Because I'm not." I realise I'm rambling and sit upright, giving up with the aircon.

"That really is a well-thought-out plan." John B nods with a smirk.

"He deserves it, he stitched us up," I mumble, leaning back against the uncomfortable seat. I try and fan my face, and debate on if it really would be so bad driving with Fish man? Probably. Definitely.