Pusher

zero.

Drumsticks tapped a light, restless rhythm into the faded brick, but it was hardly loud enough to cover up Dante's groaning as yet another fist was hurled into his gut.

The drummer was a lean boy, all skin and bones and hollowed cheeks. Still, there was a certain sturdiness about him as he stood there, peering around the corner to check for any stray eyes. His hair was a tousled mess of dirty blonde — the kind that could appear any color in the right light. His eyes were tired and dropped at the edges. They were any icy blue, contrasted by dark circles underneath.

His name was Solomon, but most people called him Sticks.

Just a few feet to his right were his two best friends and their latest victim. Ducky held one thick hand against the boy's shoulder, pinning him against the brick, and hailed intermittent blows with the other. His name held a certain whimsical lightheartedness to it, but it was ironically fitting at best.

He was the largest of the group with broad shoulders and the weight to back it up. He had a square face, sunken eyes, and a mess of curly hair. His nose was a little crooked from having broken it one too many times. He had been coming home with bloodied knuckles since he started middle school and continued the trend into his senior year.

He continued his rain of blows into Dante's stomach until he was doubled over and hacking out his coughs. The last boy held up a hand, signaling for Ducky to stop. His cigarette was held between two fingers. He flicked off the ashes before sauntering forward.

His inky hair was tossed up at odd angles from running his hands through it too many times. His coal eyes were even darker. The Rolling Stones tee he wore was loose fitting but with the sleeves torn off and the fabric ripped halfway down to his middle, his lean athletic build was evident enough. His mouth tilted to the side in a mocking smile.

Maverick Weir.

He rested his hands just above his knees and bent to Dante's eye level. His own eyes teased the boy behind the strands of his dark hair.

"You ready to talk yet?" Maverick's voice was low and smooth, almost charming, but with a distinct edge. "One name and all this goes away. Who's been dealing behind my back?"

"I already told you: I don't have a name. I met the guy at some party by the pier. I-"

Maverick gave Ducky a brief nod and another fist landed hard in Dante's gut, knocking the breath right out of him. He slumped, but Ducky had enough strength in one arm to hold him upright.

"Even if I believed you — and I don't — you're going to have to bring something a little more useful to the table," Maverick said before taking a long drag from his cigarette. A stream of white smoke slipped past his lips and into the hot, stale air as he exhaled.

Dante merely coughed in reply, still trying to grasp onto a breath.

Maverick caught his wrist in a firm grip, holding strong despite Dante's half-hearted attempted to wriggle free. He poised the butt of the cigarette over the inside of his forearm.

"Last chance."

"You wouldn't believe me even if I told you," Dante said, his head rocking back into the brick. His voice was shallow, but his lack of breath was no longer from his assault, but nerves. He eyed the cigarette with wary eyes.

Maverick narrowed his eyes. "Try me."

Dante wetted his lips, eyes flicking somewhere to the side as if there was a way out of this mess. He swallowed with a dry throat and the taste of guilt already coating his tongue. His mouth twisted in shame.

"Angelica Moore."

Solomon was the first one to laugh, his drumsticks pausing as the lighthearted sound bubbled through the air. It fell flat after a sharp look from Mav.

Maverick blew a thick cloud of smoke into the boy's face, sending him into a subdued coughing fit. "I don't appreciate jokers." His voice had lost all of its charm. It was all sharp edges and cold steel.

"It's not a joke."

Maverick exchanged a look with Sticks and Ducky, measuring their thoughts in just one glance. He nodded, but this time it was to himself.

The cigarette slipped past his fingers and dropped to the cement, still smoking. Maverick ground it out with the underside of his boot, then turned his attention back to Dante who was trying to recede further into the wall.

Maverick sent a sharp right hook and Dante's head snapped back into the wall with a sickening crack.

"I'm not lying. I swear!" The words spilled out in a rushed slur.

"That one wasn't for you," Maverick said. "It's a message. If I catch anyone else buying from other dealers they're going to get it a lot worse than you and your black eye. I'm the only pusher in this town. Got it?"

Dante nodded dumbly, but his eyes were trailing after the discarded cigarette.

Maverick lightly slapped his cheek with a cupped palm, that mocking smile tugging its way back onto his lips. His eyes were severe and dangerous. "Good." He jerked his head to the side. "Now get out of here."

Dante fell out of Ducky's grip and scrambled off.

"You really think Angelica is the new pusher?" Solomon asked. His voice was doubtful and for good reason. Angelica's reputation didn't go much farther than her being a grade-A nerd.

"I don't know. But I hope for Dante's sake that he's being honest," Maverick replied. His voice had lost its edge and only held curiosity now. He ran a single hand through his hair and let is rest around his neck in a loose grip.

If this was the truth, things around Dayton High were about to get a lot more interesting.