Pusher

twenty-nine.

I pushed the doors open to the courtyard, feeling less sure of my decision when I sat down across the picnic table from Ducky. He didn't look up at me, even when I offered a meek hello. So we sat in tense silence, and I, for the first time, actually hoped for Maverick to show up quickly.

It took me a moment after Ducky started speaking to realize it was to me.

"You tell Mav or Sticks or anyone what you know and I'm going to kill you. You're lucky Maverick has a soft spot for you. If it were up to me you'd have a broken wrist, not a job offer."

Ducky didn't have the casual intimidation or tormenting charm that Maverick held. He was all rough edges and chaotic rage, held together by a thin shell. His words were enough to spike my heart rate, but it I had learned anything over the past few weeks, it was how to take a threat.

I narrowed my eyes, jaw set.

"Fine," I said, "but if you hurt Miles in any way, I'm going to chop off your balls and shove them so far up your—"

"Hey, Angelica!" Sol called from a distance, oblivious to the tension between Ducky and me. "So about Shane. I was thinking, maybe a date is a lot to ask. Maybe just a phone number instead. You know, you wouldn't actually have to talk with him. You just—"

"No."

"Come on, Angel. Take—"

"No."

"Okay, well how about—"

"No."

Sol released a groan, flopping onto the table. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Maverick trying to suppress an amused smile. Ducky, as always, was broody and quiet.

But it didn't take long for Solomon to forget all about me, specifically when he caught a glimpse of Marissa Eaton. Well, more like when he caught a glimpse of Marissa Eaton's backside. She was wearing a tight pair of yoga pants, the kind that didn't leave a whole lot to the imagination, and remained completely oblivious to Sol's blatant staring.

He melted into the table, resting his chin on top of his arms, and whistled out a low note. At this rate, someone was going to have to wipe the drool off his face. Seeing how Maverick also had his neck craned around, I figured it wasn't going to be him.

"Seriously?" I said, my face scrunched up. "She's really not that attractive."

Sol didn't even split his eyes for a second, dismissing me with the comment, "You're not a guy. You wouldn't understand."

Maverick spared me a brief glance, trying his best to mask a knowing smile. I simply rolled my eyes. Sticks could make any assumption he wanted about me. I wasn't concerned with these boys' opinions.

From there I had to suffer through a lengthy argument about a band called Skinner, specifically whether their old sound was better than their new stuff. I hadn't even heard of them before so I couldn't exactly contribute to the conversation, but I figured anyone who named one of their albums "Ultra Death Mesh" couldn't be any better than mediocre.

I hardly listened after that, picking through my bagged lunch while they flipped topics from music to teachers to video games. It wasn't until there was a distinct lack of conversation that they caught my attention again.

I followed my eyes to where Ducky and Maverick were staring. A flash of spiked blonde hair and a hulking frame cloaked by a heavily decorated varsity jacket passed into view as the boy walked along the widowed hall that ran adjacent to the courtyard. I immediately recognized him to be Tristan Waye.

Maverick and Ducky connected eyes for only a second before wordlessly rising from the table and disappearing into the school. Solomon took the opportunity to steal food off of both their trays, pretending not to notice the oddity of their sudden exit.

"What's going on with you guys and Tristan?" I asked. I didn't feel much like dancing around it.

Sticks snapped his eyes up to me, chewing slowly. He shrugged, his voice casual. "Nothing."

My eyes narrowed. "Bullshit."

He sighed, running another hand through his hair as if it wasn't already sticking up at every odd angle. "Mav doesn't want you to be involved. Just forget about it, alright? It's for your own good."

I almost scoffed. Since when did any of these guys care what was good for me? If Maverick was going to force me to sell for him, he could at least tell me what was going on. I was associated with them now. Everything they did was connected back to me.

But gauging by Solomon's guarded expression, Maverick scared him a lot more than I did. I was going to have to switch tactics if I wanted any information at all.

"That friend of yours can have my number if you tell me."

Contemplation and hesitancy warped his features as he inwardly debated whether the favor was worth it. He bit his lip, leg bobbing from underneath the table. His eyes creased.

"Your number and a date."

"Fine."

Sol straightened up in his seat, tight lipped before he finally spoke.

"Tristan owes us some money. A lot of money, actually. Mav and Ducky are just trying to get it back."

My mouth went dry. A single word weighed on my tongue. "How?"

Sol rolled his eyes. His voice was impatient. "How do you think? You know those two. Use your imagination."

As the truth sunk in, my tongue started to feel more and more like sandpaper. Images of Dante's black eye flashed behind my eyes. Any appetite I had left was completely gone. I stood up, not quite sure of where I was going, but Sol reached across the table to latch onto my wrist before I could even step over the bench. His grip was uncomfortably tight.

"Not right now, you idiot. They wouldn't try anything in the middle of school, especially not with Harlow always watching us like a hawk," Sol said bitterly. His eyes scanned all over my face. "Don't worry about it. It's not your problem. Just forget I said anything."

I nodded, but Sol could see right through my paper thin facade. He sighed, regret thick in his eyes.

"You can't say anything to anyone, alright? Not Tristan, not Harlow, and for the love of God not Mav. He'll kill me if he finds out I dragged you into this," Sol implored, not releasing my wrist until I nodded once again. He eased up, assessing me, and then sighed, "Come on. I'll walk you to class."

He did, trying to lighten the mood by cracking jokes as we walked, but the sound of Tristan's skull cracking into the sidewalk echoed through my head all the same. He was a big guy, a football player, but two against one wasn't exactly a fair fight. Three if Solomon was involved, but I doubted someone as bone-thin as him would be much help in a brawl.

The guilt twisted in my gut. I should tell someone. I should find a way to prevent this, but I knew the risk of getting involved. As I ran the options through my mind over and over, I was left believing I was once again left with no choice. I had to keep my mouth shut.

Here I thought I was so tough and independent because I pushed drugs, but the truth was I was just as helpless as the girl I had been before all this.