Snow

8 | high risk, high reward, neva

❝i can tell that you're tired, but you keep the car on while you're waiting out front.❞

❘❘

"JERSEY CITY, HUH?" I spare him a sideways glance, but Julian only grins from the passenger seat.

Coasting along the stretch of MLK Drive, everything starts to blend together into a seedy backdrop of brick and stone, bright-colored awnings of barbershops and poster-plastered glass fronts of delis.

It reminds me of Brooklyn, with the same taste of gritty summer scenery—clusters of people smoking and hanging out around broken fire hydrants. A layer of laughter taints the air, bleeding into distant sirens, long-forgotten in the haze of an endless August afternoon.

Absentmindedly, Julian hums along to the faint song on the radio, tracing some soothing figure eight pattern on my knee.

I smile. Something about it feels warm.

Letting the comforting motion ease me into my seat, I cruise down MLK Drive and wait for him to say something. It's a simple type of silence, the kind that some people search for all their lives; it's the kind of silence that Julian and I have perfected in hot nights and cool mornings.

I admit wholeheartedly that I like Julian more when he doesn't speak too much.

At some point, Julian reaches down between his feet and tugs the duffel bag into his lap. Warm air laps at my bare knee when he pulls away to unzip the nearly empty bag, his gaze zeroing in on the contents.

Cash. Cold, hard cash. Lumped together with elastic bands in haphazard stacks.

My gaze flickers back and forth between him and the road as I watch closely. Those inked fingers move swiftly, expertly, so fucking temptingly; they flit through the money at a calculated speed, too fast for me to follow while driving.

"¿Cuánto dinero es eso?" I ask innocently, shifting my attention back to the road just in time to slow for a red light.

It takes two motherfucking seconds to feel his gaze burning into me, a red-hot dagger of unspoken tension. Money is something I've never had enough of, and the temptation runs wild in my veins.

"Why do you ask, mami?"

The light turns green. I shrug.

"It's enough to get us popped, Neva," Julian murmurs, zipping the bag up and tossing it to his feet. When I peer over at him again, he's staring out the window with a blank expression.

My pulse spikes, and I can't help myself. "He must trust you, yeah?"

"Trust me not to run with it?" A husky laugh guides my gaze back to him. Julian quirks a brow, a mischievous grin twitching at his lips. "Why would I run when I'm going to flip it for more, mamita?"

I grin. "Less risk? Less work?"

"High risk, high reward, Neva. Learn it, and fucking live it."

Julian Rivera is so fucking wrong; high reward means nothing if you're dead.

Fuck that. All the memories stir in the pit of my stomach, but when they crawl up my throat, they catch. Without saying anything, I squirm in my seat.

"Right here," Julian says, a sudden urgency in his voice that brings me back to the moment. "Van Nostrand. Next block. Take a left."

I slow to take the turn cautiously, and everything seems to come crashing together.

In the depths of Jersey City, at the corner of Van Nostrand and MLK Drive, the sleazy exterior of a run-down liquor store stares me down. Two dark-skinned men lean against the foggy glass, laughing carelessly. One wears baggy jeans and a wife-beater, while the other is dressed down—shirtless and smoking a cigarette. A third is lounging on a silver fixture at the edge of the sidewalk with his back to us, twisting a cigar between his fingers.