The Runaways

-4

I flicked my wrist and sent another Cheerio past Harry's face and into the air. I opened my mouth and it reached its peak and began to fall down towards me, until it landed in my mouth. That was the 17th in a row.

We were sat in our living room, on our cream couch that Harry somehow managed to score from a thrift shop. I lay with my head in Harry's lap, and my legs sprawled out taking up most of the room along the couch. A light blue painted bowl half filled with Cheerios that I was slowly eating was balanced upon stomach.

Harry sat with one leg bent flat along the couch and the other swung over the side. One arm rested along the couch's armrest, the other circled loosely around my shoulders. His shoulders were slouched and a frown crossed his face as he stared at the map in front of us intently, as if it was an algebraic equation.

On the coffee table beside the couch lay an old wrinkled map of the city. Heavy pillar candles sat along the sides to keep the curly edges from rolling up. The map was faded from years of sitting in the sun and neglect.

"Ok" Harry sighed, his brows were pulled together and his lips rolled against each other "How long will it take to get from Birch Cliff to Wembley Drive?" he asked, still staring at the map. His eyes traced along the colourful lines, following the twists and turn that carved into London's streets.

I shrugged from below him; I was really no use when it came to estimating, literally anything. My perception of time was always off, by a copious amount of minutes. Harry had dropped out after his third year of high school, and I after my fourth. This limited us to few jobs, forcing us to solely rely on him dealing, because apparently I am not 'mean enough.' Though, I have told his countless times that dealers don't have to be mean, he continues to refuse like the stubborn kid he is.

He had been selling drugs for since he was 15, but had been in the business since he was 13. He had never really told me how he began, and I had never pressed for answers. Deep in the forest behind our house was our pot garden. We weren't suppliers so it wasn't very big, but it was enough for Harry to support us.

The location of the garden had been well thought out. It was hidden, so no one would steal our plants, and also large enough to supply Harry's friends demand. The plants were underground in an underground greenhouse. The top of the greenhouse was made from thin white tarps that let enough light in for the plants to live. The two tarps made a small triangle about two feet off of the ground. The plants grew in a six foot deep hole below the ground. There was a small hole at the top that was used for ventilation and sunlight.

Pot wasn't the only thing he sold. He also sold M and K and a variety of pills to the some of the nastiest gangs in London. The whole dealing thing was honestly rather terrifying, knowing that he could be hurt anytime someone was trying to pick up.

He was secretive about all of this. Whenever I asked him where he gets pills he would distract me by diverting the conversation a completely different way.

The only thing he would let me help with was drying weed. I was allowed to get the leaves from the garden in the forest than help him dry it in the basement. We dried it in an old stone oven that was in the basement when we found the warehouse.

Harry was looking for the fastest route to get from point A to point B. He was currently tapping the table with one hand, and making strange lines in the air with the other as he calculated the distance.

He leaned forward slightly, narrowing his eyes as he moved to get a better look at the route he was planning. As he moved his loose black shirt fell over half my face, enveloping me in darkness. The oddly familiar smell of cigarettes and mint gum lingered in his shirt. My cheek bumped up against his hot stomach, his swirls of ink brushing along my face. I caught a glimpse of his stomach, the lines and curves from his tattoos looked strange from such an angle.