Koa
The end of the summer rush is starting to piss me off. Classes started today, and I’m left trying to tie up every loose end of these deals before I get swamped with homework and hockey. I go big during the summers so that I can focus on real life when September hits. And then really dial down when hockey starts in October.
Tonight’s drop is in a parking garage three blocks from campus.
I pull into the second level, park in the shadows between the stairwell and a concrete pillar. I check my phone—9:47 p.m. He’s late.
Two minutes later, headlights cut through the darkness. An old Toyota Tacoma pulls in, parks opposite me. The driver kills the engine but doesn’t get out right away. Nervous.
Good. He should be.
I grab the duffel bag from the passenger seat, get out, and walk over. My boots echo on the concrete. He finally opens his door, steps out. Mid-thirties, thinning hair, cheap suit that doesn’t fit right. His name is Marcus, and he moves weight in the suburbs—safe neighborhoods where people pay extra for discretion.
“Koa.” He nods, trying to sound confident. Failing.
I don’t say anything. Just hold out the bag.
He takes it, unzips it, checks inside. Everything under the sun. Enough to keep his clientele happy for two weeks, maybe one if he’s smart about it. But I need the money sooner.
“This is good,” he says, zipping it back up. “Real good. I’ll have the money for you by next week—”
“Monday.”
He blinks. “What?”
“I need it by Monday.” My voice is flat, leaving no room for negotiation.
“Koa, man, that’s only five days. I need at least a week to move this much product—”
I step closer. He steps back, hits the side of his car. I lean in, put a hand on the roof beside his head. Trap him.
“You’re not hearing me,” I say, voice dropping lower. “Monday. Or we have a problem.”
He swallows. I can see his throat bob, can smell the fear-sweat starting to bead on his forehead. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Monday. I’ll make it happen.”
“Good.” I step back, give him space to breathe. “Don’t disappoint me, Marcus.”
“I won’t.”
I turn and walk back to my car. Don’t look back. Don’t need to. He’ll have the money by Monday. They always do when you make it clear there’s no other option.
Back in my dorm, the silence is oppressive.
I toss my keys on the desk, strip off my jacket, and fall onto the bed. The springs creak under my weight. I stare at the ceiling, hands behind my head.
I can’t stop thinking about my night.
About Lexi.
The way she ran. The panic in her breathing. The feel of her body against mine when I caught her, all that defiance and rage vibrating under her skin. The way she begged when I tied her to the tree, the way her voice cracked when she thought I’d left her there.
Perfect.
She’s going to be so much fun to break.
I wonder how far I can push her. How much she can take before she shatters. She’s got fire—more than her brother, more than most people I deal with. But fire can be smothered. Controlled. Redirected.
And I’m going to do all three.
