Enzo nods. "Well, man... your 'fake thing' looks too good to be real anyway."
He laughs.
I don't.
Let him feel awkward. I'm not saving him. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"
He shrugs. "I dunno. Is he not? "
Tch. I look down.
"Anyway," he says, smacking my shoulder. "Look."
He gestures to the corner where his little crew is huddled. I recognize a few faces. Everyone here showed up for the drugs, obviously. This party is ridiculous.
It's like someone grabbed characters from a crime film and dumped them in a teenage American show. "You wanna join us?" Enzo asks, smiling wide. "We got a good batch tonight. None of that stepped-on shit. Real clean."
I raise an eyebrow.
"That’s why you're grinning like a lunatic?"
He laughs. "It's so good, Gio. I'm telling you, you're missing out."
I hesitate for half a second. "I'll just say hi."
We move toward the rest of them. I glance back, just to make sure Rava sees where I'm going.
Last thing I need is him wandering around alone in this circus looking like a lost duckling. Not that I want him here with these idiots, but he should at least know where to find me if he wants to bail. I shove a couple of bottles aside with my knee and drop onto the couch between them.
The whole place smells like weed. Shit.
I can already feel it creeping into my lungs.
I can't get high tonight. Rava will absolutely whoop my ass, and he'd be right.
One of the girls passes me a bottle. I don't take it. And I'm fucking proud of myself. As carefree as I am, I would never ride back home while being drunk.
Especially when I'm not alone.
Twenty minutes pass and they're still talking about the same damn thing. That time Enzo almost died.
I'm the one who brought it up, but it wasn't supposed to become a full documentary screening.
It's not funny. That was the whole point of the story. But coke has clearly melted his brain to fondue, because he's retelling it like it's peak comedy. Someone drops into the spot right in front of me.
Before I even focus on his face, he flicks a rolling-paper wrapper straight at my forehead.
The audacity in this room is honestly unbelievable.
It's... Mark? Maybe? I think his name is Mark. He's got rings on every single finger, both hands.
Mark. Yeah. It's him.
Because I remember thinking Markmarkshis hands.
I laughed at my own joke for three straight minutes back then. Still kinda funny.
"Yo, was that Rava Weston I saw you with earlier?!" he asks, smirking.
