At least, Ithinkit’s a joke.
I snort. “Don’t tempt me.”
“That jerk isn’t worth spending a life behind bars. We’ll figure out a way to get him off your back.” She punches out a message on her phone, speaking without looking up. “We need to find a reliable new supplier.”
“Tell me about it.” Our usual supplier, Loco, was arrested last month, and my supply is nonexistent at this point.
On a campus of this size, there are plenty of dealers, but you can’t be sure what you’re buying. Case in point—look what happened to me yesterday. I also need to find someone trustworthy who won’t stab me in the back by reporting me to my mother. I can’t take the risk of my parents discovering I fell off the wagon, because my miserable life definitely won’t be worth living if they find out.
“Zach said he was chatting to a new guy. Ray something. He’s a seriously legit operator with a network of dealers under his control. He’s trying to hook us up with someone local who should be able to get us anything we want, so hopefully that’ll be a runner.”
“I hope he fixes it soon, because I never want to experience what I experienced yesterday.” I shudder as the memory invades my mind. My heart had been punching my ribs so hard and fast before I started seizing I legit thought I was dying at one point.
I’d like to say it scared me enough to make me stop.
But it didn’t, and it hasn’t.
Or maybe, it’s just I place such little value on my life that the thought of it ending doesn’t worry me in the way it should.
I know when I actively checked out of life, and it hasn’t gotten any easier since.
“Either way, we’ll head to the frat party Saturday night,” Scarlett says, exiting the coffee shop with me hot on her heels. “We should at least be able to score some weed on the down low.”
Except weed just doesn’t cut it anymore. Last year, when I first relapsed, weed was my drug of choice, and it was a step up from the pills I was hooked on during high school. But it no longer satisfies my cravings. Not now I’ve experienced the euphoric high that ecstasy, a.k.a. Molly, supplies. When I truly want to get out of my head, and forget who I am, nothing beats it.
“It’s not my first choice, but beggars can’t be choosers,” I admit, as we walk toward the main part of campus.
“Zach will fix us up with a new supplier.” She drags her nails through her short, blonde pixie cut. “And if he’s slacking, maybe a little threesome will incentivize him to try harder.”
Scarlett and I are so alike in many ways but completely different in other regards. Like her casual reference to the wild monkey sex we all tend to indulge in when we’re high. I love it in the moment, but the next day, I wallow in a pit of self-loathing, wishing I could turn back the clock and rewrite the scene.
“I’m making no promises,” I say in between drinking the dregs of my latte.
She winks playfully. “Famous last words.”
* * *
I manageto make it through the day, but I’ve a banging headache by the time my last class ends, and I’m grateful I don’t have any tutoring sessions this evening so I can go home and crawl into bed.
“You look like shit,” a voice I hate says, as I exit the auditorium into the hallway. My body immediately reverts to alert mode as Weston pushes off the wall with a smirk.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I hiss, casting troubled eyes around me as my fellow classmates trickle into the hallway. They usually ignore me, which suits me fine, but, of course, today, they are all up in my business, thanks to the asshole presently blocking my path.
Weston is a notorious player, and as president of the largest frat house, very well known on campus. With his six-feet-one-inch frame, jet-black hair, smoldering brown eyes, and ripped body, he attracts attention for all the wrong reasons.
He may look like sex on a stick, but he’s an arrogant, obnoxious asshole who treats women like shit and thinks nothing of it.
Our parents are super close, and they’ve spent years trying to force us together, but Weston displayed zero interest in me, and that’s exactly how I liked it. However, lately, he seems to have changed his mind and he’s pursued me relentlessly.
His feelings may have altered, but mine haven’t.
I want nothing to do with the conceited pig.
But I fear I’ve just lost my right to choose.
“Now, now, sweetheart,” he says, sneering as he winds his hand around the nape of my neck and jerks me in flush against his body. “That’s no way to treat your new boyfriend.” His warm breath fans over my face, turning my stomach.
“Get fucked, Weston.” I shove at him. “I’m not dating you.”
