Page 2 of Addicted

Ishmael.

My little brother had been getting beside himself lately. He was talking slick, staying out later than he should, and I’d noticed him hanging around some niggas from the neighborhood that I knew were into some shit they had no business being into. I’d tried talking to him about it, but he just brushed me off like I was being paranoid.

I wasn’t paranoid. I was paying attention.

I’d been raising that boy since our mama died five years ago. Hell, I’d been raising him even before that, if I was being honest. Mama had been too busy drowning herself in bottles of whatever liquor was cheapest to be a real parent. When she finally drank herself to death, it wasn’t even a surprise. It was almost a relief, as fuckedup as that sounds.

But I’d made a promise to myself that Ishmael wouldn’t end up like her. He wouldn’t end up in the streets either. I worked my ass off to make sure we had a nice place in a decent neighborhood, that he had clothes on his back and food in his stomach. I did all this so he wouldn’t have to struggle the way I did.

And lately, it felt like he didn’t even appreciate it.

“Aye, beautiful! What I gotta do to take you home tonight?”

I snapped back to reality, looking at the dude who’d just walked up to the bar. He was tall, brown skin, nice watch, decent cologne. Probably thought he was doing something.

“You gotta leave me the fuck alone, that’s what you gotta do,” I said flatly. “What you drinking?”

He looked taken aback for a second, then laughed like I’d told a joke. “Damn, you feisty. I like that.”

“I don’t care what you like. You ordering or not?”

“Let me get a bottle of Ace of Spades.”

I raised an eyebrow. That was a fifteen-hundred-dollar bottle. Either he was really trying to impress somebody, or he had money to waste. “You want glasses with that?”

“Yeah, bring me four glasses. I’m celebrating with my boys.” He nodded toward a table where three other dudes were sitting, already surrounded by dancers.

I grabbed the bottle from the locked cabinet, set it on a tray with the glasses and an ice bucket, and slid it across the bar. “That’ll be fifteen hundred even.”

He pulled out a credit card without hesitation and handed it to me. While I ran it, he leaned against the bar, still trying his luck. “So what’s your name, beautiful?”

“Indie.”

“Indie. That’s unique. I like it. I’m—”

“I didn’t ask.” I handed him back his card and the receipt to sign.

He signed it and added a two-hundred-dollar tip, sliding it back to me with a smirk. “You sure I can’t get your number? I promise I ain’t like these other niggas in here.”

I pocketed the receipt and looked him dead in the eye. “That’s what they all say. Enjoy your bottle.”

I walked away before he could respond, heading to the other end of the bar where a group of women were waiting to order. They were easier to deal with. They usually just wanted their drinks and to have a good time without all the extra shit.

Truth was, I wasn’t interested in nobody right now. I had Ryan, and even that was barely a situation. We fucked around when we both had time, but it wasn’t serious. He knew it, I knew it, and that’s how I liked it. Men were a headache I didn’t need. They always wanted more than I was willing to give, and I didn’t have the energy to pretend like I gave a fuck about their feelings.

My focus was on Ishmael and on my dreams. I’d been designing clothes since I was a teenager, teaching myself how to sew, how to alter pieces to make them unique. I had a whole portfolio of designs sitting in my closet at home, waiting for the day I could actually do something with them. But that took money, and right now, every dollar I made went toward keeping me and my brother afloat.

One day, though. One day I was gonna make it happen.

“Indie, you good?” Eddie called out, holding up his empty glass.

“Yeah, I got you.” I grabbed the cognac and poured him another, this time a little heavier since he’d been tipping well all night.

The music switched to some old-school Juvenile, and the crowd started getting hype. I could see Roman in the DJ booth, probably requesting specific songs to keep the energy up. He was good at his job, I’d give him that. Even if he did annoy the hell out of me sometimes.

I checked my phone real quick during a lull in orders. No messages from Ishmael. That was either a good thing or a bad thing. I couldn’t tell anymore. I shot him a quick text.

Me:Where you at?