Chapter One:
The One Where Naomi Wants Out

"Tell me again how we can make four grand in a night and yet still not have our own bedrooms?" Naomi posed the inquiry, more to moan than anything else. With wistful eyes, she imagined the traffic outside her window did not exist, in its stead only trees and birds and maybe, far off in the distance to where she could walk if she had to, a supermarket.

Behind her in the wide open space of their shared studio apartment, Cook stood in nothing but his tidy whities, contemplating two pairs of pants. Naomi didn't quite care for the view of the city life beneath her, but if it meant not giving Cook the delight of an audience, she'd sit sentinel all day. In Cook's delay, Naomi decided to inch toward her sardonic quota of the day."Oh, that's right, a quarter of it goes to rent, and the rest goes right back into the job."

"'oohs goh' yer knickers ina bunch, babe?" Cook grunted in his thick Derby accent, choosing gray denim jeans over black slacks, tugging them snug until they hugged his hips.

"Life?" Naomi suggested as if it were the most obvious answer in the world, ashing her cigarette outside the window before taking another drag.

Naomi could hear the jingle of a belt as Cook fastened his, as well as the shift in the location of his voice as he presumably turned to inspect himself in the mirror. "You weren't complainin' 'bout the money a month ago."

"I changed my mind. Sue me."

"Mooch sooneh fook y'm'self 'fore lettin' the court do it for me, sweets."

Naomi turned her head for the sole purpose of shooting Cook a look of death. He returned it with a toothy grin. With a roll of her eyes, she flicked the spent filter out the window, aiming for a passerby but hitting only cement. "Perfect," she muttered before tugging the window pane down and locking it back in place.

"I get it. It beats McDonald's. I'm just saying for a job I could spend ten to life for if I get caught, you'd think a lady could have some privacy." Naomi draped herself across the couch, face-down into the leather cushions. She heard the creak of the armrest as Cook perched himself atop it, slipping on a pink polo.

"Nievuh oov us kin keep a tidy job fer longer th'n'a day n'you know thahs the troof. I'd end up fookin' th'boss's daughter 'n y'wouldn' geh pahs a day wifout tellin' some pig t'prick 'imself wif 'is own dick. Sellin's whut we're good at."

"Why are you talking like you're trying to sell me on the job? I'm not cutting out. I'm just-"

"Bleedin' like a stuck pig?"

"You're the pig."

"Yer talkin' like we're piss poor. Look, babe, if y'need soom plug money, I'llechu borrow a coupla bucks."

Naomi rolled over on her back, narrowing her eyes up at Cook. "Really. How is it possible to be so simultaneously charming and disgusting?"

"Y'think'm charmin'?"

"I'm speaking objectively. Some women think you're charming." Naomi closed her eyes, inhaling deeply before releasing the capacity of her lungs. Before she could repeat the exercise, she felt a strong hand lift her head and shoulders off the couch as if she weighed no more than a watermelon. Cook slid off the armrest into the void he had just created before dropping Naomi's head into his lap. She thought to sit up, but his fingers were already running through her hair. She'd be loathe to admit it, but his calloused fingertips rubbed her scalp exactly where she needed it.

"Naoms, if y'want out, jus' say the word. I'll take yer clients, take the risk. Johnny wasn' thah fond of you taggin 'long wif me anyway. 'e'll be 'appy yer out. I'll still make the same dough, you can jump from restaurant to restaurant 'til yeh can' walk into one wifout a bad referral in someone's ear and we'll buy one of dem room dividers. I'm not notgonna walk 'round starkers, though. Man's gotta 'ave freedom in 'is own 'ouse."

Naomi bit back the curl of her lip as she fought a smile, slowly shaking her head. "I don't want to sit up at night wondering if you're in a jail cell until you get home. With the two of us pushing product, we're in by two and neither of us are out a roommate. As long as we're here, Johnny can go fuck himself. I'm just saying . . . maybe we stop being here soon."

"Whot, like move?"

"To somewhere where five-hundred square feet doesn't cost $875? I can't say I'd be against the idea."

Cook leaned his head far back, eyes darting across the ceiling as he utilized it as his own personal whiteboard, adding up numbers to subtract, carrying the one. His lips ghosted the narration of his progress, fingers now drumming lightly against Naomi's scalp as his focus poured into the mental math.

"Yeah. Yeah, we kin do thah'," he nodded, each consecutive bob of his head growing more assured. "Figure anovuh coople o'months t'save and get squared away wif Johnny, we could go somewhere. Maybe pack oop and 'ead to Denver. Spliffs on the fron' porch!" Cook pinched his thumb and index finger together to his lips, sucking in a satisfying imaginary hit before exhaling imaginary smoke through a laugh.

Naomi reached up and took the invisible joint from Cook's hand, taking a hit of her own before blowing it back into his face with a smirk.

"Yeheahah! Whot the 'ell are we doin' 'ere? Le's do our time'n fookin' bail. Nothin' in Chicago we 'aven't already seen." The sincerity in Cook's voice was the kicker; he'd earned a Naomi Campbell smile, teeth and all.

"Thank tits, yes!" Naomi exhaled in relief, shaking her hands up towards the sky, as if God wanted any credit for their debauchery.

"Oi, 'ey, 'ow 'bout a spliff 'fore we 'it the Deep? Y'know, t' celebra'e!"

Letting her actions do the talking, Naomi leaned forward toward the coffee table, groping at an intricate stash box, flipping first the latch, then the lid open. Plucking out an already-rolled blunt and a lighter, both with the same hand, she rose the blunt as an offering to Cook's lips, who readily pursed it between his lips. Falling back into his lap, Naomi struck the lighter and held it up until Cook mumbled a quick, "go' it!" through a puff of smoke.

As the blonde duo approached the neon sign and faintly pounding music of Skin Deep, arguably the best club for house music on Printer's Row, Naomi watched through a haze of cigarette smoke as Cook rifled through his wallet, counting his bills.

"Oof, runnin' low on dough," he mumbled, flipping through a twenty, a five and four singles. "Naoms, think y'kin spot me covah tonigh'?"

Naomi pursed her cigarette between her lips, putting up a finger to signal 'one moment' as she dug her own wallet from the inner pocket of her jacket, her tights offering no cargo space. Propping open the trifold, the tip of her cigarette drooped with the pout of her lip. She took a heavy drag, stashed her wallet away, and plucked the cigarette from her lips with a shake of her head.

"I've got seven in cash," she reported woefully amidst her cloud, slowing her stroll in time with Cook as they neared the bouncer and small queue.

"Fook. Looks like we gotta make a sale 'fore we kin get cozy." Cook looked around before jerking his head in the direction of the side alley. Naomi followed his lead. "I can' wait oontin I'm twen'y-one. Twen'y a night is killin' me."

Checking the brick wall for piss, vomit, semen or any vile combination of the three before leaning back against it, Naomi snuffed her cigarette against the mortar, tossing the filter into the nearby dumpster. Cook thumped an idle beat on the thin sheet metal, bobbing his head to whatever song he had decided to serenade Naomi with, eyes always out towards the street as he scanned for familiar faces, as well as uniforms.

Naomi could just barely make out the lyrics of the remix currently playing. With a little help from her memory, she could imagine which colored lights and what style of strobe were pulsing. It was a Friday night; the easiest night to do business if they got in early enough. Even at . . . Naomi dug out her cell and looked at the time . . . 10:17, the dance floor was most certainly packed body to body. It was the perfect cover, so long as both parties knew what they were doing.

She had found the eight balls of methamphetamine in their apartment before she was even aware Cook sold. It made sense, though. He'd been piss poor the second he turned his back on his father; without jumping hoops for the government, his lack of U.S. citizenship kept him from finding a convenient, legal job. Yet he had found the money to get them both out of Gina's hair. Naomi didn't question it at the time. Maybe his father had wired him some guilt money, or hell, maybe Cook's dick really did inspire showers of dollar bills, but the moment she found the powder, everything clicked into place. She'd been more curious than upset. Not by much, but enough to keep the confrontation to follow more informative than combustible.

"Naoms, chill fer a secon', 'righ'? Now I know it's no' my MO, bu' I'm doin' this smar', 'righ'? Johnny's go' an easy thing goin'. He deals with the big guy, a coopla'us deal wif 'im. We each get our own sellin' groun'. No one overlaps. We deal to returnin' clients, coopla times'a week. Y'know, re-up, 'n we go 'ome, a thousand dollahs richer. It's good money. It's money that I can make. It's safe. I wouln' do tha' t'you."

"And what about you? You don't keep some to the side, do you?"

"Fook, can you imagine me on tha' shite? World can' even 'andle Cookie as is!"

A faint smile played on Naomi's lips, though nothing in comparison to the memory of that gigawatt grin that seemed to get Cook into as much trouble as it got him out of. By the end of that night, he had had Naomi okay with the whole notion. By the end of the week, she was insistant that she tagged along, if only to keep him out of trouble. Three months down the road and they were here, co-workers with an unbeatable synergy, standing beside a dumpster because neither could afford the cover.

Naomi just barely had time to raise an eyebrow to the sudden alertness in Cook's posture. She failed to notice that his stormy blue eyes had been trained on a parking cop car before he rounded on her, taking her by the shoulders and pushing her hard against the wall. He pressed closed lips to hers. Groping at her thigh, the one facing out towards the street, he hefted it up, guiding her ankle to wrap about his backside, slipping a rough palm just beneath the hem of her jacket, but not beneath her shirt. She exhaled furiously through her nose, palms digging into his chest in her attempt to push him off, succeeding in nothing. Removing his lips from hers, he buried his face into the crook of her neck, whispering hurriedly into her ear, "Jus' play alon'. 'e's cruisin' for 'is quo'a."

Naomi turned away from Cook's hot breath, the sound of a car door slamming shut drawing her attention to the officer now approaching them. He undid a snap on his utility belt, bringing up his flashlight mid-stride, illuminating the both of them with the harsh beam, but not before Naomi returned her attention to their faux faux pas, squeezing her eyes shut and throwing her head back in mock enjoyment, palms still fighting against Cook despite herself.

"Hey!" the cop addressed the two of them loud and clear, heavy footsteps growing nearer. "Where do you think you are?"

Cook drew away from Naomi, squinting through the light at the silhouette of the shorter officer. He smiled, allowing Naomi to push him back a few inches and regain her dignity. She was positively red. "Jus' stealin' a kiss to keep us warm 'fore we walk 'ome, officer. Didn' think anybo'y'd min' if we used this alley."

"You thought wrong, son. Ma'am, was this man hurting you?" the beam blinded Naomi now as he turned to address her.

"H-hurting? No! He's my . . . boyfriend," she tried her best to sound convincing, but she was sure her expression undid the lies she fed. This cop wasn't all bad. Their fate was clearly in her hands, the officer's sympathies certainly not extended toward the horny blonde beside her. "I told him to wait, but you know how boys get . . . They want to unwrap their presents early," she wanted nothing more than to gag as she offered a sickly sweet smile.

The officer examined them both in a minute of silence, Cook's smile slowly fading as the color in Naomi's face drained. After a beat, he seemed satisfied and somewhat disappointed. Directing his flashlight downward, he looked Cook dead in the eyes.

"Take her home. You might not have as kind an audience next time. Listen to the little lady."

"Oh yes, officer. Definitely lis'enin' t'my princess from now on. Scout's honor!" Cook held up a peace sign. Naomi stifled a groan and rolled her eyes. The officer merely stared at him until the sandy-blonde man caught on with an "oh!", offering a hand to Naomi. "Le's ge' you 'ome." Naomi took it, nodded politely at the officer as they passed him and followed beside Cook quietly, not looking back until they heard the engine of the cop car start up.

"What the hell kind of improvision was that?" Naomi hissed, still keeping in step with Cook's unbroken stride. As she looked up at him, she could tell he had been breathing heavy, his chest still rising and falling with the effort. He glanced back down at her, attempting to blink away the anxiety that had settled behind his eyes.

With his retort, he seemed to slowly return to his usual self. Slowly. "The foon kyn," he muttered, squeezing Naomi's hand in a tight vice before letting it go altogether, running the same hand through his hair. "Foooooook," he exhaled long and low, pace finally slowing down.

A glance behind her told Naomi that the cop was long gone now.

"Sorry, luv. Jus' couln' think oof anootha reason we'd be campin' dumpsters. Better a slap on the wrist than a shake down. Said I'd keep us safe, yeah?" The thin line of his lips drew Naomi out of her huff. She stopped walking. As soon as Cook realized Naomi wasn't at his side, he stopped too, backtracking to close the distance between them.

"You did. We're safe. Nothing happened," Naomi reassured as soon as she was certain she had Cook's full attention. His expression twitched, eyes moistening before he hardened them, strong brow furrowing.

"You go' us ou'. I know that. Coopla' months and then Denver, yeah?"

Naomi knew if she reacted to his unintentionally piteous front in any way other than an answer and then dropping it, they wouldn't be selling tonight. Her stomach rumbled defiantly, even louder than the fear that had settled in its pit. The product in her jacket suddenly felt like paperweights, a pound for every gram. Producing a cigarette from her pouch pocket, she lit it and offered it to Cook. "As long as we keep on track."

Cook nodded, took a steadying drag from the cigarette and tried to give it back to Naomi. She merely waved him off.

"It's yours."

"Cheers," he nodded again, sucking the filter until a quarter of the cigarette was dangling ash.

Just as Naomi felt Cook could be convinced to head back to Skin Deep, a group of three rounded the sidewalk corner, approaching them from their left, dressed in club attire. Cook followed Naomi's stare before breaking out into a grin, raising both his arms high in greeting, lungs still filled with smoke.

"Mikey! Good man, coom t'see the Cookie Monster?"

The group smiled back, the only man of the three taking the lead as he approached Cook and clasped hands with the blonde.

"You know it. Why aren't you inside already? I figured you and Naomi would be splittin' a drink by the bar."

"Low on cash. Think you could fron' us covah? Take it out of your to'al, 'course."

"Yeah man. Let's get inside."

Cook met Naomi at the bar, head down as he counted the bills Mikey had just exchanged with him. Satisfied that it was all there, minus he and Naomi's cover fee, he pocketed the wad and threw his elbows back behind him against the counter, settling in beside his roommate. They both surveyed the club, eyes scanning both levels of the dance floor, as well as the shadowed corners. Naomi had been right. The turn-out was phenomenal.

Catching the eyes of one of his regulars, Cook nodded his head in her direction, fingertips grazing Naomi's elbow, dismissing himself before disappearing into the crowd to make his second sale of the evening. Naomi watched him off briefly before examining the thick, black "X"s on the backs of her hands. As if the walk hadn't been enough by itself, the scare with the police officer had completely sobered her up from her buzz. She couldn't help but feel nursing something drowning in vodka would ease up the bundle of anxiety in her gut.

Before she could think too long on it all, a feminine, tawny-haired man popped into the seat beside her, hands gripping the lip of the stool as he rocked back and forth.

"Naoms! Did you bring me a present?"

Naomi simply flashed a thin-lipped smile, cast a look across her shoulder at the more-than-busy bartenders, and sidled in a bit closer to the giggling young adult as she discreetly reached into her jacket.

"Your usual?"

"Make it double," the young man crooned, twirling a lock of his own hair, trying not to watch too eagerly as Naomi presumably palmed the powder he was craving. "I've got myself a boy toy tonight."

Naomi's smile split into something a bit more genuine as her hand fell to her side. The young man followed her cue, discreetly meeting her hand with his, relying on feel alone to ensure the transaction as his eyes twinkled with the sight of the crowd. He giggled again, stepping in front of Naomi before leaning in to kiss her cheek. She barely felt the bills slip into her pouch pocket as he lightly clutched her side.

"I'll give you the sticky, icky details next time, if you'd like," he grinned as he stepped back a few paces.

Naomi laughed and shook her head. "I'll give you a ten dollar discount if you don't."

"Nooo promiiiseesss!" he chimed in sing-song before dancing his way back into the crowd.

After her first sale, the night's pace picked up to a comfortable jog, quick enough to keep her from revisiting her nerves, but slow enough to allow her to take a few dances for herself, even sharing one with Cook as they checked in with each other for the second time that night.

Cook had bragged that he was nearly out, jostling Naomi by the shoulder good-naturedly as he asked if he could take a few grams of her hands to push. She slipped him an eight ball, told him to knock himself out. They split ways with a promise to be out before two.

She was certain Cook would find her first and rub in the fact that he had beat her to the finish line. Again. She'd gotten so used to retorting, "That's not a good thing, Cook," that they didn't even have to exchange the words anymore. He'd merely show up beside her, grinning toothily; she'd roll her eyes, and they'd be out the door without a word, lighting up a cigarette to celebrate another night's work well done. So when the last of her bags were gone, pockets brimming with wads of salty cash, and Cook nowhere to be seen, she found herself walking the perimeter of the club, shoulder to the walls as she followed along them.

Just before she hit a breakaway hallway leading to the bathrooms, Naomi spotted Cook talking it up with a dolled-up beauty. She could tell he was rather engaged, an arm thrown above them both against the wall as he leaned in a couple inches closer than his casual conversing style, extending himself but not to the extent of looming. His eyes stayed remarkably trained on hers, despite her low-cut baby-tee and skin-tight neon hoses. They were highlighter orange and played against her plum-tinted, rosewood hair in a curiously eye-catching way. But she doubted the woman's color palette was what had Cook laughing with her.

'Great, he still beat me. He got bored and decided to cruise. And he wonders why I want my own bedroom,' Naomi couldn't help but think, not sure whether she was sore over losing, being inconvenienced in her search for him, or merely embittered by the likelihood of having to dig up ear plugs to get any shut-eye tonight.

She was short, Naomi continued to observe patiently. Bitter or not, Naomi wasn't a cock-blocker. And really, after the way their night had started, she was just happy to see Cook loosening up again. From her vantage point, she couldn't quite catch the woman's eyes, or her lips really. Just that they tugged upwards a good number of times in sync with Cook's own smiles, and that while she swayed toward him, she never touched him.

'You're going to have to lay down some ground work for this one, Cook,' Naomi smiled to herself, pushing off from the wall, just about ready to intervene now that it was obvious this hunt would draw itself out over a few nights minimum. Before she could take her first step, she was stopped again, watching as Cook reached behind the woman and tucked something in the back pocket of her cut-off denim skirt.

As he drew back, he quickly gathered the obvious sight of bills that she offered, grabbing her gently by the elbow and flushing her front against his only for as long as it took him to stash the cash. She must have said something, because he put both his palms up in display, taking a step back as his eyes twinkled mischievously. Naomi could imagine the piss-poor apology he offered, but she was not at all surprised that it worked. The unnatural brunette placed a sweet, almost caressing palm square against his chest before he stumbled back from a playful push, and then she was gone with her new purchase, Cook's eyes trailing after her.

Naomi took her sweet time walking over to Cook, knowing she had quite the window to sneak up on him. His new friend didn't go straight for the dance floor, instead making a beeline for a small group settled by the bar. All that to say, Cook's eye candy was in plain view up until the very moment Naomi spoke. "Who the hell was that?" Naomi asked calmly, feeling Cook's skin jump as she settled beside him, arms crossed over her chest lightly. Already anticipating Cook accusing her of being jealous, as well as realizing how eerily perfect she had played right into that claim, she cut to the heart of her meaning. "She's not one of our regulars."

"Naoms! Hey, I wus jus'bout t'find you," Cook wrapped an arm about Naomi's shoulder, pulling her in tight.

Naomi repeated for her hard-of-hearing friend, "Cook, who was that?"

"Whot? The pret'y thin'? Di'n't ca'ch 'er name . . ." his brow knitted in sudden, deep regret, "or 'er numbah."

Naomi worked herself from underneath Cook's arm, moving to stand in front of him, arms still crossed. "Jesus Christ, Cook, you sold to a random?"

She watched his eyes scan hers for a moment as her tone settled in his ear, face falling into some semblance of serious before he smiled dismissively.

"Oh. Naoms, relax, yeah? We traded passwords'n e'rythin'. She wus jus' buyin' for'er man." Naomi looked on unimpressed. "Oof, c'mon Naoms!" Cook pleaded.

Naomi exhaled hard. "Talk about it on the way home?"

Cook nodded obediently, following after Naomi's lead for once as she carved a path towards the front doors.

The moment the brisk night air hit her skin, Naomi was grabbing for a cigarette and a light, feet carrying her in large strides away from the club. Cook followed after, giving her a foot's berth, quiet and attentive in anticipation of his scolding.

Perhaps it was the nicotine talking, but the venom in Naomi's bite was receding. Suddenly, fighting didn't sound nearly as cathartic. "When the hell did we get passwords?" she sighed, the earlier charge in her interrogation dissipated.

Cook laughed and eagerly caught up to her side. "She said she wan'ed t'go swimmin'n the 'deep en'," Cook stressed "deep end" with air quotations, eyeing Naomi's cigarette before she plucked it from her lips and passed it off to him. "No way she coo'd be a snitch. Girl's greeneh than bud and more obvious than a hotbox. 'Sides, the more we sell, the soonah we ge' t'Denver, innit?"

Naomi considered his reasoning for a beat before conceding with a half-assed nod, accepting her cigarette as it came back around to her. "Then keep it in your pants and don't piss off her boyfriend. Clear?"