DISCLAIMER: I don't own anything, but I'm pretty sure Demi Lovato and Selena Gomez are totally gay for each other. Oh, and Bieber is just Selena's beard.

A/N: Okay so I got so many reviews for the first chapter. 11 reviews! That's a-fuckin-lot for me! So THANK YOU to everyone who reviewed, it really means a lot and encouraged me to write more :). Sorry I can't reply to all of you individually, I have to study for end-of-year exams. I just did 150 vocabulary cards… and it took a LONG time. Sorry it's so short but, I love you guys :D.

!~GANGSTA DICTIONARY~!:

Crip: The Crips are a primarily, but not exclusively, African American gang. They were founded in Los Angeles, California in 1969. What was once a single alliance between two autonomous gangs is now a loosely connected network of individual sets, often engaged in open warfare with one another. The Crips are one of the largest and most violent associations of street gangs in the United States, with an estimated 30,000 to 35,000 members. The gang is known to be involved in murders, robberies, and drug dealing, among many other criminal pursuits. The gang is known for its gang members' use of the color blue in their clothing. Crips are publicly known to have an intense and bitter rivalry with the Bloods and lesser feuds with some Chicano gangs.

Blood: The Bloods are a street gang founded in Los Angeles, California. The gang is widely known for its rivalry with the Crips. They are identified by the red color worn by their members and by particular gang symbols, including distinctive hand signs. The Bloods are made up of various sub-groups known as "sets" between which significant differences exist such as colors, clothing, and operations, and political ideas which may be in open conflict with each other. Since their creation, the Blood gangs have branched out throughout the United States. The Bloods gang was formed initially to compete against the influence of the Crips in Los Angeles

Cuzzz: Word Crips call each other

Sherm: Tobacco mixed with weed, dipped in PCP

Sherm head: One who uses sherm alot

Purp: Marijuana that displays purple hairs and deep greens

Angel dust: Nickname for sherm. It can bring on violent behavior from users, along with hallucinations. It is also very harmful from a onetime usage standpoint; it can cause seizures, comas, and even death; and that's without even overdosing, it all depends on how you react to it.

C-Walk: Not a dance move, the c-walk was originated by Crips to taunt and insult the Bloods, it was also done when they murdered a person they would c-walk to represent their set. C-walk course short for Crip Walk. The c-walk is movement in your feet to give people the idea that you're floating. Crips usually spell out the name of their set with their feet.

Loc: The leader or OG of a Crip gang

Hoo bangin': Gangstas throwing gang signs/shouting their gang or advertising it some way

Bad Trip: Caused by drugs; a bad trip is a "trip" that goes from peace and oneness to pure horror and evil. Hallucinations resulting from a bad trip often involve monsters, horrifying scenes, and paranoia/anxiety.

Buggin': Acting in a manner which is not socially acceptable

Tray dat/Tray that: Word meaning yes, or right on

G-ride: Word originating from GTA, means stolen vehicle

OG: Original gangster

Thug Life: Come In With The Rain

I'll leave my window open,
'Cause I'm too tired at night to call your name
Just know I'm right here hopin',
That you'll come in with the rain

DEMI POV

I sighed anxiously, tapping the pads of my fingers against the plastic seat in front of me as I clung to the metal pole connected to the roof of the unstable bus. Looking out of the drenched semi-transparent window, I sensed we were getting closer to my destination. My only home, where I belonged. The familiar aroma of fresh rain on the pavement invaded my nostrils and I inhaled greedily, unwanted memories flooding back. The particular smell reminded me of better times, much better times. But alas, I have no right to be reminiscing, having turned a new leaf and all.

I didn't own a car sadly; public transportation was my only means of traveling anywhere. It was pretty convenient and cheap, so that's a plus. A downside is that there are plenty of douche bags that also commute by bus. I've gotten in countless, mostly meaningless, fights with pompous 'entrepreneurs' who think that their shit doesn't stink. News flash, it definitely does. I was getting riled up just thinking about it.

I hate people like that. People who think that their better than everyone else. It really just makes me want to knock them out and off of their high horse. It really doesn't help that I'm burdened by incorrigible anger problems. My hands gripped the freezing metal in a deathly grip and I took deep, soothing breaths. The couple in the row of seats in front of me stared evasively and I copied their actions, causing them to turn back around. I rolled my eyes and let out a bruising sigh, clutching my baggy jacket impossibly closer to my body.

The bus halted, seemingly inviting another passenger on. A haggard man sluggishly stumbled up the steps, almost collapsing on top of the bus driver. He was dressed in a ratty jean jacket over a soiled gray t-shirt and formal black slacks. Perched on top of his haphazardly styled hair was a black beanie that looked like it had seen better days. I internally scoffed at his choice of attire. He shouldn't be allowed to dress himself, or undress himself for that matter; his looks weren't very enticing.

"Thankshhhhh mannnnnn." The man slurred in a drunken haze; his face pressed into the supportive shoulder of a complete stranger. He carelessly patted the driver on the back before pushing off and staggering towards the back of the bus. The driver quickly reclaimed his personal space and I clenched my teeth angrily, conjuring up a stereotype. Just another rich drunk. He didn't look rich though, to be honest he looked like complete trash. As the man waded into clearer view, I could hazily make out his facial features from the flickering glow of the overhead lights.

It wasn't a pleasant sight. Scratchy beard, awkward hairstyle that formed a buzz cut and a fauxhawk mixed together and unkempt eyebrows that resembled bushy caterpillars about to engulf his face. As the stranger sluggishly slinked past me, his eyes widened in surprise, eyebrows unattractively disappearing under his beanie. He shook his head a couple of times as if he was trying to do a hair-flip, almost tripping over his two feet by doing so.

"D-Demiiii?" He stuttered in disbelief, getting too close for my comfort. I was still confused as to who I was speaking to and didn't respond. The way I perceived things, if you're important, then I'll actually give a fuck. I looked at the man questioningly, but I don't think he was coherent enough to notice and kept trying to retain my attention.

"Demiiiii-iiiii-ii-i" He repeated, eyes scanning my form in bewilderment. The repulsive smell of stale alcohol, vodka to be exact, pierced through the air and overpowered the once calming aroma of pleasant rain. His strong hand latched onto my stiff shoulder from above causing my body to vehemently freeze. All I registered is that someone I didn't know was touching me.

My mind recoiled from its unmoving state and I viciously lashed out, fist flying out with an incomprehensible quickness. My knuckles loudly crunched against skin as my right hook caught him in the left eye. The man uncompromisingly toppled over onto the seats adjacent from mine. He abnormally twitched on the floor for a while before letting unconsciousness take him. My hands throbbed in worry and my breath shortened, anxiety hitting me like a ton of bricks. My body shook, trying futilely to suppress the unadulterated anger that had just slipped out of my system.

Looking up, I received terrified stares from everyone on the bus. They were scared of me. They thought I was a monster. I am a monster. I'm no good. I slowly moved, shaky fists clenched at my side, to the foreground of the bus. A few people unpleasantly flinched as I rounded them, making me recede even more into myself. I took one last look at the bus driver's stern face and I quickly concluded to never ride this bus again. I had just ruined yet another innocent.

As I shamefully exited the bus, I observed the dilapidated warehouse sitting on the corner through the foggy front window. My shoes nosily sloshed on my first steps out into the dreary atmosphere, hands disappearing into my enormous pockets. Darkness clouded my vision and I used the dimly lit street lights as a guide. I pulled at my hood tightly, trying to block out the rain from combining with my skin.

I felt my resolve breaking and vehemently shook my head at myself. I'm a new person. A new person that doesn't regret or feel guilty about anything, no matter how bad the ending turns out. How can I even call myself a thug? I'm such a pussy, and gangstas are supposed to be ruthless. Gangstas aren't supposed to attend everyone's funeral they murdered and lay a forgiving rose on the grave. No, in fact, they go to funerals and steal the body just to dispose of it themselves. It was disgusting really. I always hated when they did that, it was unethical behavior. But I had to sit there and suck it up, acting as if I was seemingly unaffected. Sometimes I didn't even want to be a part of a gang, but then I think back to the notion that they're all I've got. And thinking that, realizing I had nowhere else to go, just makes me even more depressed.

I took a calculating breath, my footwork morphing into a C-walk as I rounded the musky corner and stepped into the depths of the corrupt warehouse.

"Ay, cuzzz!" Tray-Ball greeted me as I entered, standing up from his position on a white plastic chair and initiating me in a complex handshake. He smiled his charming smile at me, the one that could make any girl swoon, but not me. I had learned the hard way; I was more intelligent than that. Ain't nobody gonna fuck with my heart. Again.

Tray-Ball was African-American with light-skin that resembled creamy milk chocolate. In fact, most of my homies were black, but it didn't bother me a bit. In reality, it made me feel even more bad-ass, knowing I was one of the few white gangstas associated with the gang. Tray-Ball was in common gang attire, baggy jeans, blue t-shirt, and a blue cap.

"Sup loc?" I responded, removing the hood that was shielding my vision. He engulfed me in a secure hug and I could smell the overpowering stench of sherm on him. I rolled my eyes and huffed in annoyance. I told him to stop using that crazy shit but he wouldn't ever listen. More than half of the time he experienced a bad trip, but he still couldn't get enough of the stuff.

"Jus chillin', smokin' dat angel dust, you kno. What up wit you, Lil' D?" Tray-Ball asked from over my shoulder. I was really tight with Tray-Ball. Although it wasn't unusual to be close with a gang member, we were all family after all. You're just closer with some than others, in different ways. I could always confide in him my problems and my worries, and he would listen attentively, never quick to judge. He wouldn't look at me with disdain when I told him that I didn't really want to be in a gang at times. He would look at me in sympathy when I told him I wanted to do well in school and be able to get a job, but lost motivation because I felt like I couldn't change that I was stupid and got horrible grades.

He listened to me and I listened to him. Whenever he told me a precocious story about his childhood, further concluding the fact that it sucked-ass, I would nearly burst into tears. It didn't help that by sharing his experiences, he was mainly trying to get me to realize that some people have it worse. 'I know, but what about me?' I would comment through my tears. I was so selfish, and I knew it. All I wanted was for my life to be not so fucked up, is that too much to ask for?

He was the only homie that had ever seen me cry because of emotional problems. I had cried plenty of times in front of the whole gang because of getting shot or wounded in some way. You weren't labeled a pussy if you started crying when you got hit. Everyone knew that shit hurt.

"Nothin' much, you sherm head." We detached from our hug and I fell lazily onto the couch, sighing in deep thought. Whose party was I at last night? What did I drink? How much did I drink? What did I do? I always ask myself these questions after an incoherent night filled with hard partying. I hate being out of the loop, makes me feel like I missed something.

Tray-Ball leaned over my form, his face blocking my vision. A sly smile formed on his face.

"Who'd you get wit last night gurl?" He grinned pervertedly, playfully waggling his eyebrows up and down. He was always so interested in my sexual escapades, I don't get why. It's not like I got more ass then him… ok well, maybe sometimes. I rolled my eyes and denied him the information, as usual.

"You buggin'?" I raised my eyebrow at him. He pursed his lips and crossed his cut arms over his muscular chest, not moving. He was relentless; I knew he would stay there for an hour if I let him go on that long. I sighed exasperatedly and glared at him in silent defeat. His face morphed into a winning smile, knowing I was giving into his wishes. It always happened anyway, he was the only homie that was strong enough to break my nearly invincible resolve.

"Billy Ray's daughter." I mumbled, putting a hand on his shoulder and forcibly pushing him away from me. He stumbled back into a flimsy chair and made it topple over with all the unbalanced weight. Tray-Ball looked up at me from his position on the concrete floor, his hat slipping off of his head and onto the floor like a dead body.

"Miley? Dat crazy ho been tryin' to get wit you since… since… well, I ain't really good wit numbahs, but I kno it's been a long ass time!" Tray-Ball stood, dusting off his baggy jeans and adjusting the bandanna in his back left pocket.

"Tray dat, cuzzz!" Fly appeared in the room and I stiffened, my mouth closing tightly. Tray-Ball greeted Fly with their handshake and they strongly clapped each other on the back. I always tensed up when I saw Fly, and for a while after he's been in the room. It was an acquired reaction. We used to sleep together a while back, and I kind of fell in love with him. I know, what an idiot, right? I never told him. I had mostly dropped the feelings but every time I see him the memories hit me full force. I know there was a lot of tension and unanswered questions between us. After all, we just stopped having sex with each other all of a sudden. He never asked me why, but he never acted like it affected him. I just thought well, it was nice while it lasted.

Fly was gorgeous, for lack of better word. He was tall, well-built, and light-skinned. He currently wasn't wearing a shirt, so you could see the muscles in his chest and arms. He had the coolest stroll I'd ever seen on a kid. Fly was one year older than me, though he'd dropped out of school like most of our homies. Fly had gotten his name from one night when he stole a G-ride. The police chased the stolen car for as much as it was worth. Unfortunately, the police cruiser was made for this kind of chase and closed in on him quickly. Fly slammed the car to a sudden, screeching halt, hopped out, and ran. It was this run that earned him his name.

As Fly was running from the police, he booked it down a narrow path that was seemingly blocked by a parked car. Noticing that both front windows were down, and not having time to run around the car, Fly dove through the car- entered the passenger window with his arms straight out in front of him like Superman and flew straight through to the driver's window. He almost cleared it, but he was too tall and loosing speed. The rim of the driver's window caught his shoe, slowing down his flight. But it didn't stop him. He stumbled into the side-walk, jumped to his feet, and continued sprinting away. As he hopped a fence, losing the cops behind him, he heard one of them yell "Did you see that nigga fly?" He'd been called 'Fly' ever since.

Fly was an OG, like Tray-Ball. I wasn't an OG yet, I had only been associated for 3 years. But everybody still knew me, 'cuz I was a bad bitch. Fly's dreamy eyes connected eyes with mine, interrupting my train of thought. All of a sudden a row of homies came flooding in, making our eyes tear away from each other. We all greeted each other, yelling 'Ay cuzzz!' and performing a handshake, or hoo-bangin'. They all began chillin', drinking 8-ball and smoking sherm, purp, or anything else they possessed. I watched on in discomfort. I'm not going to lie, I've tried drugs, but it still makes me uneasy. Call me a baby, I don't care.

Sidewinder hovered over me on the couch with a stern look. "Why aren't you at school?" I winced, he would only talk proper when he was mad, wanted respect, or wanted to get his point across. Sidewinder was always telling me to get to school, and encouraging me to do better. Most of the time it made me feel safe and loved, but sometimes it managed to get annoying. He was one of the only gangstas who graduated school, like actually graduating. Not just getting a GED. Plenty of gangstas went back and got their GED because they wanted a job and money. You can't buy drugs without money, right?

I blew my bangs out of my face and looked up at him sheepishly. "Okay, fine. I'll go. Happy?" I smiled innocently and hopped off of the couch with a new found energy. I looked at myself in the mirror before exiting, brushing my fingers through my hair and pulling up my black skinnies a bit. I stole Tray-Ball's hat off of him and placed it on my head. He smiled back at me; he probably didn't even notice that I took his hat. He was so blazed. I rolled my eyes at his antics and pulled on my blue hood before stepping out into the heavy rain. With every drop that hit me, I felt myself relishing in the notion that it was the start of something new.

A/N: So, do you like the vibe you're getting from this set-up or no? I'm not really sure how to write it… after all, I have no experience with gangs; this is solely based off of a book. So, tell me you reaction and review please! Oh and don't worry, Demi will maybe meet Selena in the next chapter, hopefully. I know my stories are very slow-paced and usually people don't like that, sorry :(.

Also, Demi is in a well-known gang called the 'Crips' who wear blue and their enemies are the bloods, who wear red. I did a lot of research and it's actually very interesting. She is in a gang called the Eight-Tray Gangstas, which is part of the Crips. They hold up three fingers when they hoo-bang and say cuzzz with 3 z's because 'Tray' means three.

Fun Fact:The original name for the gang was "Cribs". The name "Cribs" evolved into the name "Crips" when gang members began carrying around canes to display their "pimp" status. People in the neighborhood then began calling them cripples, or "Crips" for short.

REVIEW PLEASE! :D