Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. No copyright infringement is intended.
Beta'd by HollettLA.
Higher
Chapter Eighteen: Hustle
EPOV
When I drove up the block, I saw Jasper and Alice walking.
They must have left the car wherever, close by.
I didn't even stop, and I kept driving.
Far enough from my crib, I called Demetri, and then I called my boy in New Jersey.
Then I went to grab the buy money from my spot…
All I do is go into a rest stop with a bookbag of cash. I sit next to Paul, and then I pick up his bag—which is exactly like mine—and then I walk out.
It's simple, safe, and we never use the same spot twice. He hooks me up with eight hundred Mitsubishis, or whatever number I need that week, which is the hottest brand of X right now. The amount I get depends on how much money I have to re-up.
He's reliable and cheap.
Paul sells them for five bucks a piece because he actually makes them, so he's getting like…some huge percentage for only selling them for change.
My uncle doesn't get shit out of the deal, actually. He makes out like a bandit by keeping peeps at his club all night, dancing and paying an arm and a leg for watered down drinks and bottled water.
I sell to him for $15. It used to be a lot less, but these days, it's a bigger risk. Anything ten or below isn't worth my time. He usually has my money by Monday—after the weekend is over.
Any chump you buy X from at the Tunnel will charge you $20 to $25 a pop. That extra five or ten dollars goes to the nickel-and-dimer.
So, for fronting like...for example $2500 and taking a drive, by the start of next week, I'll have $7500.
I have a guy in Manhattan who puts half of it in a Swiss bank account for me.
The rest I bank—in my way, which means hiding spots—or I put that money to work for myself. I buy more shit to distribute, thus making more money.
But…I'm truly content with making one swap a week.
Ecstasy—the new party drugs, the MDMA mixtures—are getting to be more mainstream, especially during the past few months. You get some nerdy, pharmacology motherfucker like Paul, who knows what he's doing, who's bored with his life, wants more money, and you put him to work. You front the money to get him a space somewhere, the necessary equipment, and there you go. I actually knew Paul from junior high, and I'd just happened to run into him one day. He told me what he was up to, how he couldn't find a job, and we hooked up—started doing this.
And I knew exactly who to go to, who'd unload it all easily, and who owed me one, Demetri.
Back in the day, fuck me. Every day, every hour, I was making moves.
When they caught up to me—all because of a broken taillight—they couldn't believe my identity.
Just a sixteen year old, white boy from Brooklyn. I was nothing special, and yet for close to a year I moved more shit than hustlers twice my age.
The shit I'd seen…
The fucked-up shit I'd done…to make money and to people, just because I felt like it.
I didn't want any of that for Bella—
I stopped that train of thought as soon as I started.
I'm not doing this.
It took me an hour and a half to get to where I needed to be. My mind was blank. I couldn't figure out why, because I was hurting like I'd never hurt before—this unbelievable pain, but I couldn't think.
Like always, I got a coffee, sat near Paul, and I ignored him while I pretended to read a book.
"It's all set?" he asked without looking at me.
"Yup." I licked my finger to turn a page.
Paul took the last sip from his cup, threw all his garbage away—pretending like he was in a rush, which I don't get—and then he grabbed my bag.
The place was decently crowded, no cameras were on us, and I'd already checked the place out thoroughly. We were good, but I think Paul's paranoid.
I sighed as my pager went off.
It was the house with Emmett's code.
I ignored him.
After throwing my cup in the garbage, I hopped back into the van and headed…
I had nowhere to go now, knowing Bella was most likely still there.
Emmett kept paging me, too.
Biting the bullet, I called from another rest stop, one closer to the city.
"Hel-hel-hello?" It was Bella.
I didn't say anything.
"Edward, I-I-I love youuuu," she wailed.
"Hello?" It was Emmett. "Yo, can you come back here? Fuckin' talk to her? She won't stop crying."
"She'll get over it," I said. "I was just a lay to her."
"Edward…you know that's not true," he said. "Just…come home. Talk to her, work shit out…Did you really do all that shit—shit to me included—just to walk away because of a misunderstanding? Bella knows she was stupid, and she's sorry. She was mad at you, but she knows she fucked up. And all that shit you said to her? She doesn't want anyone else. She wants you . . . she, she loves you."
I nodded.
"Can you come talk to her?" he asked, and I heard her crying in the background.
I hung up the phone to turn and kick my tire.