Smoke, page 17
Cole folds himself as small as possible, but being constrained by the laws of physics as we are, I’m forced to squash up against him. My back mashes to his chest, not an atom of space between us.
Tugging the sheet back into place, our breaths pant in unison. The smell of his cinnamon gum fills the air, setting fire to the back of my neck.
His exhale tickles my ear. “This is cozy.”
When I turn my head to shush him, his mouth is literally right there. Lips all pink and full and…I gulp, hating how easily I remember their softness. “Shh,” I pathetically manage, snapping my gaze toward the rippling sheet.
Cole’s heart slams a zigzagging beat into my spine until I’m dizzy with its rhythm. But even if he can be trusted, his dad is still a cop. His dad is a cop. His dad is a cop. The phrase cannot be repeated enough.
“Can you hear anything?”
Closing my eyes, I try to tune out Cole’s presence and how he wraps me like cinnamon-infused cellophane. “There’s footsteps,” I reply, voice unsteady. “I think they’re coming this way.”
“Hello?” a deep male voice calls out from the hall, causing me to jump. “Somebody up here?” Keys jingle.
“Must be the janitor,” Cole whispers. “Probably saw the mess in the storage room.”
Anxiety vibrates in my every molecule as I clutch the bag to my chest. “Or it’s one of the security guards.” Either way, I’m monumentally screwed if someone tipped them off about the drugs in my possession.
His boots tromp over to the door, thudding heavy as my heart. Oh my God, this is it! It’s all over! I mash my lips to keep from screaming as the handle twists and the door creaks open.
“Anyone in here?” he asks gruffly.
My face is a portrait of sheer panic as I look up at Cole. Easy, he mouths, cupping his hand around mine.
Nodding, I gaze back to the sheet. And I shouldn’t be thinking how good it feels, having my hand swallowed up in his. Or how the union of our palms sparks a heat, reawakening the dull ache I want to wish out of existence.
The man plods closer, his shadow becoming less fuzzy and more hard-edged as he nears. His hand reaches out, the outline spreading across the thin fabric. I bite my lip, turning my face to Cole’s chest, where his heart hammers hard enough to chip ribs. And then…
A pulsing rhythm erupts in the air followed by the nasally rap of Eminem. The guy’s phone is ringing.
“Yeah,” he answers impatiently, stepping back and standing upright. A few beats of silence pass. “No, not yet.” Another pause. “I already checked there.” He sighs. “Yes, with my eyes open,” he replies, scuffing a boot over the floor. “Fine, I’ll meet you back in storage.” Hanging up, the man abandons his search and exits, keys jangling like a cat bell as he moves swiftly down the hall.
My exhalation flutters the sheet.
“That was close,” Cole murmurs. His hand slides away, leaving mine an empty shell.
We wait until the footsteps fade before crawling out from under the desk. Cole’s cheeks are as flushed as mine feel.
I quickly cross the room and crack the door. “Looks clear,” I say, adjusting the bag at my hip. We slip into the hall. “Do you know if there’s another way out of here?” If these guys are going to be in the storage room, that seals off the only exit I know.
Cole squeezes the back of his neck. “There’s an exit at the opposite end of this hall, but—” He abruptly falls silent following a loud clunk.
A new voice, low and scratchy, filters down the other hallway. “Cole?” I prompt, with a hurry up gesture of my hand.
He blinks, pale eyes going from faraway and dreamy to sharp with purpose. “I have an idea. Come on.”
Together we creep down the corridor, past the drifting tarp. I hang behind as he peers around the corner, quickly ducking his head back. “Okay, here’s the plan,” he whispers with his intoxicating breath. “We wait until they’re both in the storage room. And when I say ‘go’ ”—he points at the distant, glowing sign—“you run like hell for that exit. Once you’re through the door, take the stairs all the way down to the lower-level exit. Not the first floor, but the lower level so nobody sees you. Got it? Lower level,” he repeats.
My head rapidly bobs.
“All right.” Cole resumes his watch, absently cracking his knuckles. With each pop, my muscles wind up to run. “Not yet,” he whispers. “Not yet…” The seconds tick until he suddenly turns. “Go!”
I take off like a shot, firing across the intersection of the two halls, eyes solely fixed on my target. Closing in on the bouncing exit, Cole brings up the rear. His stride steady as a metronome. Just as the door is within reach, I make a startling discovery. My shoes squeak as I trample to a halt.
“There’s…an alarm,” I pant. “We can’t go this way. Cole, they’ll hear us.”
He gulps, catching his breath to reply, “I know. That’s why…you’re the only one going through.”
“But they’ll catch you.”
“So? I’m just the idiot lacrosse player who couldn’t find a net and accidentally triggered an alarm.” He glances over his shoulder, then jerks his chin toward the exit. “You better go.”
Bewildered, I stare up at him. “You’d do that? For me?” After everything I’ve done, how terribly I’ve treated him, distrusted him. He would still cover for me?
By way of answer, his palm smacks the door, pushing it open. Instantly the alarm clangs. “I said go!” he shouts over the din.
Thank you, I mouth, and dart past him.
“Honor!” he calls out as I clear the first flight of stairs.
Careening to a halt on the landing, I look up.
“For what it’s worth,” Cole says, “the kiss, it meant something to me, too.”
Then the door slams shut.
21
The plan is simple. Straightforward. Knox will deliver the six pounds of marijuana to Cannabliss, collect the $12,000 in cash, and immediately return to the greenhouse.
“You remembered your burner phone?” I ask, trailing my brother like a night shadow. The black duffel bag bounces with my stride as we approach his truck, hidden behind one of the greenhouse outbuildings beside Asher’s Pinto beater.
“Yes,” Knox replies. Twisting the handle, he lifts the cover to the truck bed.
The breeze kicks up, filling the dark with the whispers of field grasses. “And your charger and fake ID?” I add, the wind ruffling my grown-out bangs.
Knox grunts an affirmative, adjusting his flat cap and looking every bit the part of an old-timey bootlegger.
“Here, lemme get it,” Ash says to me, removing the bag from my shoulder. The duffel is puffed and swollen like the cured buds we’ve packed inside it. “False bottom I added to the tool bin can be a little touchy,” he explains.
While Ash conceals the cannabis inside the hidden compartment of the large metal container, I continue running the checklist with Knox. “What about the app? Did you sign in so we can track your location? Otherwise we won’t be able to tell when you—”
“Yes,” Knox says, no longer bothering to hide his annoyance. He slams down the cover once Asher is finished. “Relax.”
“You want a hit off my onesy, Hon?” Ash offers. He unzips his ever-present fanny pack, holding out a skinny one-hitter pipe. “Guaranteed to make you feel all sweet and gooey like a melted Fudgsicle.”
“Uh, no. Thanks,” I reply distractedly. His head droops a little. Like a golden retriever you’ve just refused to play fetch with. “That just means more for you, Ash,” I add, then go after my brother. “Hey, Knox, don’t forget if you—”
“For the love of God, Honor,” he gripes, opening the driver’s door. “If the goal’s to smother me like some big-bosomed grandma, mission accomplished.”
“Sorry,” I mumble. “First-drop nerves, I guess.” Leaning against the side of the truck, I massage my temples.
Knox’s face softens when he turns. “It’s gonna be fine,” he says, oozing confidence. “What did Gran always tell us—believing is half the battle?”
My arms drop, hanging like limp noodles at my sides. “Yes, but I’m pretty sure she was talking about your baseball tryouts and not felony drug trafficking.”
Knox puts his hands on my shoulders and squeezes. “Cripes, you’re like a bag of ropes.” He gives me a gentle shake. “Hey, you sure it’s just about the drop?”
I look away, afraid he’ll use some scientifically undocumented sibling osmosis to absorb my thoughts. But I have to warn him. “Promise you’ll be careful. I’m just…I’m worried you’re not taking this seriously enough.”
The moon bobs and weaves among the clouds, showing his exasperated expression. “This is the part where you have to trust me, remember?”
“Knox, I do.”
Shaking his head, he turns back to the truck.
“I mean it, that’s not what this is about! Something happened at school,” I confess.
Slowly, he turns around. “What kind of something?”
“I didn’t want to tell you so close to graduation because…I didn’t want anything to jeopardize that.” It’s jarring enough to see my brother go from diploma to drug mule in the span of thirty-two hours.
Just yesterday I was clapping proudly, sandwiched between Dad and Aunt Maeve as my brother tossed his tasseled cap high. Then, after the ceremony, the four of us piled into our favorite booth at Kringle’s, a quirky place frozen in Christmas 365 days a year. We sat beneath Bud the Santa-hat-wearing moose, bumping elbows and passing ketchup. Our voices overlapped, eager to outdo one another with our best Knox stories (there were many). And for one precious evening, it seemed everyone had forgotten their worries. The laughs came quicker, the smiles more easily.
It was a portal to the simpler times I longed for. And another stark reminder of why this plan has to succeed.
Which is why Knox has to know what happened—from the bogus appointment slip to getting locked in the storage room and the drugs I had to flush down the toilet.
“So that’s why I’m telling you to be extra careful tonight,” I conclude. “Because I still don’t know who targeted me or why.” True, Xander’s a prime suspect, but I don’t have proof, and there’s already bad blood between them.
To my brother’s credit, he’s taking this way more in stride than I expected. “Well,” he says, puffing out a breath, “we know it’s not another dealer, right? I mean, that’s one of the big reasons we wanted to sell to a legit business. Avoid poaching black market customers. Stay totally off their radar.”
I nod. It’s true. Our crew had taken painstaking steps to ensure our sales had zero overlap with local dealers. We might as well be invisible to them.
“Maybe this was a one-off,” my brother continues. “Someone who thought they were being funny by sticking some aspirin in your bag and making you sweat getting busted? You know how ruthless end-of-year pranks can get.”
“I guess it’s possible,” I reply uncertainly.
Knox crushes me to his side in a half hug. “Look, I’ll stay sharp. Promise.” He lets go and slides behind the wheel. “We’ll talk more later.”
Asher hacks in the background, pounding his chest.
My brother glances over to him. “For tonight, you and Ash just focus on harvesting the Kush, and I’ll make the drop to Stan. Easy-peasy.” The truck’s engine rolls like my belly. “I got this, Hon,” he says, the cocky smile reclaiming his mouth. “Back by midnight!” With that, he salutes and rumbles off into the night.
“Do it to it, Augs!” Asher cheers, launching himself into another coughing fit.
I watch until Knox’s red taillights dissolve into blackness. My guts carry on with their twisting and turning. There’s nothing more I can do now. The rest is up to Knox.
So I look to escape this powerless, angsty feeling the only way I know how.
In the dirt.
“Come on, Ash. Let’s go reap some Kush.”
* * *
The plan was simple. Straightforward.
So why hasn’t Knox returned?
“Prolly hit a bad pocket of reception,” Ash drawls, watching as I check the tracking app for the tenth time in as many minutes. “You know how it can be up there. He’ll be back soon. No-ho-hoooo worries.”
Easy for him to say. He’s higher than a Boeing 747. Ash resumes doing a preharvest trim by plucking off the large fan leaves so I can access the cola-bearing stalks.
I inhale, the air plump with earth, and try to refocus. Picking up the shears, I begin cutting off the stems where the buds are now exposed. Hoping to shed my worries in the methodical steps of the harvest.
Pluck. Cut. Trim. Hang. Repeat.
We work in companionable silence as the once stagnant basement air swirls anew, thanks to Asher’s fans and “Fordified” exhaust ventilators. Cobwebs that used to dangle from the ceiling have been replaced with pulleys attached to large rounded metal hoods. Beneath the hoods, 1,000-watt HPS bulbs work eighteen-hour shifts to shower light on the already five-inch seedlings I’ve planted below.
I might’ve gone a bit overboard with my crop. Once I started tucking the seeds knuckle-deep in soil, something came over me. And I just couldn’t stop.
It started as ten seeds. Ten plants to rid us of our debts. But they didn’t look like much for the space Ash had created for the new crop, so I added a few more. Thinking the extras would mean Dad wouldn’t have to keep coming home with new calluses and worry lines. Maybe he could even replace some of his old woodworking tools.
As I continued planting, I considered my college tuition and all the expenses scholarships might not cover. Then I thought about Knox’s dream of snowcapped mountains, and Aunt Maeve getting the retirement nest egg she deserves. I don’t really know Asher’s wishes beyond his next bowl, but I imagine it’s bigger than his gig at the electronics store and double-wide trailer. So he got a few extra plants, too.
And by the time my frenzy was complete, our collective dreams had amounted to forty seedlings. When Knox saw what I’d done, his eyelashes flapped hard enough to harness wind power.
Speaking of…
Tugging off my powder-free gloves, now sticky with resinous THC, I check my burner again. It’s 12:45 a.m. My brother is still off the grid. No calls. No updates.
“I’m gonna try calling him again,” I announce to Ash, who remains blissed out and deep in harvest mode. “He had an hour and forty-five minutes max of drive time. The sale couldn’t have taken forty minutes on top of that.”
The phone rings and rings, my ropey muscles knotting themselves tighter. Suddenly, a loud crash comes from above, followed by the tinkle of glass.
Our eyes instantly rove to the ceiling in alarm. “What was that?” Ash whispers as the fan leaf he was holding drifts to the floor.
“I don’t know.” Goose bumps pucker my flesh. “But it doesn’t sound good.”
Together we edge closer to the stairs, listening for signs of an intruder. But then what? If this is a break-in, what exactly are our options? We can’t very well call the cops. Hey, Officers, don’t mind us and our weed. Just focus on those other criminals. Asher’s fretful expression tells me he’s grappling with the same thought.
Peeling off the cumbersome baggy coveralls, I climb partway up the stairs. Ash snaps his fingers, shaking his head so hard his eyeballs rattle.
“I’m just listening,” I whisper. Knowing the hatch door is locked and concealed by the grooved rubber mat is the only thing giving me courage to venture this close. Closing my eyes, I strain to hear beyond the door.
“Anything?” he asks after a few beats.
“They’re not inside. But I hear voices. And…hissing.” Craning my neck, I listen harder to place the sound.
“Hissing?” Ash repeats, confused. “Like cats? Is it a cat fight?”
“No, more like a shh—” Another pane of glass breaks.
“What the hell kind of aim was that?” a male voice reprimands. “Is your wrist as limp as your dick?” Someone laughs. There’s a clanking sound, like pellets against metal, followed up by more hissing.
My anger intensifies as I grit my teeth. “The hissing isn’t cats. It’s a spray can. Someone’s vandalizing the greenhouse.”
This is more than just graffiti. It’s personal. And nobody desecrates my greenhouse. Nobody.
“Stay here,” I tell Ash as he snaps off his gloves. I pull the pepper spray from my pocket. “I’m going up before they do any more damage.” When I go to push through the door my ankle is caught. “Hey!” I yelp.
“Where you go, I go,” he says with a surprising amount of determination for someone so stoned. “Consider me the ham to your cheese, girl.”
“Fine,” I mutter. Ash untethers his hand from my ankle. “But it’s going to be a lot easier to explain my presence at the greenhouse than yours.”
“Who says anyone will see me? I can be super stealth when I wanna be.”
Holding my breath, I slowly push open the floor hatch. Shards of glass glitter on the cement several feet away. Adjacent to the glass lies a can of spray paint, accounting for one of the broken windows.
“I’ll sneak into the hall and turn on the exterior lights,” I whisper.
Crouching low, I skirt through the greenhouse, swerving around another area of glass. Asher quietly lumbers behind me. I reach the light panel, flipping up the two switches on the end. The exterior lights blaze to life.
One of the vandals yells, “Someone’s in the building!”
Now that it’s brighter outside, I can make out the stocky shapes of several guys clad in black, wearing knit ski masks.
