The Bucket List

6.1 The Dealer

I wake, bleary-eyed and dry-mouthed, to a most unpleasant message.

Meet me at the usual place. Twenty minutes. - H

My phone drops back on the coffee table with a sharp crack. Weak sunlight streams through the sliding glass doors, beyond which an empty balcony overlooks the street below—and across that street, the glittering ocean.

I never saved the number. But I know who it is. And I know what he means by the usual place.

Ignoring the headache at my temple, I fling the blanket over the back of the couch and sit upright. I slap a hand over my mouth to fight back a wave of nausea; the odds are high that Gabby's passed out on the bathroom floor. If it comes down to it, I'd rather throw up in the hedge outside than risk waking her.

She always asks too many questions. I can't drag her into this.

Shivering, I throw on my clothes from last night, grab my phone and keys, and slip out of the twins' apartment. I still have three minutes until the deadline. As I hurry across the street, my arms folded across my chest and my eyes squeezed tight against the glare of the early morning sun, I can't help but fantasize about the porcelain toilet waiting for me back at my apartment. And those cool, tiled floors...

My hangover practically purrs at the thought.

The usual place. Retrieving a ring of keys from my pocket, I slink across the gravel parking lot outside of Pete's Seaside Dive and make a beeline for the back door, out of sight. I unlock the door with fumbling fingers and stumble inside, leaving the door cracked.

Determined not to vomit before my guest's arrival, I hurry behind the bar and grab a bottle of water—and a spare handful of fried pickles, for good measure. They've been sitting out for most of the night, and are probably ice cold and drenched in grease, but they look like a five-star meal to my churning stomach.

I nibble on the edge of a pickle as the back door crashes open. Henry "Hot Rod" Ganza—a thin, rather tall man—gives the room a quick sweep with his beady eyes, a phone in one hand and a gleaming bit of silver in the other. I pretend not to notice his sneer when those eyes finally land on me.

"Thought you wouldn't show, girly," he calls, jaunty. In his wife beater and faded jeans, he looks no more out of place in this dive than any of our other patrons. He lifts a silver e-cig to his lips and pulls. The scent of mango fills the air seconds later.

I glance up, only vaguely interested. "Why wouldn't I show?"

Maybe because you haven't shown the last three times he tried to call? I shove the thought aside. Not hard to do, considering most of my willpower is being channeled toward remaining upright and vomit-free.

He cocks a stubby eyebrow—the tailend of it has been shaved off. A slimy smile reveals a set of gleaming gold teeth. "Playing games, you is."

I grimace. Hot Rod doesn't like no games, he told me the first time we met, back when I first started at the bar.

He bounces across the room, glancing at every window. His movements—jerky and uncertain, head bobbing like a cork in the water—remind me of a ferret. A greasy, drug-dealing ferret. "Boss ain't happy. Not happy at all."

I stiffen, the bottle of water hovering against my lips. Boss.

Hot Rod cackles. "What'chou got in them registers?"

I discard the water bottle. "Hot Rod—"

But he's already flung himself across the bartop, the chain at his belt clinking softly. He taps the nearby register with tattooed knuckles. "Open it up, girly."

"Hot Rod," I try again, a note of desperation in my voice. "I'll get the money."

"Yeah," he agrees, nodding amicably. "You will." He raps his knuckles against the register a second time.

I chew my bottom lip. How do you always get yourself into these situations, Amara?

Hot Rod's jubilant smile threatens to turn nasty. I stare at him, a plea—more time, I need more time—dancing on the tip of my tongue. But Hot Rod has given me time. Three months' time. And now he's come knocking.

"Girly," he says softly. A warning.

I open the register grudgingly. Hot Rod appraises the cash with appreciative eyes; we only ever keep two hundred dollars in each register, and for that, I'm fervently thankful. He pries the cash from the drawer with a merry whistle, pocketing the bills in the depths of his saggy jeans.

"That'll do," he says with an odd bob of his head. "You're still out three grand, girly."

"Three grand?" I ask, voice shrill. "We agreed—"

"On twenty-five." He puffs on the e-cig. I've suddenly never hated anything more than the smell of mangos. "Plus interest."

"Interest," I repeat. The tips of my fingers are numb. "That's bullshit—."

Hot Rod moves, faster than a circling gull eyeing the last of your hoagie sandwich on a hot summer's day. He grabs the back of my neck and slams my face against the bartop. I screech, but he lowers his face near mine, and the smell of his breath stuns me into silence.

"Girly," he croons, his fingers digging into my nape. "You isn't in a spot to talk to Hot Rod like that."

I splay my hands against the cool counter. "Okay," I croak. "Okay."

"You'll get my money."

I nod, closing my eyes.

"Good." He releases me. I immediately retreat, ramming into a bottle of liqueur balanced precariously against the edge of the backbar. Hot Rod hops back over the counter, whistling a merry tune. "You got 'til the end of the summer to make good."

"Or?" I ask, against my better judgement.

He grins at me over one scrawny, inked shoulder, silhouetted against the bright daylight streaming through the back door. "Hot Rod doesn't like no games."

And then he leaves. The rusty hinges give a great squeal, echoing the miserable scream in my head. I rub the back of my head with a grimace. Of their own accord, my feet carry me through the side door adjacent to the linen closet and shuffle upstairs, into the studio apartment situated directly above the bar.

The apartment technically belongs to TJ. Guilt, hot and heavy and ugly, burns in my veins as I bypass the kitchen—I really need to do the dishes—and aim instead for the leather couch.

TJ lets you crash here for half-price. And how do you repay him? By letting your bad decisions catch up to you and steal two hundred dollars out of his father's bar.

I upturn the middle cushion, grab my stash of cash, and then troop back downstairs. I replace the money Hot Rod stole from the register, glum.

Twenty bucks. I now have twenty fucking bucks to my name—

Someone coughs.

I turn fast enough to make my head spin, cursing as my hip slams into the open register drawer. That'll leave a mark. Eyes watering, I raise my finger in warning. "Fuck off, you bas—"

The expletive dies in my throat.

Nicholai.