CHAPTER FOUR — HIM.
Draven got home tired, per usual. All his bones and muscles spasmed randomly, small involuntary shocks passing through his arms and legs. Work had drained the good and the bad, and everything in between.
The apartment was empty. He brought two milk teas with boba for his boyfriend, though he had not been sure he would make it home. His boyfriend said he had something to do at his cafe. He placed one on the fridge and drank the other as he went upstairs, the straw clicking against the plastic lid whenever he took a sip. The sweetness made his stomach tighten, but he kept drinking anyway.
Upstairs, the bedroom was untouched. The curtains were half-open, and the gray light outside had begun to fade. His boyfriend’s side of the bed was smooth. No clothes on the floor. No book left open on the nightstand. No sign that anyone had been waiting for him.
For several minutes, he tried to stay there. He thought about showering. He thought about sleeping. He thought about drinking the milk tea he had left downstairs before the ice melted. None of the thoughts held long enough to become decisions. Then his phone vibrated again.
A message from Blasty.
You still got the order?
Draven looked at the words until they blurred.
He had forgotten about it. Or maybe he had spent the entire drive home pretending he had. The order had been arranged earlier, before work, before the supervisor spoke to him, before he had sat in the bathroom stall with his hands shaking against his knees. Someone was waiting for the cocaine. Blasty had told him they would come by later, but Draven had never asked when.
He checked the time. Four hours. He could stay home for four hours. He could answer his boyfriend. He could take a shower and lie down. He could send Blasty a message saying he was not doing it.
Instead, he stood. The bag was in the bottom drawer of his dresser, beneath old clothes he never wore. Draven took it out and carried it downstairs. His hands were already trembling again, though he told himself it was from exhaustion.
In the kitchen, he found the small scale beneath a stack of unopened mail. He wiped the surface with his sleeve and placed it beside the sink. Then he opened the bag.
The cocaine sat inside a folded plastic packet, pale and fine under the kitchen light. Draven stared at it without touching it. His reflection hovered faintly in the dark window above the sink. Red eyes. Flattened hair. A face that looked older whenever he stopped moving.
He lit a cigarette. The first drag made him cough. He turned away from the smoke, then took another anyway. Ash fell onto the counter. He ignored it.
Draven measured the order down carefully, adjusting the amount until the scale showed what he expected. He did not think about the person waiting for it. He did not think about what would happen after the exchange. He thought only about finishing before his boyfriend came home.
The cigarette burned between his fingers. Four hours was enough time to ruin everything again. It was also enough time to pretend he had not already done so.
The front door slammed hard enough to rattle the milk tea on top of the fridge. Draven froze with the small plastic packet between his fingers. For one terrible second, he thought the packet had somehow become invisible. Then he looked at the kitchen counter. The scale was on. The cocaine was measured into a neat little line beside it. His cigarette was burning in the sink because he had forgotten to use the ashtray.
Lio stood in the doorway, one hand still on the knob. “What are you doing?”
Draven looked at the counter. Then at Lio. Then back at the counter, as if a better answer might have appeared while he was checking. “Uh,” he said. “Cocaine. Welcome home?”
“What.”
“I can explain.”
“You’re holding cocaine.”
“Yeah, that part is pretty self-explanatory.”
Lio slowly stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He was still wearing the jacket he used at the café, and there was a dark smear of coffee near one cuff. His eyes moved from the scale to the packet, then to the milk tea waiting on the fridge.
Draven followed his gaze.
“I got you boba.”
“I can see that.”
“It still has ice.”
“That is not the important thing right now.”
“No, yeah. Obviously.”
Lio placed his bag on the floor. Draven watched him do it with the tense attention of someone observing a bomb technician. His heart was beating too quickly. The kitchen seemed too small. The counter seemed too bright. Everything had become aggressively visible.
“I’ve been selling drugs,” Draven blurted. “Okay, I’m sorry. I’ve been doing this since forever. This is my side job, my side hustle, please don’t break up with me.”
Lio stared at him. Draven lifted both hands, forgetting that one of them was still holding the packet. Lio pointed at it. “Put that down,” Lio mumbled and Draven immediately placed it on the counter.
“Not there.”
“Where am I supposed to put it?”
“I don’t know, Draven. Somewhere that doesn’t make this look like a cooking demonstration.”
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Draven grabbed an empty cereal bowl from beside the sink and dropped the packet inside. He covered it with a clean dish towel, then reconsidered and moved the bowl onto the top of the refrigerator. Lio watched the entire process.
“Was that supposed to make me feel better?”
“I panicked.”
“I noticed.”
Draven stood with his hands pressed against the counter. His fingers were trembling again. He tried to hide them by curling them into fists, which only made the shaking more obvious. Lio sighed and rubbed both hands over his face.
“No, it’s okay,” he said. “I’m just disappointed you never told me anything about this. How long has this been going?”
Draven opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Cat got his tongue — his face.
Lio looked at him. “Draven.”
“Define going.”
“Do not define going.”
“Because technically, I’ve been doing it for a long time, but not constantly.”
“That does not help.”
“I have standards.”
Lio glanced toward the covered bowl on top of the refrigerator. “Do you?”
“Yes.”
“What are they?”
“I don’t sell to unfamiliar people.”
Lio stared at him.
Draven nodded weakly. “That sounded better in my head.”
“Who do you sell to?”
Draven looked at the floor.
“People I know.”
“Like your friends?”
“Sometimes.”
“Like Chase and Tracy?”
“Sometimes.”
“Like Blasty?”
Draven winced. Lio’s expression changed. Not dramatically. That would have been easier. He only looked tired, and somehow that was worse. “Right,” he said. “So you’ve been doing this long enough that you have regular customers.”
“I wouldn’t call them regular.”
“Do they have loyalty cards?”
Draven hesitated. Lio’s eyes widened. “You have loyalty cards?”
“No.” Draven paused. “Not anymore.”
“Not anymore?”
“They got wet.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Lio laughed once. It was sharp and humorless, but it was still a laugh. Draven’s shoulders dropped.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I should have told you.”
“Yes,” Lio said. “You should have.”
