Page 1
Story: Can't Hold Back
Chapter 1
HIS INFORMANT WAS LATE. Again.
Nate Flint leaned back in his chair so that the front legs came off the floor. Luckily, the lunch rush was over, and the diner was quiet enough the waitress wouldn’t get annoyed at them for taking up one of her tables. Still, he’d leave a bigger tip than usual to ensure he’d be welcome the next time he stopped by.
Honestly, he wasn’t all that surprised his informant hadn’t shown up yet. Serena typically worked until the wee hours of the morning, only to be shaken down by her pimp, maybe roughed up a little for good measure. He hoped to change that, if she’d let him. It had taken him months to earn her trust, even longer for her to agree to join his network of people who provided scraps of information about the seedy side of Orlando. Now he had a different proposition for her, one that would take her off the streets and give her a chance at a life where she didn’t have to sell her body to survive.
That is, if she ever showed up.
Beside him, Luther drained the last of his drink, checked the time on his phone, and frowned. A year ago, he’d been one of Nate’s informants, but now Luther worked for him at Six Points Tactical & Security. Aside from the occasional bouts of attitude, he was coming along fairly well. “She ain’t coming, man.”
“Trust me; she’ll be here.” He hoped. Otherwise, he’d be sorely disappointed. “Five bucks says she’ll be here in five minutes or less.”
Luther scoffed. “Sucker. You’re on.”
After four minutes of waiting, Nate started to sweat, but then the front door swung open and Serena stepped inside.
Without a doubt, she was the oldest nineteen-year-old he’d ever met. Two years of living on the streets had a way of doing that to a person. Her face was gaunt, her body lean, her long blonde hair pulled back in a harsh ponytail. No makeup, but even if she’d worn it, she wouldn’t have been able to mask the bruise along her jaw. Her shorts and tank top appeared dingy from not being washed in a while. But what struck Nate most were the shadows in her eyes, put there by the things she’d seen and done and would never be able to forget.
He should know. At one point in his life, he’d been a street rat as well. Fortunately for him, his situation never got as dire as hers, but he’d seen enough to empathize and want to help in some way.
With wary eyes, she scanned the diner, and he could tell the exact moment she saw them because the tension eased from her shoulders. She approached their table and set the backpack he’d given her during their last visit on the floor beside the one he’d brought today, and then sat on the empty seat across from him.
“Sorry I’m late.” She sounded as tired as she looked. “Long night. I overslept.”
“It’s okay.” He pushed a menu across the table. “Who hit you?”
She lifted and lowered one bony shoulder, her eyes glued to the laminated sheet of paper. “I don’t remember his name. It happened three days ago.”
That was bullshit—the bruise was a day old at the most—but he chose not to call her on it. If he did, she’d put up the walls, and then he’d never get through to her. So instead, he signaled the waitress to refill his drink and take Serena’s order.
“Got anything for me this week?” he asked once the waitress walked out of earshot. Some of his contacts preferred a little chitchat, but Serena liked to get to the point. That was their deal: in exchange for information, he gave her a fresh backpack stuffed with clean clothes, toiletries, meal bars, and basic over-the-counter medications. He’d take her old pack home with him, clean what he could and replace everything else, so they could do it again next week.
He hoped there wouldn’t be a next week. But even if there wasn’t, he’d prep the pack for the next person who could use it.
Serena looked around as though checking to see whether anyone was paying attention, her fingers toying with a chip along the edge of the Formica countertop. “There’s a new dealer in town. He took out Pinky.”
Luther’s eyes got all big and wide, but he didn’t say a word.
Pinky was one of the oldest dealers in the area, and by far the most ruthless. It was why he’d survived the better part of two decades in one of the roughest parts of Orlando. His death would create a power vacuum, with the remaining dealers—and, apparently, the new player—fighting to fill the void.
“Got a name for the new dealer?” If she did, he’d pass it along to his contact in the Orlando Police Department.
“Nuh-uh. Don’t got a name, but I heard he’s got connections with some cartel in Mexico.” She paused while the waitress dropped off her glass of soda. Then she leaned partway over the table and lowered her voice. “Word is he plans on taking over the entire south side.”
Forget filling the void; this could trigger a long and bloody turf war. The south side of Orlando had a patchwork of dealers, many of them deeply entrenched and well-armed. None of them took kindly to others infringing on their turf. Not cops, not gangs, and certainly not a cartel from another country.
The waitress returned with Serena’s order, and the woman tore into her bacon cheeseburger and fries as if she hadn’t eaten in a week. Which could be the case; she was thinner than the last time he saw her.
At the rate she was going, she’d probably last another six months on the streets. Eight tops. Beneath the hardened exterior, she was a decent kid, one who deserved a better life than the one she’d been dealt.
Nate waited until she finished the burger before asking his next question. “What do you see yourself doing this time next year?”
She glanced up, clearly not expecting the question. “I don’t know. Why?”
“Just curious.” He ran a hand through his short, dark hair. “Do you think you’ll still be on the streets, or are you looking for a way out?”
“What is this, a job interview?”
Table of Contents
- Page 1 (Reading here)
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