Page 4 of Switch

Maybe not ever.

ChapterTwo

PJ

“Give me your fucking wallet.”

I do not have time for this shit.“Man, are you fucking kidding me?”

I’m right outside the East End Mission, a place where they feed you and pray over you before spitting you back out into the street.In the pretty tourist town that is Belle Argo, the east side of town is where the folks with money don’t go.

It’s hotter than the devil’s asshole out here.I’m sweating through my respectable clothes.I’m minding—I’d like it to be known—my own damn business.So, where does this piece of shit get off trying to lift my Midnight Cookies frequent muncher card and my last twenty dollars?

“Come on, man.Hand it over.”The sharp point at my back presses harder.But the voice… There’s a tremor there.A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it hint of nerves.

I’m getting mugged by a fucking newbie.

“You better not cut my clothes,” I grumble.“That shirt is one of my favorites.”It’s not.It’s one of my nicer ones, though, a lucky score from a store’s going-out-of-business sale.In hindsight, wearing it on this side of town was a bad idea.

“That sounds like a you problem.”

Dick.

Funny how people were milling around the Mission until this guy tried to rob me.No doubt this is one of those situations where, if people see something, they pretend they didn’t see it as quickly as possible.Self-preservation, you know?

I get it.I do.

“I can’t give you my wallet.It was a gift.”It wasn’t.

“I don’t give a damn who gave it to you, hand it over.”Another jab into my back.

“Okay.Fine.Fine.Just…don’t hurt me.”I make my voice shake a little.Enough to sound fragile.“I’m going to take the wallet out of my pocket, okay?”

I’m not a guy who looks intimidating.Too lean, skin so pale it’ll catch fire under the Florida sun.My eyes are too blue.My hair is too red.Don’t get me started on the fucking freckles.

You know what you don’t do when you have freckles?Age.Until a late growth spurt at nineteen, I got carded buying cold medicine.

Slowly, I slide my hand into my left pocket.Where I keep my wallet.And my switchblade.

I spin.My knife presses to his throat.His knife?It’s a sharpened stick.

And the guy?If he’s over eighteen, I’ll eat my own dick.

“Man, what the hell are you doing trying to mug somebody in broad daylight?”I ease the knife away.This kid’s not a threat to me.

“Not like anybody cares, man.Not around here.”

He pulls the strings of his hoodie tighter around his face, despite the late-summer heat.It’s ninety-eight degrees out, for fuck’s sake.Like it’s going to give him any actual protection.I could cut right through the fabric.

A lock of dirty blond hair, a pointed nose, and dark, wary eyes stare back at me.

“How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

I study what I can see of his face.There’s a mustache, but it’s one of those skeevy, thin ones that kids get at first.“Come on, man.”

He sighs.“In seven months.”