Page 9 of Tell Me Pucking Lies

I stand in the doorway for a moment, looking back at the space and make a wish.

Please let this be better.

It’s picture perfect, even with Scarlett here. This is my new life. She looks up at me after I stare at the room for a moment.

And then I smile.

She gawks awkwardly, but I ignore her.

I love a fresh start.

It feels like I’m finally moving on with my life. It’s freeing.

3

Koa

My boots plant on wet asphalt, and the kid’s face is pressed into the concrete between them. His hoodie is soaked—spilled trash liquid, piss, old rain. I can smell it from here, sharp and sour, mixing with the exhaust from the idling delivery truck two blocks over. The streetlamp above us hums, casting everything in sickly yellow. In the distance, locker doors clank shut, echoing through the service alley behind the rink. Someone’s shouting about practice tomorrow. Someone else laughs.

They have no idea what’s happening back here.

My breath fogs in the cold, small puffs that disappear as fast as they form. His doesn’t. He’s holding it, like if he stays still enough, I’ll forget he’s there.

“If you can’t count to the debt,” I say, voice flat as the pavement under my heel, “I’ll teach you.”

I haul him up by the collar, fingers threading through cheap cotton that’s already starting to tear. His pulse hammers against my palm—rabbit-fast, desperate, the kind of rhythm that tells me he knows exactly how fucked he is. I can feel every beat.Thump-thump-thump.Pathetic.

I slam him back against the dumpster. His head bounces off the metal with a hollow thud that reverberates through the alley. A rat scurries out from under the dumpster, disappearing into the dark. The kid’s eyes follow it like he wishes he could do the same.

“Koa, man, I swear—”

I drive my knee into his gut before he can finish. Air rushes out of him in a wet wheeze, and he doubles over, gagging. Spit hits the ground between us, thick and ropy.

“Don’t.” I lean in close enough to see the sweat beading on his forehead, the way his pupils are blown wide—fear or drugs, probably both. My voice is a blade. “Don’t fucking swear to me. Don’t say my fucking name!”

His teeth chatter. Not from the cold. The temperature’s hovering just above freezing, but he’s shaking like it’s January.

I dig into his pockets—left first, then right. Keys jangle. A lighter. Loose change. And then, finally, what I’m looking for. A crumpled ziplock bag shoved deep into his hoodie pocket. I pull it out, hold it up to the light.

The smell hits me before I even look inside. Cheap spice, cut with something bitter—maybe oregano, maybe worse. I weigh it in my palm. The plastic crinkles.

Light.

Too light.

I’ve been doing this long enough to know the weight of product by feel alone. This bag should be heavier. Which means one of two things: he’s been skimming, or he’s been using.

Either way, he’s fucked.

“Fucking junkie.” I throw the bag at his chest. It bounces off, lands in a puddle at his feet. “You’re done.”

“I didn’t—I swear, I didn’t touch it—”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Oxy steps forward from the shadows where he’s been watching, leaning against the brick wall with his arms crossed. He’s built like a linebacker—thick neck, broad shoulders, hands that could crush a skull if he wanted to. He grabs the kid’s legs when he tries to kick, pins them against the dumpster with his weight.

The kid thrashes. His sneaker comes loose, skitters across the pavement, and disappears under a pile of trash bags. One sock is grey with holes. The other is missing entirely. His bare foot is pale, toes curling against the cold concrete.