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"Fuck that! Thomas isn't an all-star, why the fuck does he want powder?....No bitch, he only moves trees…yeah from here to fuckin Mexico, why do you think he's a fuckin hide-out all the time? I know he's just tryin to sell that shit out from under me….No, I fuckin told you I'm not movin that much shit at once…I don't give a fuck who his brother is, Thomas isn't gonna black-ball me for nose candy when that motherfucker banks on reefer up and down the west coast. It's hard enough for me to get business in L.A., I don't need Thomas trying to run me out of shop…"

He always does this, making business calls in the car. And it fucking pisses me off. I don't know why he can't just talk to me. As soon as his ass hits the seat, he's on that motherfucking cell phone. The "business phone." The one that always rings. And he always answers. He has two others: a Nextel he uses to stay connected with his runners during the day, and a Sidekick he uses for data entry after every sale he makes, all of which is dumped into an Excel spreadsheet on his computer and then purged from his hard drive onto an unlabeled disk-a single piece of worn plastic that can make him thousands of dollars when he decides to slip out of the business. Selling your numbers, they call it.

I'm sitting in the passenger's seat, knees up to my chest, arms crossed, looking out the window. I gaze at the houses as we pass them by, trying to imagine what kind of people live there-do they have a normal life, a 9-5 job, or are they are in some fucked up mess like me. Sometimes I get carried away with thinking about how other people live, but right now I'm just trying to tune out his "business call." He's a fucking pusher, and I just have to get over that. This is my life, for now.

I start to itch a little, and I squirm in my seat.

"Hey…" I lean over to him, but he's still talking a hundred miles an hour. He doesn't look at me, just holds a finger up to me, and I wanna fucking break it off. Business always comes first for him, but fuck that right now. I hate it when he ignores me.

I push on his leg, "hey," and he snaps his head over to me, not stopping his conversation, widening his eyes at me in an irritated manner. He clenches the fist that was previously holding up the finger, shaking it at me and gritting his teeth menacingly before turning his focus back to the road.

I sit back for a second, frustrated, and needing some kind of buzz, just to hold me over until we got back to his house. We were on our way to make a transaction at Ray's house, a hand-to-hand; I had been with Justin when he got the call, so of course I had to come with him.

He never left me at the house alone.

He said it was because he didn't want me as a liability, taking too much shit and kicking the bucket right there in his fucking living room while he was gone, but I think he wanted to protect me. If anyone was going to come by the house ready to throw down over a bogus deal or some mishandled business, he didn't want me to take the bullet for him.

But I would have.

I reach over to run my index finger up his jawline from chin to ear, laying my head back against the seat, just watching him, trailing my finger down his neck, over the black "L.A." tattooed on the skin there, and he licks his lips before turning his eyes to me, pulling the phone down from his mouth. "What do you want?" his whisper is tight in his throat, but his eyes are soft.

"Do you have any dope?"

He shifts his eyes to the glove box, nodding toward it in a silent gesture, and then goes back to business on the phone.

I open the glove box of his truck and see the familiar pack of cigarettes laying there. The wolf in sheep's clothing. I grab the box in shaking fingers and open the top, sliding out the slender stick, carefully hollowed and re-stuffed with weed. The easiest way to hide it. I grin at his clever trick. Sometimes it kills me to know that he's so intelligent and he just wastes it…but then again, look at me.

I reach over into the cup holder for the lighter, cracking the window halfway, and I light up, taking a long drag and holding it for a few seconds before releasing the smoke.

Buzzin.

We pull up to Ray's house and he parks on the street. He leans over and presses his open lips right beneath my ear and I feel the tip of his tongue touch my skin as he sucks lightly before pulling away, leaving a small wet spot on my neck.

"Give me five minutes." But I know it won't take that long.

He strolls across Ray's yard quickly, and I'm anxious in my seat, a little baked but still anxious, because Ray doesn't live in the best neighborhood. None of Justin's customers do. As much as I like spending time with him, I hate making trips like this all day.

I've asked him time and again about getting just one more bag boy so he can basically run his operation from the house, but he doesn't have enough business surpluses right now to pay anyone else, what with Thomas getting into that shit down in Mexico and almost swiping every pothead out from under half the dealers in L.A. At least there's still the regular coke deals to fall back on for a while. Plus, in a business of deception, finding trustworthy employees is a challenge, and he says he prefers making a certain percentage of his deals himself, to get his face out there and build up a trust with the buyers, "it's PR, baby," he always says with that charming, cheeky grin.

I'm lost in my thoughts until I get a glimpse of someone in the side mirror of Justin's truck. A young girl, probably my age or younger, dressed in a wife beater and cut off shorts, walking fast up the sidewalk. Sinking back in my seat a little as she approaches the truck, I curse myself for leaving the fucking window halfway down while Justin is inside Ray's with the keys.

"Hey!" she's strung out, hair a mess, purple and red around the eyes. A junkie. She's gotta be on some bad shit. I freeze. "You're J-boy's girl, right?"

I swallow hard. In the drug business, you're not always sure if the answer to a question like that will get you killed or commended. I narrow my eyes at her a bit.

"Where is he? I've been comin' by the house and he's never home." Her speech is slurred, and she's leaning in closer through the window. I can smell alcohol and filth on her, mostly filth.

"He's handling business. Who are you?"

"HEY! Not today, Alice! Nobody wants your business around here!" I hear Justin shout across the yard suddenly, and he's hurrying back to the truck. She meets him in his path and tries to grab at him a little, but he pushes her off, "not today, bitch. Go back to Mikey's. I'm not even fucking playing with you. Get outta here."

He climbs back in the truck, putting the key in the ignition fast and rolling my window up. "Fuck…you ok?" I just nod. He tosses the paper sack into the floorboard on my side. Inside could be twenty, fifty, a thousand dollars. I put my feet down to hold it steady.

"Don't fucking leave my windows down when there's idiots running around on the streets all lit up like fucking Christmas…what the fuck were you thinking?" he raises the back of his hand to me but then just clenches it with a growl, hitting the steering wheel. I flinch, but I know he wouldn't hit me. His lectures and empty physical threats are just his way of showing dominance.

"Who was that?" I finally ask him, my voice flat as we drive away.

"Just a fucking bag bride, Leala. Stop sweatin me." He adjusts himself through his sweats.

"Oh so you sell to whores now?"

"Come off that shit, ok? I've never touched that pussy with a pinkie finger, so shut the fuck up. Don't give me the run down." And I know he's telling the truth. I've never known him to fuck another girl besides me. He looks. He looks even when he knows I'm watching him, but I couldn't give two fucks because I know that cock is mine.

I'm his girl.

I remember the first time he ever said it to me. We were at a bender about two years ago, both of us just addicts with baby habits, tryin to get high. It was right before he became a Big Man, we were across town in some fucked up abandominiums. I think the guy's name was Felix, but I don't even fucking remember.

The music was so loud; I could feel the bass thumping against my back as Justin pressed me against the hallway wall, warm hands all over my hips and down my thighs, crotch pushed against mine, barely grinding against me to the beat of the music, indistinguishable to anyone but the two of us. He was nose to nose with me, but he wouldn't kiss me, and every time I tried to close the space between us he would pull back just slightly with that cocky grin before bringing his face back to mine.

"You know you're my girl, right?" his breath fanned my face, lips almost touching my cheek, and I just took my bottom lip between my teeth, smiling a bit, giggling and high. He laughed. That deep, lazy laugh that I love. And then he finally let me kiss him.

We made out in the dark hallway and stumbled our way to the bathroom and locked the door, not even bothering to turn the lights on. He tugged my shorts down and moved my panties aside and I slipped him out over the waistband of his sweats, and we fucked for the first time in all those years we'd known each other, quick and quiet against the wall, my leg around his waist.

And then we got high again.

That was the end for us. We were hooked after that.

Soon he became a Big Man in L.A., the real deal. He made the jump from addict to pusher smoothly, from a fake thug kid to something that resembled the real thing. He walked with a no-bullshit swagger. And I was his girl. He never says he loves me and I never ask him too, but after being so close for five years, now I think it's just understood.

{Sometimes I wanted to hear him say it, but looking back on it now I know neither of us could've really said it and meant it at the time. That's the fucked up thing about being on drugs, it replaces your emotions. You become this person who you think you genuinely are, but when you're clean one of the biggest fears is getting to know yourself all over again, the real you. But like I said, neither of us knew that then.}

I'm not even always around. I spend a lot of time at my apartment, back and forth on the idea of trying to get clean. I want to so bad, but it's tough, mostly because he's my supplier…my provider. He doesn't just give me drugs. He would give me anything I needed if I just asked, but I try not to. I'm addicted to him enough as it is, I don't need to become completely dependent on him.

But something inside always tells me that it's already come to that.

We drive back from Ray's to Justin's house mostly in silence. For once he's not on the phone, but of course he has nothing to say to me.

His phone rings. The other phone. The one phone that is actually traceable, attached to his name, and intended for phone calls that have nothing to do with deals and purchases.

I peek at the name on the outer screen. Derrick.

I look up into his face and see him peer down at the phone lying in the center console. His expression doesn't change.

"You should talk to him, you know," my voice is soft, but I know he won't, no matter what I say.

He reaches down to silence the ringer on the phone, ignoring the call, and I sigh.

"Justin…it's your fucking-"

"-L, I don't wanna hear it, ok!" he cuts me off dryly. I know better than to rag him about it, but I press on. I'm sick of his shit for today.

"He's your fucking brother, Justin! Jesus Christ…"

"What the fuck am I supposed to say to him?"

"Just talk to him at least…he's your brother."

He sighs, shaking his head, "you don't fucking get it."

But I do. I get it completely.

Derrick is Justin's little brother. He was all of 10 years old when Justin left his parent's house and promised he'd come back, and of course now Derrick still doesn't understand why his big brother, his hero, hasn't come back for him, and it's been five years.

He doesn't call often, in fact their parents eventually told Derrick they would ground him if they found out he had gotten in touch with Justin after hearing about him being a drug dealer in L.A. But there's always that one occasional phone call, and Justin knows that Derrick snuck away long enough to just call on a whim, even at 15 years old now, thinking his big brother might answer the phone and come back home.

"It's…it's just been too long," his voice has a tone of finality in it, and I know not to speak another word about it. His family is a soft spot with him. So is mine. The truth is…neither of us came from fucked up families. I think that's what makes our story even more tragic. We're just two kids who had everything they wanted, but still felt like they needed more. And now, all we have is each other. And the drugs.

{And to this day I still don't know what made us think that was enough.}

-- -- -- -- --

The next morning I awake slowly to the sound of sniffing. I know he's getting high, right next to me in bed.

I groan a little as I roll around, naked and twisted in the soft sheets of his queen-sized bed, and look up at him slowly, my eyes traveling up his slim torso, taking in all the patterns and texts of his tattoos. He's still sniffling, running the back of his hand under his nose, pinching it between his middle finger and thumb, and sniffing again, sighing a little when it all goes down. His head is back against the headboard, eyes closed, and I look down into his lap to see the mirror, razor, and short straw. One lonely bump looks up at me, pure and white, just waiting. I want it so bad, but I'm not ready, not yet.

I look up into his face again and he's staring down at me through half-open lids, eyes bloodshot. He's lit already. I sigh as he reaches to stroke my hair slowly, pushing it off my face and tucking a few strands behind my ear. The powder line sits in his lap, waiting. Fuck, I'm ready now.

I moan softly, raising myself into my elbows, and leaning over his lap. He gathers my hair and holds it back off my face as I lean down and take the straw, sniffing quickly, hating myself inside. I roll onto my back and pinch my nose, squeezing my eyes shut, sniffling again and once more until I'm breathing clear. He moves the mirror to the nightstand and shifts back down under the sheets, pulling me tight to his body. He loves to get spun and lay in bed with me; it's kind of a sick scene. He particularly likes to fuck after we do coke, and I figure it won't be long before he's pushing up against me, moaning, and touching me.

I feel his hand brush my thigh under the sheets, just as I suspected. He doesn't waste much time. He licks at my neck, sucking lightly on my skin, not even hard enough to bruise it, and I feel his fingers slide from my knee to my hip, reaching between my legs and I moan softly against his shoulder. He rolls me onto my side to face him, drawing my leg over his hip with a cocky grin, "yeah bitch, I know you want this," and he slips two long fingers between my folds. I whimper and buck my hips against his hand, my pulse quickening and skin starting to tingle from the drugs. He makes me horny, but the drugs make me anxious, and I'm reaching for him, stroking him quick and swift in my hand, trying to keep things moving.

We're both breathing hard already, pulses racing and eyes dilating from the stimulant in our blood, our bodies humming with satisfaction paired with lust as we touch each other. My skin is hot and prickling, I feel like ants are crawling all over me, but not biting me, just the sensation that something is constantly racing across my skin. We both get turned on faster than we usually do as our sex drives kick in, right on time with the buzz of getting high; it seems like within seconds his cock is thick and solid, precum already leaking, and my pussy is drenching his fingers as he works me.

I push him onto his back roughly with a growl, throwing a leg over his hips and immediately sinking down onto his dick, sucking him deep inside. I swear to god he's in my stomach. "Mmm, fuck." I know it's too much too fast, but I'm horny and tweaking, clenching my jaw, dragging my fingers along his stomach, making restless fists with my hands and then spreading them wide on his chest. I'm anxious. I just want to feel him inside of me, I want the friction and the stretch and every sensation that he gives me. I can never get enough. God, he's like a fucking drug.

I start rocking slowly, but I build up quick as the feeling takes over me and melts into euphoria mixed with the adrenaline in my body and I can't, I just can't get enough. He's tossing his head around on the pillows, stomach muscles quivering and contracting as he's clenching the sheets and releasing them and clenching them again. "C'mon girl, fuck me. Fuck, you better work your shit out on me," he's sliding his hands over my thighs and up to my breasts, and I feel his knees bending, shifting me forward on his lap and he digs his heels into the mattress. We're both grunting and groaning, tweaking and…fuck, sex is never better than when we're on coke.

I claw at his chest with my fingertips and short nails, and I know he'll have red marks for the rest of the day, but I feel him doing the same thing to my thighs. We're sweaty and sticky from sex and drugs, our body temperatures high, pulses racing. I almost feel like I could have a heart attack, and I can feel his heartbeat pounding through his chest into my hands as I pump his dick fast in my slick, aching pussy. I roll my hips swiftly, grinding my clit down into his pelvic bone, moaning his name, screaming his name as his hips rock underneath me, pressing up farther inside of me, grunting and cursing and gripping my hips brutally.

He stares up at me with bloodshot eyes, pupils dilated, jaw locked tight, grinding his teeth, "fuck, c'mon L…fuck me" his voice is strained and throaty, and he's the sexiest fucking thing I've ever seen. It hits me like a bus. I come violently, without warning, arching my back and releasing my head, and I feel light-headed and dizzy, completely swept away in an instant. He's right behind me, back arched off the bed, heels still digging into the mattress, pulling me hard onto his lap as he comes deep inside of me and my body tingles at the warm sensation.

And I come down.

I crash hard, pulling off of him and collapsing onto the mattress. Am I dead? I can barely breathe.

My body still hums from the drugs but I feel completely used up. My brain slowly turns in my head, I feel like I'm tumbling head over feet as the room spins until I can get enough breath to oxygenate my body and blood. I open my eyes and see Justin's face right in front of mine, cheek pressed into the mattress, mouth agape, eyes looking at me with concern. He touches my face slowly, still gasping for air himself, and my skin is prickling under his fingers, my senses still heightened from the high I'm riding.

"You aight?" I can tell his high has almost worn off.

I just swallow hard, and nod.

It was almost too much. It's always almost too much, but as much as it kills me, I want more. I want more of him, just like I want more of the drugs. Because once…once doesn't cut it anymore.

Once is never enough.