Free Stain by Francette Phal

ahead.
    The abrupt “Hey,” is accompanied by a short whistle and a snap of his fingers. When I look at him he stares back with glassy, black eyes. “Got something for me?”
    Reaching inside my back pocket, I hand him the brown paper bag. “Three grand.”
    He smirks, adding, “Heard your boss got some new product he’s dealing.”
    I shrug. “Couldn’t tell ya.”
    As his stare narrows, he doesn’t say a damn thing.
    “We good?”
    “Tell your boss if he wants to keep dealing in my city, it’s going to start costing him a little more.”
    Poker-faced, I ask, “How much more?”
    “Double.”
    “I’ll give him the message.”
    He smirks. “Like a good little errand boy.”
    Clenching my jaw on the “Eat my dick, motherfucker,” isn’t without effort. Clear as fucking day, I can see the challenge in his eyes, the antagonism that dares me to give him a reason to haul me in, and I sure as fuck am not about to give him one. No matter how much I wanted to spray his car with bullet holes. I wait until he drives off before heading back to my pickup to head home.
     
     

 
    Chapter 6
    Aylee
     
    It’s Friday and typically we’d be in school right now, but we’ve been given a day off because of faculty meetings. Rachel, Sarah, and I leave first. I’m not overly fond of sitting in the passenger seat so Sarah hops in next to her mother, while I slide into the back. Just as we’re pulling out from the driveway, I see Tim step out of the side door of the house. I watch him through the tinted window as he makes his way to the second car parked in the garage. The black Dodge Durango is what he generally takes to work. Slung over his shoulder is a big, navy blue duffel bag he dumps into the trunk. Just before Rachel drives away, Tim looks up and spears me with black as night eyes. A shudder trickles down my spine at the small smirk he gifts me with. It’s like he knows I’m looking at him. Like he can see me looking at him through the dark glass. I remain unsettled all the way to the hospital.  
    Beth Israel Psychiatric is a twenty minute ride from the house. I could’ve ridden my bike here, and normally I do, but whenever she can, Rachel likes playing chauffeur. She likes being needed, I guess. I thank her for the ride and she tells me she’ll pick me up in an hour and a half. She idles for a bit, probably making sure I actually go to the group. If she could, I’m sure she’d want to hold my hand and walk me inside herself. Stepping inside the glass revolving door always makes me feel like I’m being swallowed alive. The feeling of claustrophobia that takes me by the throat when I step inside is thankfully brief. I breathe easier when I make it to the other side. The foyer is like any typical hospital. Overly-waxed, white tiled floors, bright florescent lights and uninspired white walls. There’s a reception area directly in front of me with two employees seated behind a long, black desk, both occupied with their respective guests on the phone. The only thing remotely appealing about the winding wooden staircase to my right is the elegantly crafted black wrought iron handrails. Heading to the bank of elevators located farther down the foyer, I make a small detour to the Starbucks facing the first floor waiting area, and come out a beat later with a cup of Venti passion fruit iced tea. Just as I round the corner, I barely manage to avoid colliding with a very pregnant woman and her boyfriend/husband. My immediate apology doesn’t save me from the boyfriend/husband’s wrath as he proceeds to cuss me out.
    “Stupid bitch, watch where the fuck you’re going!”
    I murmur another apology before hastily escaping further scorn. With no further incident, I hop inside the elevator, press the button for the fourth floor, and exit the cab when it reaches my destination. I’m the only one to get out from the small cluster of eight people who hopped in with me. On both my right and left there are a series of