Page 3 of My Brother's Bad Best Friend

Jonas

In all my years selling weed, I never thought I’d actually make a living from the fucking stuff.

I glance over my shoulder, feeling a little paranoid, although Big John’s standing guard outside just in case. I turn back to the safe and rotate the dial between my fingers, flicking over the six-digit combination by rote feel. The lock clicks as I rotate the handle and pull the heavy steel door open, revealing stacks of fucking cash.

I smile to myself. This part never, ever gets old. It’s loosely arranged by denomination, with big notes on top and low ones on the bottom. We try to convert as many singles, five, tens, and twenties into hundreds as possible but my guy at the bank’s been a pain in the ass lately, so we’re flush with petty bills.

I reach in and grab a stack of twenties, counting out eight hundred as fast as I can. As much as I love staring at all this cash, over fifty grand all told, it still drives me insane. The weed game is a cash business, and cash businesses are prone to robbery. I’d rather keep all this shit in the bank, maybe invest some of it, but technically weed is still illegal in the good old USA. Here in California, we’re a little more enlightened. We know a little dope never hurt anyone, but hey, the world’s catching up with us.

I slam the door shut and lock it again, instantly feeling better. I slip the cash into my jeans and push open my office door. “All good.”

Big John nods at me. He’s tall and beefy, the kind of guy that placed lineman in high school but wasn’t fast enough to go play in college. He’s a nice enough dude, quiet in that intimidating kind of way, but I know better than to fuck with Big John. I once watched John smash this guy’s face against a curb for, and I quote here, “judging the way I drink my damn soda pop, motherfucker.”

Of course, those insane violent tendencies make him a great security guard, but those same tendencies make me very careful around the big man.

“Head on up front if you don’t mind,” I tell him. “I think Lane’s alone up there.”

“’Kay,” he grunts at me and lumbers off down the hall.

I sigh and crack my neck, a bad habit. Marvin comes scurrying out from storage, arms full of product. He gives me a little grin. “Hi, Jonas.”

“Marvin, that better be for a big order,” I call after him.

“Sure, whatever!” He disappears around a corner. He’s a short guy, skinny as hell, with a rat-like face. He’s an ass kisser, but I like him anyway.

I sigh and head in the opposite direction. The smell of coffee and weed lingers heavy as I pass by the door that leads into the shopfront. We sell lattes and vape pens here at Half Pipe, and sometimes I’m not sure which is the drug and which is the perfectly legal stimulant. I’ve seen way more people tweaked up and going fucking nuts off drinking too much espresso than I’ve seen anyone wrecked by a little pot.

I roll past, not wanting to get bogged down with all that. I push open the heavy doors and step out into the bright, sunny California day, shielding my eyes for a second before I spot a group of guys in skinny jeans and sneakers holding skateboards and smoking a skinny blunt.

I roll over to them, a scowl on my face. One guy looks up as I approach, a short, compact dude with dark skin, a patchy little goatee, and crooked teeth. He cocks his head and passes the blunt, smoke curling from his lips.

“How many fucking times do I have to tell you idiots?” I say as I approach.

Don’s face doesn’t betray anything as the last of the smoke leads his mouth. “What’s that, boss?”

“Quit smoking weed out front. Y’all look like fucking hoodlums.”

“We are hoodlums,” this skinny, tall dude with bright eyes says.

“You don’t have to look the part.” I snatch the blunt from his fingers, too fast for him to pull away, and suck in a nice hit. I let it out as I hand it back to Don, who laughs and stubs it out.

The skinny guy, this kid named Vinny, scowls at me. “I don’t get what the problem is. You’re a fucking weed place, man.”

“I know what we are,” I say to the kid. He’s barely eighteen, with acne scars on one cheek and a nasty black eye from falling while trying to land a ten-stair kickflip a couple days ago. “But weed’s legal now, so we have to try and act like it. I mean, shit, half my customers are soccer moms and bored dads. I don’t want you idiots scaring them away.”

“No problem,” Don says, nodding and grinning the way he does. “We got you, boss.”

I let out a sigh. It’s hard to be pissed at Don, considering he’s the future of this whole fucking town.

I take out that stack of twenties and thrust them at him. His eyes go a little wide. “For a camera,” I say.

“Why?”

“Heard Shrink dropped one.”

Don frowns a little and glances at Vinny. Clearly I wasn’t supposed to hear about it.

“I’m not mad,” I add. “Just buy a new camera. I get that shit happens. Tell Shrink if he breaks another one, he’s paying for it.”

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