Page 2 of Drift

Drift wore a black gothic punk skirt over his punk large eyelet webbing décor trousers, and it no doubt didn’t help Pick’s… confusion. But that racist shit over tying androgyny purely to his own echo of Korean heritage?

As Brighty threw anoh fucklook his way, Drift smiled… sweetly enough, touched a hand to heart… kissed distractedly at his fingertips, then offered a wink Pick’s way. “I stick out on the street like an ex-con with a sore dick, then that’s Jackson recruiting the wrong talent, ain’t it now, mate? I mean, that would be as bad as you selling drugs from your mother’s house: all sore dick and… noticeable.”

Pick’s intrusive smile faded, completely dropped before he turned back and gave a sharp whistle over the thumbing beat from inside the house.

Ah. The house being owned by his mother had been a guess, but it hit a nerve, and Drift sniffed, burying a smile as a girl by the door passed his whistle on with a more flute-like tone back through the kitchen. Christ, if this was the best in Wales…. After a moment, another kid came out, carrying a black case big enough to fit a body or two in.

Pick took it off him, making a point of waiting for them to be left alone again before offering it over to Drift. Brighty took it instead, all cold seemingly dropped as he carefully put the case on the floor and started to open it up. For a moment he paused, almost expecting a comment off Pick about the case being put on the floor—because one should have really come—but none did, and Drift…

Oh. This shit reallywasa waste of time.

Brighty eased the lid open, and Pick snorted. “Fuck me,” he said. “You pussies really did come all the way from London for just a… cello.”

Brighty glanced up. “It’s a Leonardt, dick. It ain’t no normal cello.” But Drift had already seen it without the warning scratch that Brighty gave to the case. That wasn’t no Leonardt cello there, and now Driftwaspissed off.

Pick sniffed, his look fast and hard between them. “Whatever.” He stayed focused on Brighty. “We good?”

Brighty shut the case lid and stood, saying nothing.

“Yeah,” said Drift. “We’re good.” Only they weren’t, but Pick nodded, happy, and such a cocky shine came to his eyes that called he knew the cello was fake. Drift could have excused him if he hadn’t, but because hedidknow….

Drift looked at Brighty. “Lend me your phone, bro?” He never carried one for a reason, just like he’d not been soft enough to give Pick their names.

Brighty shifted and passed him the cello first, phone last, and Drift snorted a smile seeing his version of prioritising evenwiththe cello being a fake. Giving him a nod, then thumbing through for something, Drift eventually shifted closer to Pick. “Where’s this place?”

“The Swann Inn?” Pick looked a little closer. “Bit out of the way.” He took the phone. “This one’s closer if you’re looking to stay the night.”

He handed it back to Drift with Google Maps giving him directions as Brighty buried a smile Drift’s way.

“Thanks.” Drift flicked a look up to Mrs Old As God’s Dog next door. Through the window, she stood talking on the phone, her scowl fixed Pick’s way, his too. “That’s us gone.” If she’d seen what he’d done to Pick, she didn’t call it out.

“Ignore the old cow.” Pick didn’t look back. “The police got sick of her calls. They don’t bother us anymore.” He glanced back at Drift. “Scare easily, don’t ya, Panic at the Kpop Disco?”

Drift winked his way, then shouldered the cello into a more comfortable position and handed Brighty his phone. “You ain’t the one holding the hot goods in case the rozzers do stop frotting their pillows.”

Pick smirked, then wiped at his nose and turned away. “Fuck off back to London, then. And tell Jackson that one’s on us. There’ll be more when he needs it. At a reduced crew-sharing price, of course.” He waved as he walked off.

Drift held the gate and let Brighty slip under his arm before shutting it behind them. Catching a bush off to his left, Drift tossed the cello into it as he passed by, and the look of sadness hitting Brighty’s eyes had Drift pulling him in and roughing a brief kiss at his head. “We’ll get our hands on one for you soon, mate.”

He shrugged Drift away and tried to brush the disappointment off as easily too. But he wasn’t as tough as he sounded or tried to look under those large layers of clothes, but then hit a street kid at the core, none of their kind were. They just learned to hide it better in the drugs as they got older.

“C’mon,” Drift said gently, nodding over to an old blue Ford. His tap on the window had the central lock clicking off before he opened the door for Brighty to get in.

“I’m ridin’ shotgun, D.” A sniff came his way off Brighty, another wipe at a runny nose. That goddamn always runny nose. “Yo ’ad it ’ere.”

“Get in there, asswipe.” Drift pushed him in the back and shut the door with a smirk before claiming his spot, passenger side.

“Cello was a dud, huh?” Twenty-five and almost swamping the driving seat, Leon started the car. “Jackson said it looked too good to be kosher.”

Drift took off his choker and black bracelet and tossed them in the glove box before taking a rag to his black eyeliner and scrubbing it off. Then he eased his ass up and sorted through for two items out of his back pocket that he’d… acquired. “Damn shame,” he mumbled. “Would’ve been a cracking source if the offer had been legit.” The Leonardt was worth over thirteen grand, but Jackson, he wouldn’t ever sell and feed it on through the streets. He’d sell Drift’s body parts on before any musical instrument.

Giving a sigh, Drift counted the wad of notes, yet kept his eye on the spliff more. After a moment, he handed the notes to Leon but kept the spliff for himself and started to light up.

Brighty filled the gap between them and let out a hard chuckle. “Fuck. Pick’s gonna be pissed being fed from.” He took the money and eyed it up. “How the fuck do yo manage to feed money free like that and not take the wallet, D?”

“Skill,” mumbled Leon, and he took the spliff off Drift with a hard look and tossed it out the window. Drift went to get out, but Leon grabbed his arm.

“Go near that shit on a job, I’m breaking a finger for each drag you take. And that’s Jackson talkin’, not me. Got it?”

---