Page 8 of Alliance

“What do you mean you don’t want it?” I ask with a scoff, not bothering to pick the envelope back up.

This is an ongoing occurrence. She likes to fret about taking the money, claiming it’s corrupt and evil, but at the end of the night, I’ll leave the envelope there, and she’ll spend it because she has no other choice.

Before she can continue her onslaught of reasons why she doesn’t want the gift I just presented to her, Anthony bolts from the back room heading toward me at full force. He wraps his arms around my waist, his small head hitting my abdomen.

“Naz, Ma got me a new game, you wanna play?” He’s a happy kid, looking up at me with a slight smile and bright eyes. He’s better than I was at that age, though I’d argue that not starving and living in a nicer home plays a role in his disposition.

“Sorry, bud,” I tell him, patting his back with the palm of my hand. “Where’s Elly?” I ask Ma.

Elly, my younger sister, had Anthony before she graduated high school, much to my mother’s disappointment. She’s not a bad mother, just young and inexperienced. Being poor and having the kid’s father run out just didn’t help much either.

“Work,” Ma grumbles, bringing a spoonful of sauce to her lips. “She works too much.”

I sigh, my eyes flickering to the envelope of cash on the table. “She doesn’t need to work. I’m taking care of it.” I’ve told my sister more times than I can count that she doesn’t need a job, that she should be home with Anthony. I steady my nerves as I head for my old room at the back, hoping I have something in there I can wear to the club.

No matter how much cash I leave on that table, and how many times they use it, they still act too good for it. I’m a disappointment in my mother’s eyes, no matter how much money I provide for them, how much better off they are. Anthony has food on the table, video games to play, a nice home—yet still my line of work is shameful.

I can’t blame them. I won’t say I’m a saint, but I’m a provider, and that can’t be denied.

There’s a black button-down shirt in the closet that I pull over my white t-shirt, pairing it with the black jeans that I’m already wearing. Checking my appearance in the mirror, I slick back my hair and run my fingertips over the St. Jude pendant. I look good enough.

I head back out to the kitchen, pressing a quick kiss to the back of my mother’s head.

“Use the money, Ma.”

Royal is in the heart of the French Quarter, a two-story club blasting music so loudly it flows out onto the street.

There’s a bouncer ushering the patrons into the correct areas. Downstairs is the general admission, filled with tourists hoping to get their fill of the Big Easy. Upstairs in the private part, NOLA lifers get their rocks off and take home the tourists to spend the night in their beds.

Private parties, clubs, tourists—they all bring me good money. Each one craving drugs and willing to put bills in my pocket in exchange for their vice of choice.

Plant, powder, or pills.

There’s a satchel hanging from my shoulder, filled with the goods. The bouncer waves me through, expecting me probably after receiving a call from Marcus. The Costellos run the Quarter, and Marcus has his hands in every nook and cranny of the business, even the parts where he’s unwanted.

The place is bedecked for Christmas, filled with cheerfulness. Christmas trees with shatterproof ornaments sit on each floor. Festive garland is wrapped around the balcony, puffy white cotton, glittered, giving off a snowy look and sitting atop every surface.

I’m waved over by a girl, Lynn, I think that’s what her name is. Someone Marcus fucks, I’m pretty sure. She smiles eagerly at me and rattles off her poison before I’m even over to her. I pull the white tablet she wants from my bag and hand it over in exchange for the cash she slips into my palm.

Lynn is the first of many, each asking for some type of escape that I’m more than willing to supply. I sip a whiskey on the rocks while I watch the scene of young adults lounging on velvet sofas unfold in front of me.

Rich kids are good business. They shell out handfuls of money for drugs that help them escape their imaginary problems. Sometimes I think they take the drugs just so they could have a problem, something to be worried or concerned about. Fabricated issues just to make themselves feel something.

I’ve felt enough for a lifetime. The only drug I dabble with these days is pot. I need the downers to help me sleep, to ease the anxiety that claws at me all day. I don’t smoke while I’m working though; I reserve it for my nights off in the comfort of my bed.

I’m about to head out when I see a familiar dark head of hair enter the club. Copper highlights shine against the lights and slim legs lead her up the stairs. She stops when she reaches the top, pursing her lips. She looks out of place, not dressed up enough for the rest of the people here. She wears a dark colored t-shirt dress, her hair piled in a bun on top of her head, and instead of high heels she wears a pair of black Converse. Beside her, a girl in an ugly Christmas sweater drags her to the bar, pulling up alongside me.

While her friend spouts off an order to the bartender, Lana’s eyes finally find me. They start at my shoes, the pair of black ankle boots, and scan up my jeans and shirt before settling on my face. “Naz,” she says softly, a smile rising on her lips.

“Lana.”

Her smile only grows when I say her name. “What are you doing here?” she asks, cocking her head to the side.

The question makes me uneasy, unsure what to tell her. The truth is work, but she knows exactly what that means and for some reason pointing out to this girl that I’m a drug dealer just doesn’t seem smart.

The friend in the ugly sweater turns suddenly, handing a glass filled with ice and liquor to Lana. “Molly.” She extends her hand for me, almost instinctively I reach into my bag to find her a dose before quickly realizing she’s telling me her name.

I wait for her to walk away, called over by another girl who screeches her name loudly. Lana’s eyes are still trained on me. “So,” she says, barely loud enough for me to hear her over the music. Her eyes move to the bag on my shoulder then back to my face. “Working?” she asks, and I’m glad she brings it up first.

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