Page 117 of Average Joe

“We grabbing him before or after?” I asked, fidgeting with the red-and-white bag in my hands, my skin itchy and tight.

“Let him make the drop. If we nab him with whatever shit he’s delivering, then I’ll have to take him in for real. Besides”—Frank sniffed—”it’ll buy the kid more time.”

“I owe you, brother.” I plucked a handful of sunflower seeds out of the bag, then offered the snack to Frank.

He snatched the bag from my hand and set it in his lap. “Not a problem.” He smiled, rolled his head in my direction. “You love her.”

“Fuck yeah.” I sucked the salt off a seed, then cracked the shell between my teeth.

“Cyn wants to meet her.”

I lowered my window and spit, blinking against the rain hitting my face. “We’ll have a dinner date.”

A white Z, the same white Z that had driven by Marley’s house too many times, parked on the street in front of the shop.

“Fuck me,” I grumbled, my guts knotting. “That’s the car that’s been casing her house.”

A tall kid untucked from the front seat of the NISMO, same guy who’d stood in Marley’s driveway all those months ago. He wore dark clothing and a backpack slung over his shoulder. He assessed his surroundings before jogging to the entrance. He knocked twice. Seconds later, the door opened, and the kid disappeared inside.

“Take the long way, yeah?”

Frank chuckled. “You got it.”

I unfolded from the car, spit more shells, then crossed the street, where I waited in the shadow of a magnolia tree.

Four minutes passed before the kid reappeared empty-handed. As soon as he grabbed his door handle, I slammed him against the car.

He grunted and tried to fight me off, but the kid hadn’t fully matured, and where he was lean, I was mean, and it took all of two moves before I had him folded over the cold, wet Z with his hands secured behind his back.

“Okay, kid. Here’s what’s gonna happen. You and I are gonna get in the car, then you’re gonna follow my buddy, Officer Garcia.” I flipped his face so he could see Frank’s car behind his.

The lights on the cruiser flashed once.

“You got any weapons on you or in the car?”

Dylan tried again to shake me off. “Fuck you.”

I grabbed the back of his head and gave him a hard smack against the hood, not to damage his pretty mug but to let him know I wasn’t fucking around. “Any weapons?”

He mumbled, “No.”

“Good.” I removed my body weight and let him straighten. “Get in.”

He obeyed.

I slipped into the passenger side, then pulled the Kershaw out of my boot to rest on my thigh. I’d no intention of using the fixed blade, but I’d every intention of scaring any fight outta the kid.

Frank pulled his cruiser around and started a slow roll toward home.

“Drive,” I commanded, raking wet hair off my face with my fingers.

When the engine purred, the radio blasted, vibrating the interior. I punched the power button on the stereo.

“Are you a cop?” Dylan asked.

“No. I’m a friend.” I yanked the hood off his head to get a look at his face.

Good-looking boy. Dark hair—messy but not stank. Large, bright eyes, straight nose, skin a shade or two darker than his mother’s.

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