PROLOGUE 

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With her heart hammering against her chest and her narrow nostrils flaring, Leslie stared down the double barrel of a shotgun. Most nineteen-year-old girls would've pissed themselves or started thinking about their final moments. Not Leslie. She stood solid as concrete with her jaw clenched tight.

Rock slowly shook his head while towering over her, pressing the barrel against her left breast. “I thought you’d at least flinch, Les.” He laughed.

“Real G’s don’t flinch,” she gritted. “Either get that gun off me or use it. Either way, you’re gonna hand over my package.”

“What if I don’t?” His grin faded. “Word around town says you’re givin’ half your work to your cracked-out mama while cuttin’ into my money. What’s that about?”

“You know damn well I wouldn’t give that bitch anything. I need my money, Rock. Right now you’re standing between me and it.”

“I ain’t givin’ you shit.”

“That’s cool.” Leslie tilted her head. “But will you flinch?”

“The fuck—”

She shoved the shotgun aside, dropped low, then drove her fist straight into his balls with enough force to fold him over. The second he bent forward, she grabbed his shoulder, threw him off balance, snatched the gun from his hands, then cracked him across the head with it.

“Ask me again if I flinch.” She sneered. “Fuck you, Rock.”

Leslie grabbed the brown paper package from the coffee table and tossed the shotgun onto the ragged couch nearby.

“What kind of supplier don’t keep people around during a pickup? You ain’t gangsta, nigga.”

As if none of it happened, her thin frame strolled out of the rundown two-bedroom house where she’d never be buying product again.

* * *

Leslie was beautiful in a dangerous way, but her temper ruined the softness people expected from pretty girls. It wasn’t entirely her fault. Her environment molded her into the monster everybody feared—the nineteen-year-old senior still dragging herself through high school because of a promise she’d made to her older brother, Ty.

Without that promise, she would’ve dropped out long ago.

Old heads claimed she’d “been here before.” Leslie carried herself like somebody twice her age. She didn’t care who stood in front of her either. Big or small. Young or old. Man or woman. If a baby cried too long, she’d probably cuss it out too.

Underneath the aggression lived something darker. Something bruised and cloudy nobody could fully understand. Not even Emma or Yanni tried anymore. Leslie protected them fiercely, so they accepted her without digging too deep.

Emma had the type of body men lost their minds over—wide hips, soft curves, pretty face—but she refused to throw herself at just anybody. Most of her teenage years had been spent plotting an escape from Houston’s trenches. Unfortunately, the neighborhood labeled her a whore anyway. Beauty always came with rumors.

Whenever somebody talked crazy about Emma, Leslie usually handled it.

Yanni was different. She came from a stable home with two parents who actually gave a damn. Even still, the hood had started pulling at her innocence piece by piece. A few nights earlier, she’d slipped away with a boy whispering sweet lies into her ear. If he didn’t step up afterward, Leslie planned on beating him until he did.

Thinking about both of them, Leslie stepped into the apartment she paid for and stared down at the stained olive-green carpet while making her way toward her bedroom. Cigarette burns scarred almost every inch of it.

Once inside, she shut the door carefully behind her. The caution signs hanging across it rattled lightly.

The second she sat down to pull off her combat boots, a knock hit the door.

“Les, I need something,” Shelly called from the other side.

Leslie slid out of her parka while eyeing the package hidden inside the chest pocket. “I ain’t got nothin’, Shell,” she lied. “Go downstairs to that nigga. I’m sure he’ll front you.”

“He ain’t got what I want. Plus he always expects somethin’ extra for the weak shit he gives me.”

“I can’t help you.”

“If I find out you lyin’ to me, I’ll put your ass out.” Shelly’s voice sharpened instantly. “You hear me? I’m your mama. I’m all you got.”

“Snort yourself to death already,” Leslie muttered beneath her breath.

She kicked off her boots and stretched across the bed without bothering to change clothes.

“Don’t do me like this,” Shelly cried dramatically outside the door. “You’re killin’ me. I’m the only one you got.”

“Get away from my door, Shelly!” Leslie shouted.

A loud bang rattled the room.

“You’re a murderer!” Shelly screamed after punching a hole through the door. “I should slit my wrists! Would that make you happy?”

“What would make me happy is comin’ home to food instead of a fiend begging me for free work!” Leslie snapped. “I pay for this shit, so leave me alone!”

“Fuck you, Leslie!”

“That ain’t how you talk to your kid, Shelly. Especially the only one you got left.”

“I don’t gotta stay here!”

“Then don’t! I’m the one hustlin’, payin’ bills, and dragging myself to school every morning. Not you.”

“You’re gonna regret this,” Shelly sniffled before stomping away. “You’re really gonna regret this.”

Leslie stared toward the ceiling once silence settled back over the apartment. Truthfully, she didn’t care what Shelly did anymore. If her mother dropped dead tomorrow, the only difference would be extra space.

Exhausted, Leslie sat up and grabbed her last Black & Mild from her coat pocket. She lit it, inhaled deeply, then checked her phone.

One missed call.

She returned it immediately.

“About time,” Emma answered with a nervous laugh. “You good?”

“I’m gonna need you tomorrow,” Leslie said while blowing smoke toward the ceiling. “We gotta move this package fast. Christmas break coming up, and I need enough money to disappear for a while.”

Emma paused. “Les… what did you do?”

“Punched Rock in the balls.”

“What?”

“He pulled a Mossberg on me. What was I supposed to do?”

“You and that damn temper.”

“What would you have done, High Society?”

“Probably not assault a man holding a shotgun.”

Leslie laughed quietly.

“He could’ve killed you.”

“He still might.”

Emma’s breathing turned shaky through the phone. “Les, I’m serious.”

“I know.”

After a moment, Emma finally spoke again. “I’ll make my rounds tomorrow. If I can’t move enough, I’ll skip third period and hit Uptown during lunch. Them rich white kids buy anything.”

“Leave Yanni out of it,” Leslie warned quickly. “Her parents already hate us. Last thing we need is them getting involved.”

“But—”

“We got this.”

Emma fell silent again because deep down, she knew Leslie’s luck had finally run out. Sneaking through alleys at night, dodging bullets, hustling grown men—it had all finally caught up to her.

Punching Rock guaranteed it.

“Em,” Leslie pressed. “Don’t fold on me now.”

“I got you,” Emma whispered. “You’ll be alright.”

Leslie ended the call and tossed her phone onto the makeshift nightstand built from old crates and covered with a torn pillowcase.

Staring at the ceiling again, she realized Ty was probably looking down at her disappointed. After tonight, there was no way she’d keep the promise she made him.

Not now.

Maybe never.