"Do you want me to shoot him?" Matthew looks at me with a mixture of disgust and boredom in his brown eyes.

I glance at the guy on the wrong end of Matthew's gun and sigh.

"What the fuck happened to the shipment?" I growl.

The guy, Seth, is sitting in a threadbare brown recliner sweating buckets. Probably was sweating long before Matthew and I arrived to collect our money. And now that a former University of Miami linebacker is pressing a Glock into his artfully shaved facial hair, he's practically pissing himself.

I sit on the sofa across from Seth. He's wearing a T-shirt marked with the club Babylon logo and slightly tight, baggy hipster shorts that are the color of pea soup vomit. And flip-flops. I hate flip-flops on men, and I should shoot him just for that. But I've never killed anyone, and am not about to start now. At least I don't think so.

He hangs his head and lets out a sob. He should be crying, since he's supposed to hand over three kilos of Molly worth a hundred and fifty grand and is seemingly without cash or chemicals.

"Well? Cat got your tongue?"

"It didn't arrive yet."

"The hell it didn't." I'm in no mood for this shit and I stand up, real slow, keeping my eyes on Seth the entire time. Matthew, my right hand man, my lieutenant, my only confidante other than my sister, steps back. He knows what's coming.

Seth doesn't.

"It didn't arrive?"

"N-No."

Holding my 9.mm, I slam the butt end of the gun into the side of his head. I'd be worried about his screams except that this piece of shit rents an entire house for himself on South Beach, like he's someone famous. He slumps over the chair's arm and his cheek has an imprint of my gun. Matthew jerks him back to sitting and he weaves and moans.

I hate this part of my business. It didn't start out like this. I sold a few pills, brought some shipments myself into the U.S. Everything was low-key. It's what I liked about Molly initally — the people who buy it usually don't overdose, and the people who sell it are usually chill.

But that's changed in the past couple of years. Like everything else, it's become more aggressive and dangerous. And so I started carrying a gun. Matthew's also become more irritable, which is a potentially explosive situation in itself, since he started taking the 'roids. All reasons for me to transition the fuck out.

Until then, I need to scare the shit out of hipsters like Seth.

"You seem to forget that I have the tracking numbers from the company in China. I know it fucking arrived," I snarl. "What did you do with it? Sell it yourself? If you did, where's my money?"

"Maybe my father put the box aside where I can't find it." The package was sent to the freight company that Seth's father owns. Seth was supposed to accept the package and give it to me, in exchange for ten grand. Easy.

I hold up my gun, studying it as if it's a book. "What happened two months ago, Seth?"

"I misplaced the package for a week. And then found it. Please don't kill me. I'll find it this time."

"I thought I was pretty accommodating to your fuck-up last time, when your father's secretary nearly forwarded the package to someplace in Germany, thinking it was car parts, right?"

"You were. You were fucking awesome, bro. Trust me, I'll find it."

"I was so fucking awesome that I got you your dream gig at Babylon, right?"

"You were. And I have a show there tonight."

"It would suck if you didn't show up, wouldn't it?"

This makes him weep even harder. That's the thing about these hipsters. Threaten to take away their little beach-celebrity status and they fall to pieces. I swear under my breath.

"And I've also chosen not to tell the owner of Babylon about your little scam with the coat check girl. The one where the two of you are stealing phones and shit."

"How do you know about that? Fuck." He starts to stand up and Matthew swats him down with those big bear paws of his.

"I know about everything." Actually, I know about it because the coat check girl wants to sells pills for me but I haven't given her an answer yet. I'm selective in who I bring on board, and clearly, Seth was a bad fucking choice.

"Please don't tell Andrei." He's the owner of Babylon, and possibly as scary as I am. No, maybe scarier, because rumor has it, Andrei's backed by the Russian Mafia. It's why I give him a cut of all my profits that come from his club. We're all in this racket together. Sometimes I think there's not one fully legit business on the beach.

"I don't want to have that conversation with Andrei. I want my fucking chemicals from China."

I sigh and pace the room, the blood in my veins boiling. All I need is one of these packages to get in the wrong hands. Usually the Chinese send the kilos of powdered 3,4-methylenedioxy-methamphetamine — aka Molly — to the addresses of people like Seth. The shipping documents list fake chemicals so everything goes smoothly at customs. Or the packages go to their tattoo shops or cafes or wherever seems safe. I enlist clean-cut, middle-class white kids as the package receivers, which keeps my name out of the flow. The middle-class kids want the cash because they're lazy and greedy. No one suspects a fucking thing, and it's why I've made so much money since I started selling when I was seventeen.

That's the great part about my business—it was almost as if we're doing it right in the open. Using UPS and shit. Safer than flying there and back with product, although sometimes I get girls to do that, too. I don't have time or desire anymore to do it myself.

"I should fucking kill you for this." A little bravado goes a long way. I don't have the appetite or desire for murder. Plus I'm wearing a new pair of Vans classics that Zoe bought me, and I like them too much to stain them with blood.

"Please don't," he blubbers.

"Want me to shoot him?" Matthew's not serious, but he's bored. He twists his wrist ever so slightly so he can see his watch face. He wants to hurry up and get to his girlfriend's house.

"Please no. Please."

I roll my eyes. Fucking DJs. At one time, it was a brilliant idea to enlist them to help. After all, they were in clubs, and that's where everyone wants to roll.

Lately, though, I've been sick of dealing with their excuses and their whiny bullshit. I was too busy spinning, Griff. I don't have time to sell in between sets, man. I'm going to Ibiza for six weeks, bro.

I've stopped using most of them, but Seth seemed like a good guy. So instead of asking him to sell, all I wanted was to use his family's business as a shipping point.

Easy. Or it should have been.

"Let's just fucking shoot him. We gotta get going," Matthew says. I know he's bluffing. I'd hate to be around him if he wasn't.

I stare at Seth, with his tousled blonde hair, eyes frightened under brows so heavy they look like caterpillars.

Out of nowhere, an image of Juliette pops into my mind. "He's such a good DJ," she'd said to me, not long after Seth had stopped the music and pointed at me in the skybox that night. "I love him so much!"

I turn and point my gun in Seth's face, an inch from his mouth. Snot's running out of his nose and tears are streaking from his eyes, mixing with the blood on his cheek. I let him snivel and suffer, just long enough to scare him.

I lower my gun.

"Go do your show at Babylon. Dedicate a set to me. And find that fucking package. I suggest you go over there now. In fact, why don't you walk out with us and get in your car and go to your dad's company like a good boy?"

It's not like the package can be traced directly to me, but still. I want the product and the money.

Matthew and I stand back as he scurries for his wallet and keys. Circles of sweat stain the armpits of his orange T-shirt.

"You've got a week, and I think you know what happens if you don't come up with it. Trust me, Babylon will find a new DJ. It's not like there aren't any others here in Miami. Matthew, let's get the fuck out of here."

Irritable, I slide into the passenger seat of Matthew's SUV. We watch as a shaking Seth gets in his car and peals away.

"You got hand sanitizer?" I ask as we pull away. "That house was disgusting."

"Glove box," he grunts.

Matthew looks and sounds the same as when we met at the University of Miami. Bald and mean. He was a former Marine who had to leave the Corps because of injuries, and he's five years older than me. A tour of duty in Afghanistan meant he didn't much care for the government or society's rules, and we'd met in the University gym.

He's like my big brother, if a big brother condoned drug dealing and violence. All jokes aside, Matthew would kill for me — and die for me. And I'd do the same for him. He'd insisted on coming with me on a ecstasy buy that first semester in college, and after that, was like my bodyguard. My enforcer. He's tried not to be too violent in our years together, but sometimes it can't be helped.

We ride in silence. The amazing thing about Matthew is that I don't feel the need to talk. It can be stone cold silence and I don't feel awkward.

Traffic's blissfully light, and after a ten-minute ride to the other side of the Beach, we stop in front of an aqua-colored Art Deco apartment building.

"Dude, if you want to stay longer, I can take the truck back myself," I say as we walk in the lobby door.

"We'll see what Alexis wants to do."

Inside, the hallway is aqua and so are the doors. This entire building looks like a kid's version of the ocean, minus the fish. It's one of those old, forties-era buildings that some landlord gets two grand a month from starry-eyed SoBe newbies fresh from flyover country. The slumlords cram three people to a one bedroom and the newbies think it's a steal.

We knock on the door.

"Who is it?" A lilting female voice calls out.

"Matt."

We hear the excited squeal right before the door flings open. Alexis, dressed in a red tube top and matching red skirt, flings her arms around my friend.

"Hey, baby." His voice always an octave deeper around her, which makes me grin.

She's so tiny and he's so large that it's like watching a live-action Beauty and the Beast. Matthew spends hours in the gym, she spends hours wrapping herself around a pole, so his neck is about the size of her waist.

"Oh, you're with him," she jokes, rubbing her nose against Matthew's cheek.

"Nice to see you, too, Alexis." I slip inside and the two of them follow, holding hands.

I fling myself on her comfy green sofa and sprawl out. Matthew sinks into a big chair that matches the sofa.

"You guys want beers?" she asks.

"Yeah, but we gotta be quick. There's a party at my house."

Matthew picks up the remote, turning on the TV. He tunes it to a sports channel, which I'm only moderately interested in.

Alexis returns with two bottles. "How is the party happening without you?"

"My sister's there. She can handle things for now." I sip the beer. I'm still pissed about Seth.

"Why don't you come with us?" Matthew grabs Alexis and tries to pull her onto his lap, but she wriggles away.

"I have to work later. And wait, I have something for Griffin."

She pads out and then returns with a black duffel bag, dropping it on the sofa cushion next to me. "It's all there."

I set the beer on the coffee table and unzip the bag, my fingers fanning through the stacks of cash. "Looks like two hundred thousand."

"Count it," she says from Matthew's lap.

I zip the bag shut. "I trust you."

I drain my beer. "You got enough to sell for the rest of the month, or do you need more?"

"Might need more soon. Business at the club's been crazy this month."

"Glad to hear it." Alexis is a stripper at one of the hottest clubs in Miami. She makes a killing by dancing, and sells molly for me on the side. Strippers make the best sellers because they've got a captive and eager audience who are thinking with their dicks.

"Bro, we gotta go. My sister will be pissed if I leave her in charge for too long."

As of on cue, my phone buzzes with a text from Zoe.

Where the fuck are you?

Matthew's kissing Alexis and pleads with her to come to the party. "I'll drive you to work later," he murmurs.

"Okay, pookie. You've convinced me." She always uses a baby voice around him and every time, I laugh.

I've never seen him this head-over-heels for any girl. He's always liked strippers, but he's like a puppy around Alexis. On one hand, I'm happy for him. He's my best friend and if he wants to nest with a little thing with big tits and platinum blonde hair, he can have at it.

On the other hand, she's one of my top sellers. If she decides to settle down with Matthew and quit stripping, she's out of the game. Or if they break up, things could get messy. It's why I've never fucked any of my dealers. Well, except for Victoria, those few times. And only because one, or both of us, were horny.

But she doesn't count. She's been a friend since childhood, a ride-or-die kind of chick. She'd sooner rat out her own mother than me. And I'd do anything for her — except be her boyfriend.

Alexis takes another duffel bag from a hook by the door and peers into it. "Heels, makeup, molly. I've got everything. Do you mind if I shower first?"

I shrug and scroll through my messages. "Make it quick."

I roll my eyes when Matthew stands and follows her down the hall. I'm about to say something snarky but think better of it. The idea of sex brings back my fantasies about Juliette, and I click over to her Instagram profile.

Jesus, she's posted another really hot selfie. This one's in front of a palm tree, the late-day South Florida sun blazing off her pale skin. She's probably the type to get pink if she's outside too long. I think about rubbing sunscreen over her breasts.

She's got on heavier than usual eye makeup and redder lips. The black dress she's wearing makes her look older, elegant. I expand the photo on her green eyes. Guileless. Innocent. Then I zoom on her mouth, which is parted ever so slightly. Luscious. Would look incredible around my dick.

I sigh out loud, restless and edgy. I haven't fucked anyone in weeks, have been too busy trying to buy those two burger franchises so I can park some cash legally. Too busy thinking about this hot little girl.

Fuck me. I can have anyone I want in South Beach. Maybe I'll hit up one of my regulars tonight at the party. The model from Brazil. The one who only wears a bikini top everywhere she goes. But the idea of her doesn't excite me in the least.

I glance back at Juliette's photo. Her skin's smooth and sleek, and her near-black hair is down in loose waves, tumbling over her shoulders. She looks incredible with her hair down. I imagine sweeping her hair away and biting her neck.

Checking the time she posted the photo, I notice it was only a couple of hours ago. Hunh. I wonder where she's going tonight, all dressed up like that. Prom? A club? A date? I'd never thought to ask if she had a boyfriend.

I set the phone on the coffee table and pick up my beer. As I flex my fingers, then tighten them into a fist, an unfamiliar, heavy ache settles in my chest. I've never felt this way, so initially, I can't put a name to it. But when I do, I'm disgusted with myself.

I might be a drug dealer, I might rough up some dealers every so often, but I am not a man who wants to fuck teenage girls.

But there's always an exception to the rule, and Juliette is apparently my exception.

____