Rough Rider (Bad Boy High #1)

Chapter 1 – Niki

Chapter One

NIKI

Sometimes violence is the answer.

That’s a recurring thought I have whenever a little fist in the gut nets the results I want. Like in this case.

“Here. Take it.” The guy hands me a stack of Bens. Since I’m holding this guy’s head with one hand, I gesture with my chin for my partner in crime, Bam, to count the money.

He hitches up his leg, placing his boot on the rich boy’s back, and then leans his elbow against the propped-up knee. The boy’s breath whooshes out, and he starts to collapse, but I pull his head up.

“You’ll want to watch him count it. Make sure we’re not ripping you off.”

Bam licks his thumb, gives the boy a wink, and rifles through the bills.

“I-I trust you,” the boy stutters. “Keep the extra. It’s a tip.”

“Nah, we run a tight ship. Nothing more. Nothing less. You’ll need the money for your next order. We good?” I ask Bam.

“We’re good.” He taps the boy on the top of the head. “Pay in a timely fashion so we don’t have to have this conversation again.”

I drop the boy and shove my hands into my pockets, ignoring the pain when my raw knuckles scrape against the worn denim.

“Why anyone would start using, I’ll never know.

” Bam shakes his head. He says this after every encounter, but to be fair, I think the same thing.

Once a drug addict, always a drug addict.

It’s great for business. You will always have repeat customers.

The downside is that they don’t want to pay as their addiction grows.

Once that happens, Bam and I get sent out. You don’t want a visit from us.

At some point, though, Clark stops selling because, as he says, you can’t get blood from a stone.

There’s a limit to how much they can beg, borrow, or steal, and once you come up against that wall, it’s our policy to walk away.

Some other dealer may pick that addict up and try to shake him down for more, but Clark thinks it’s more trouble than it’s worth.

He came to that decision based on Bam and my feedback.

You can pound someone’s head into the concrete, but if they’ve lost it all, they just let you turn their heads into mush, and then what good are they?

They’re dead, and instead of a little assault charge over your head, you’re under the microscope for murder.

Our group, I guess it’s a gang, has a few rules:

1. Don’t talk about group business to outsiders.

2. Don’t fuck over anyone else in the group.

3. Don’t do useless acts.

Useless acts include killing an addict for non-payment. A dead man can’t pay his debts.

“Who’s next?” Bam asks.

I check my paper list. We’re old school because tech is too easy to track, and paper, well, I’ve eaten a few pieces, and I’m still alive. “Andy Nunn.”

“That name sounds new.” Bam looks over my shoulder. “A senior from Central Academy. Owes two big ones.”

“Heavy user.” I pocket the list and raise my arm to make sure the bus driver sees us.

Bam groans. “Not the bus again.”

“It’s a twenty-buck ride to Central or a free one with the pass.” I wave my card in his face.

“The buses stink. And there’s always some deranged old man who wants to shove his dick in your face.”

“You must have a fuckable face, Bam. What can I say?”

“Dude. I’m not riding the bus.”

“Great. Pay for the taxi. I’ll see you there. Don’t start without me.” I hop on and swipe my Metro card.

Bam clambers on board behind me, muttering under his breath about how I’m tighter with money than a virgin’s cunt.

Probably true, but it’s not like I want to be an enforcer for the rest of my life.

Beating up people and taking their money isn’t real satisfying work.

At least it’s not something I see myself doing in ten years.

Maybe five. I can still see myself doing this in five.

Actually, I could see myself still doing this in ten, and that’s what makes me take the bus because I have to change my future somehow.

Bam spends money like it’s tap water: free and always available.

He spends it on crazy stuff, too, like shoes that cost a grand and a leather jacket that ran him five cool ones.

It’s a fine jacket, don’t get me wrong, but nothing on this earth is worth five thousand.

But knocking the shit out of people is fun for Bam, and he plans to do it for as long as he can.

We had a run-in with the Pipefitters, a gang that runs the territory between Sixth Street to the south, Fifteenth to the north, and Templeton to the west. The east is a warzone between them and Smoke Crew.

Both groups are always vying for power. One of our addicts ran away from us into that no-man’s-land, and we had to fish him out from under the nose of a couple of Pipefitter enforcers who were beating the daylights out of a stray Smoke Crew member who had the unfortunate luck of being caught by himself.

The Pipefitters were older, their skin like leather.

One guy’s face was scarred so heavily on the right that it was kind of a miracle he could see.

He was just laying into the Smoke Crew member, who was half his age and jacked.

Like body builder physique. Bam watched this play out with such intense fascination that our addict nearly got away.

Later, he told me that he thought being an enforcer was a young man’s game and that he’d thought he probably wouldn’t see thirty due to getting shot or stabbed, but seeing the Pipefitters, he had a new vision of life.

I didn’t think that was the lesson to take away from that encounter, but I kept my mouth shut. Who am I to tell Bam anything? We’re both in this mess because we’ve got no money and no prospects. If Bam wants to get all scarred and fight until he’s eighty, that's his choice.

The overhead speaker announcing that Central is the next stop pulls me out of my thoughts. I hit the stop button, and the bus comes to a halt. The big lumbering vehicle sighs as the doors open, and Bam and I hit the sidewalk.

“You want to hold and I’ll hit this time?” Bam asks.

“Nah. I’ll do the hitting today.” I rub the wounds on my knuckles. “I’ve already got a good start on some calluses. No point in letting it go to waste.”

We head off toward the school. Andy’s doing detention today, and from the intel the runner gave to Clark, our mark will be alone.

Easy pickings. We’ll be in and out in less than five.

I won’t even touch Andy’s face since it’s his first infraction.

There are tons of other pain points. The stomach is a good one because those bruised ribs remind the addict of our visit every time they take a breath for a good couple of weeks.

Whistling, I climb the stairs of the old, run-down school with the graffitied walls with Bam behind me, trailing his fingers against the painted concrete.

We pass a few kids who don’t recognize us but whose instincts are sharp enough to have them huddling against the opposite wall. They sense that we’re dangerous.

Bam winks at one of them, and they nearly piss their pants running away. I snort in amusement. The detention room is marked with a white piece of paper and the letters DETENTION written in all caps in black magic marker. “Guess this is our place.”

I shove the door open and stop short. Bam collides into my back.

“Oh shit,” he breathes.

Oh shit is right. Andy Nunn’s a fucking girl.