Black Dagger Brotherhood 11 - Lover at Last

ride was the kind of thing you’d see on the streets where he was from, the vehicle of a major dealer. Except they were far from the inner city out here, so it was just some cracker trying to look like he had a dick.
    Vanilla-man hiked up his backpack, one-strapping it. “I’ma check it out.”
    “Bus is coming soon.” Jonsey checked his watch, and did some wishful thinking. “Five, maybe ten minutes.”
    “Come on—”
    “Bye, asshole.”
    “You scared or some shit?” The SOB lifted his hands and started going
Paranormal Activity
. “Oh, scurrrrrry—”
    Jonsey outted his gun and punched the muzzle right into that dumb-ass face. “I got no problem killin’ you right here. I done it before. I do it again. Now back the fuck off and do y’self a favor. Shut the fuck up.”
    As Jonsey met the guy’s eyes, he didn’t particularly care what the outcome was. Shoot the bitch. Don’t shoot him. Whatever.
    “Okay, okay, okay.” Mr. Chatty backed away and left the bus stop.
    Thank. Fuck.
    Jonesy put his gat away, crossed his arms, and stared in the direction the bus was going to come out of—like that might help.
    Stupid fucking idiot.
    He looked at his watch again. Man, enough with this shit. If a bus heading back into downtown got here first, he was just going to get on and fuck it all.
    Shifting the backpack he’d been told to get, he felt the hard contour of the jar inside. The pack he understood. If he was going to transport product from the sticks into the ’hood, then yeah. But the jar? What the hell you need that for?
    Unless it was loose powder?
    The fact that he’d been chosen by C-Rider, the man himself, for this had been pretty fucking cool. Until he’d met White Boy—and then the idea he was special lost some juice. The boss man’s instructions had been clear: Hook up with the dude at the Fourth Street stop. Take the last bus out to the ’burbs and wait. Transfer to the rural line when service resumed near dawn. Get off at the Warren County stop. Hoof it one mile to a farm property.
    C-Rider would meet them and a bunch of other dudes out there for the business. And after that? Jonsey would be part of a new crew set to dominate the scene in Caldie.
    He liked that shit. And full respect to C-Rider—that motherfucker was tight: high up in the ’hood; strung.
    But if the rest of them were like Vanilla—
    The roar of an engine made him assume something, anything from the Caldwell Transit Authority had finally shown, and he got to his feet—
    “No fuckin’ way,” he breathed.
    The blacked-out Hummer had pulled up right in front of the bus stop, and as the window went down, White Boy was full-on insane-in-the-membrane behind the wheel—and not just because Cypress Hill was, in fact, blaring.
    “Get in! Come on! Get in!”
    “What the fuck you do, yo?” Jonsey stuttered, even as he shot around behind the SUV and jumped into the passenger seat.
    Holy motherfucking
shit
—bitch ass was not a total fool, not pulling off something like this.
    The guy floored the accelerator, the engine roared, and the teeth of the tires grabbed onto the snowpack and shot them forward at fifty miles an hour.
    Jonsey held on to whatever he found as they went gunning througha red-light intersection and then rode up over the curb and across the parking lot of a Hannaford. As they shot out on the far side, the music buried the beeping sound that was going off because no one had put their seat belts on.
    Jonsey started grinning. “Fuckin’ yes, motherfucker! You crazy bitch, you fucking crazy ass snowflake…!”

    “I think that’s Justin Bieber.”
    Standing in front of a lineup of Lay’s potato chips, Qhuinn looked overhead to the speaker inset into the ceiling tiles. “Yup. I’m right, and I hate that I know that.”
    Next to him, John Matthew signed,
How do you know?
    “The little shit is everywhere.” To prove the point, he motioned to a greeting card display featuring Short, Cocky, and Fifteen-Minutes-Are-Up. “I swear, that kid is proof the Antichrist is coming.”
    Maybe it’s already here.
    “Would explain Miley Cyrus.”
    Good point.
    As John went back to contemplating his finger food of choice, Qhuinn double-checked the store. Four a.m. and the CVS was fully stocked and completely empty—except for the two of them and the guy up at the front counter, who was reading a
National Enquirer
and eating a Snickers bar.
    No
lessers
. No Band of Bastards.
    Nothing to shoot.
    Unless that