Bluegrass Undercover (Bluegrass Brothers)

Prologue
     
    He wiped his sweaty hands on his mesh shorts and took a deep breath to calm himself. If he got caught, it would end his high school football career, cost him a chance at a college scholarship, and his parents would be pissed. Those factors were outweighed by the fact that he was a full two tenths of a second slower in the 40 than his backup, and that meant if he didn’t pick it up, he’d be riding the bench this season.
    The glass doors were looming in front of him as he approached the dealer. His hands left sweaty imprints as he pushed the doors open and tried to casually walk inside. His heart pounded as if it were up to him to make the last-second play to win the big game. He smiled to those he knew, which, thanks to being such a small town, was practically everyone. Did they all know what he was about to do?
    The locker room was just ahead of him now. This was it. He put his hand in his pocket and felt for the cash he’d stolen out of his mom’s and dad’s wallets over the last couple of weeks. He’d had to empty his piggy bank and save up his allowances for a month, but if this worked, it would be worth it. He’d be faster, stronger, and maybe even Mr. Football in Kentucky. A scholarship to a Division I school would make everything perfect. Even his parents couldn’t get mad about taking a couple hundred from them if he was going to be on ESPN every Saturday.
    “Hey, man.”
    “What’s up?”
    “You got the five hundred?”
    “Yup.”
    He pulled out the cash and handed it to him. His eyes darted around the momentarily empty locker room. Someone could walk in at any minute, but his dealer was as calm as could be counting out the cash. Shouldn’t he hurry and give him the stuff before the police barged in?
    “Here you go kid. Ten cc’s three times a week.” He caught the small, black duffle bag and nodded his head toward his dealer before he walked as fast as he could out of there.
     
    He managed to get home before his parents got back from work, but his little sister was already home and would be a problem. If only he had a lock on the door. He moved his desk chair over to his door and shoved it under the doorknob. It would have to work. If Cindy knew he was home, she’d come running in, wanting to play or talk about the gossip going on in cheerleading camp. God, little sisters were a trial.
    He placed the duffle on his bed and slowly unzipped it. Inside were a handful of diabetic syringes and a small glass bottle with a black rubber stopper. Pulling off the orange cap on the needle, he slowly poked it through the rubber stopper and measured out ten cc’s. He dropped the bottle back into the bag and pulled down his shorts. He heard the garage door open and knew his parents were home. He had to hurry. Would he feel stronger by tomorrow? Would he be like Spiderman? He envisioned himself as the best football player in the country, shredding defenses and scoring every time the ball was in his hands. He’d be a hero.
    He grabbed the skin at his waist between his thumb and middle finger. This was it. The needle met resistance as he pressed it against his skin. It pricked, and he winced as he pushed it through his skin. His thumb pushed the plunger down, and he watched the drug that would change his life enter his body.
    “Honey! Dinner!”
    “Coming, Mom.”

Chapter One
     
    Annie Blake felt the ocean breeze ruffle her sweat-drenched hair. It was Miami in August. Even being on the beach did nothing to cool her off. She hardly ever went to the beach. Who had time? But, she must admit, the sand did feel good between her toes, and the smell of the salt floating by and the feathered waves of the breeze did relax her.
    She looked over the sparkling blue water as far as she could see and took a deep breath. It was going to be a great day. She scanned the beach and saw kids playing, sunbathers in barely- there swimsuits, and a thug by one of the beach bars. He was shorter than she, probably around five six to her five seven. His black hair was pulled back into a low ponytail at the base of his neck. His body was shiny with sweat, which made his tattoos sparkle in the sunlight. His jean shorts started at his thighs and ended at his ankles. She had no idea why thugs liked this style of clothing, but it worked for her. It was hard to run with your pants falling down.
    A young boy, maybe fifteen, sauntered over to the thug with a cocky attitude. His athletic shorts fell to mid-calf as he