Cobra Clearance by Richard Craig Anderson

Author:Richard Craig Anderson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hellgate Press
Published: 2013-10-17T04:00:00+00:00

Brenda closed the bar and selected a tune on the juke box, then she and Eric slow-danced. When it ended, she pecked his cheek and led him to the cabin. Once inside she began laying out six lines of cocaine on a small mirror while Eric took off his shirt, shoes and socks. His O.D. pants hung from his hips and Brenda pictured her two brothers, who habitually rendered themselves shoeless and shirtless on entering a home. She’d heard on Oprah or somewhere that this behavior was emblematic of boys raised in dire poverty.

As he squatted and rummaged through his knapsack, she studied his swimmer’s shoulders, tight butt and unblemished back. She said to herself, He has such pretty skin. Maybe he sensed her eyes on him, because he turned and gave her the most charming smile ever. She felt a thrill run through her, and watched with interest as he got out some cigarette papers and rolled a joint with practiced ease. When he offered it to her, she pushed it aside. “Here.” She thrust the mirror and a rolled-up Andy Jackson at him. “We’re doin’ lines first, baby.”

He said at once, “Okay, sure.” Still squatting, he pushed around some grains with the end of the bill. “Hey, quality product.” Then balancing the mirror on his knees, he stuck Andy Jackson up a nostril and leaned over a line. It disappeared up his nose. A second later he steadied himself with a hand and blinked rapidly. “Wow. Nice.”

Brenda snorted the next line, vigorously rubbing the end of her nose afterward. Then the rush hit and her knees almost buckled. “Wow is right.”

They sat and joshed each other for the next twenty minutes. She found him to be playful and even endearing as he kidded around. But her high was already fading as he glanced at the heroin atop the bureau. “Go on,” she said wearily. “Help yourself.”

He sprang up and hovered over it. “God, it’s been so long since I done any.”

“So slam some.”

“Hmm, sure looks sweet.” He caressed his bare belly. “Nah, better not. Ain’t good doin’ junk on top a blow—which I’m ready to hit again.” Grabbing the mirror, he got back down on his haunches and worked the bill up his nostril, then leaned over a line. He snorted it and was about to do another when he backed off. “Hell, I friggin’ forgot. I can’t do blow. Kruger said not to, an’ I told him I wouldn’t.”

She pouted and stamped her foot. “Come on. I won’t say nothin’.”

“No.” Standing, he went back to the heroin. “I swore off junk, too.” But his gaze lingered; he wet his lips; shifted from foot to foot; rested his fingertips atop a bent spoon with dark residue in its bowl. Picking up the tourniquet he toyed with it, then clenched it in his fist and quietly asked, “Them needles there. They safe?”

She instantly said, “Yes,” and easing the tourniquet from his grasp she cinched it around his bicep and said in a low voice, “Get a vein ready while I cook the smack.

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