Falling Under by Jasinda Wilder Read Free Book Online

floors, and the elevator is out of order. The steps have no backing, so you can see through them, and they’re covered in the same thin blue carpeting that’s on the floor.  
    “Third floor.” I gesture up, and she precedes me.  
    I watch her round ass sway up the stairs, not bothering to pretend I wasn’t staring when she glances back at me. I just grin, shrug. She blushes, keeps walking. Maybe even sashays with a bit of exaggeration. Nice.  
    We reach the third floor, and I curse under my breath when Dion, my pot hook-up, is locking his door. He lives across from us, conveniently enough. He sees me, lifts his chin in greeting.  
    “Whassup, Oz?” Dion is short, thin, with black skin and a slow, lazy demeanor that hides a dangerous edge. He’s cool, but I wouldn’t ever want to owe him money. We slap hands, grip palms, and bump opposite shoulders.
    “Hey, D.” I mentally will him to not say anything, but he doesn’t get the message.
    He points at his door with a thumb. “I just picked up an ‘O.’ It’s some serious icky-sticky, man. You want an eighter? I’ll give it to you for sixty.”
    I lick my lips. I do want it. I’ve got cash in my room, and I’m almost out. But I can’t buy, not with Kylie here. “Nah, man. I’m good. Hold onto it for me for later.”
    Dion nods. “A’aight. But I can’t promise it’ll last long. It’s good shit, man.”
    “Thanks.” I unlock my door and usher Kylie in, who’s clearly trying to figure out what just went down.  
    I close the door behind me and lean back against it, waiting for the questions.  
    “Oz?” She steps into the living room, looking around, then spins to face me. “Do I want to know what that was about?”
    I lift an eyebrow. “If you don’t know, then no, you don’t want to know.”  
    She’s frowning. “Is he a…drug dealer?”  
    I laugh. The way she said that, like she was referring to some mystical creature, like unicorns or griffins. It’s funny. “I guess. I mean, he just slings some herb. Eighths and dime-bags. Nothing serious.”  
    She’s clearly lost. “Herb? Eighths?”
    I shake my head, still laughing. “I thought you didn’t want to know?”
    Kylie blinks. “No. I don’t.” She turns away from me and looks around the living room and kitchen.  
    There’s a couch along one wall, picked up from Salvation Army when we first moved here. Mom never takes couches with us. It’s easier to just buy one from the Salvation Army when we get to where we’re going. There’s our TV, a fifty-inch that she got on a rent-to-own program from Rent-A-Center. It’s old, but it works. A low oak coffee table with a scratched glass top, a half-full ashtray, a copy of OK! , and an empty Coors can. The kitchen is tiny, of course, with scarred laminate counters, dirty white cabinets, an old fridge, a non-matching microwave and stovetop range. The sink is full of dirty bowls, a pot of leftover Kraft mac and cheese, the remnants of spaghetti. It’s embarrassing. I’ve seen what she comes from. I mean, I didn’t go inside, but I can imagine. Clean kitchen, dishes always done. Marble floors. Granite counters. Vast spaces and high-end appliances. The opposite of this, basically.  
    I point at the sort-of hallway, a six-foot length of hall with a bedroom door on either side and a single bathroom in between. The toilet is dirty, the shower is hard-water stained, and the sink is covered in Mom’s stuff: makeup, curling irons, brushes, hair ties, a box of tampons.  
    “My room is on the right.” I lead her there, leaving the door open. More for Kylie’s sake than anything else. Mom won’t get home before three in the morning,   and she wouldn’t give a shit even if she did.  
    It’s messy, of course. Clothes cover the floor, heaped in piles of dirty laundry, the clean clothes in a basket. There’s an ashtray on the windowsill, and it has cigarette butts in it, as well as a couple of roaches. The room stinks of dirty