Jericho had been out of jail for less than two weeks, and Devon had barely left his side.
Every waking hour blurred into the next—lines of cocaine, clouds of weed smoke, laughter that came too fast and died too suddenly.
Jericho had been high so often that the fact he’d just gotten out of prison barely registered anymore.
A woman from the rooming house descended the stairs and paused when she noticed his apartment door standing open. The smell hit her before she spoke. “Look,” she said cautiously, forcing a polite smile, “I know you like to have fun, but the landlord’s doing inspections today. Just—be good, alright?”
“Why don’t you shut the fuck up,” Devon snapped. “Mind your business.”
Jericho laughed, the sound sharp and careless. “Yeah,” he echoed, “shut the fuck up.” The woman frowned, her expression shifting from concern to disbelief.
“Jericho… are you alright?”
“What’s it to you?” he shot back.
“You’ve never talked to me like that before,” she said quietly.
“Well get used to it,” Jericho snarled. “I don’t even fucking know you.”
Devon grinned. Jericho grinned back.
The woman stared at him for a moment longer, then shook her head. “Fine. Good luck with the inspection.”
She walked away.
An hour later, Jericho and Devon leaned over the desk again, sniffing another line from the dime bag. A knock rattled the door.
“Who the fuck is it?” Jericho barked. The door creaked open. A tall, older man stepped inside, stopping short as his eyes scanned the room—clothes everywhere, trash overflowing, the stale chemical stink hanging heavy in the air.
“Jericho,” the man said carefully, “I’m here to inspect your—” His gaze landed on the half gram of cocaine sitting in plain sight. He exhaled slowly.
“I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head, “but you’re out. I have to evict you.”
“You think you can evict me?” Jericho roared. “You know who I am?” Devon grabbed his arm. “Jericho,” he said quietly, “let’s go. We’ve overstayed our welcome.”
Outside, the cold air hit hard. They walked toward the beat-up 2009 Civic Devon had bought while Jericho was inside.
“Start the car,” Jericho said, bending down. He picked up a brick from the walkway, weighed it in his hand, and hurled it.
—SMASH—
Glass exploded outward as the living room window shattered into a thousand pieces. They drove away without looking back—homeless, broke, and already planning the next move.
“So where do we go now?” Devon asked after a few minutes. “We’re almost out of drugs. No money. No food.”
Jericho stared out the window, his fingers drumming against the dashboard. A deep ache crawled through his skull as the cocaine began to fade.
“We hustle,” he said.
“What?”
“I got a connect. He’ll front me an ounce. We sell it together.”
Devon hesitated. “You sure about this?”
** The world tilted. Suddenly Jericho was in the back seat of a dark sedan, a 9mm heavy in his palm. Streetlights streaked past like ghosts.
“You sure about this, Jericho?” a voice asked. “This is serious.”
“I ain’t no punk.” BANG. BANG. BANG. The car peeled off into the night. Someone screamed.
“Jericho!” Devon’s hand cracked against his face.
Jericho gasped, snapping back into the present. His body shook uncontrollably, cold flooding his veins.
“You were having a seizure,” Devon said, panic creeping into his voice. “Your nose is bleeding.”
Jericho wiped his face and stared at the red smear in the rearview mirror. “Damn,” he muttered.
Devon swallowed. “So… we’re really doing this? Selling drugs?” Jericho leaned back in his seat, forcing a grin that didn’t quite hold.
“Devon,” he said, “this time next month, we’ll own the whole drug scene.”
End of Chapter 2
© Peter CJ, 2026. All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced, compiled, or commercially distributed without the author’s permission. First publication rights reserved by the author.