❝this is not work ethic, it's survival technique. and there's nothing i can really do.❞

❘❘

SERENITY COMES IN THE RHYTHMIC MOTIONS of his fingers—tattooed knuckles flickering through a snowy breeze. The anchor flutters; a skull skitters; a crown flashes. They clutch a Queen of Hearts, a curved playing card, skip and skate over the pile of cocaine, and then slow.

For a long, dizzying second, I'm jealous. I want to be the Queen of Hearts within his grasp, careless and free, just drifting through a snowscape.

As the flurry of white powder unravels, skids, and spreads across the long mirror in front of me, I watch in silent awe.

"No entiendo," Rio says quietly, but his hushed voice still manages to wrench me from the hypnotic haze and back to the moment.

Sometimes it feels like winter, but it's not. It's September.

The Queen of Hearts flutters innocently to the mirror. Julian scoffs, slides to the side, and reaches across the table for a pair of latex gloves. My gaze stays on the slippery slope of snow. "¿Qué no entiendes, Rio?"

Smoke clouds my visions, slowly disentangling the leftover daydream. And then Rio drops down to the seat beside me, our thighs brush, and any inkling of winter is swept away. A spark erupts in my limbs, stunning me into an unexpected heatwave.

It's not winter.

I steal one last second of fleeting admiration before turning my gaze up to Rio. As he flicks ash into the glass tray at the corner of the table, I lick my lips. The stubble along his jaw has grown out in the past few days, leaving it trimmed and perfect to run my teeth, or my fucking tongue, or my lips, over it. There's something a little tame about Rio that I admittedly find irresistible.

Maybe I just haven't gotten to know him—or his body—well enough.

Those dark eyes find mine easily, and before I can say a thing, he's holding his cigarette out to me.

I take it without hesitation.

"What I don't get, Jules," Rio drawls, shifting his attention away from me as soon as I put the cigarette to my lips. "...is what your plan is in the long run?"

Those hot, gravel eyes stir the smoke from my lungs and into the hazy air. I blink innocently under Julian's smoldering stare, willing him to complain about me sharing cigarettes with someone else.

He never does.

Instead, his gaze flickers to Rio, an unimpressed scowl twisting at his lips. "We stretch it and make more money."

Stretch it. That's what he had said before, and I didn't understand it. I still don't.

I follow his movements curiously, watching in silence as the cigarette dangles from my fingers. Julian has turned the table in their kitchen into curated chaos. Atop the mirror that spans the entire table, a box of latex gloves, a razor blade, a small scale, baking soda, and a mesh strainer block our reflections. They all seem perfectly meaningless alone, but surrounding the pile of snow, they're strangely lethal.

When Julian grabs the mesh strainer and the baking soda, a twinge of disbelief captures me. My lips part, but no words come out.

I blink.

And then the slow-burning snowstorm begins.

A dull throb catches me off guard; my heart butterflies in my chest. It's impossible to tear my eyes away.

The sensual descent starts with his fingers, gloved and careful, tipping the box of baking soda, and the white powder plunges, catches, stalls in the bottom of the strainer before it sifts through, ending in nothing but a dusting that coats the cocaine completely.

Julian hums, twisting his wrist to let the strainer casually coast and hover, assuring to catch and cover every last speck of snow.

"You're cutting it with baking soda?" Rio asks, amusement in his voice.

Cutting it.

Julian gives a razor blade grin—sharp and cutthroat. "It's all about the cut game."

I shiver but refuse to blink or look away. I can't. Struck by the sheer stealth in Julian's lithe movements, I watch in that dead silence as he drops the box and the strainer, reaches for the Queen of Hearts again, and starts to...mix it.

Cut it.

Gentle fingers wrap around my wrist. I blink, snapped back to reality again, and sneak a sideways glance over to Rio. His lips are victim to an amused smirk that exposes the smallest dimple in his cheek.

My head spins. I hand the cigarette back to him wordlessly, cursing myself for letting either of them steal my breath.

It's not them. It's snow.

"Why?"

It takes me a hot moment to realize that I broke the simmering silence.

Julian pauses, his expression softening. All the edges of his smile fade into a hazy understanding. "Why what, Neva?"

"Why are you adding baking soda to it?"

"ECON 101," Julian says quietly. One brow quirks. "You want a crash-course on the economics of cocaine?"

A fog wraps around my brain. Just the mere mention of courses almost pinwheels me, but somehow, I nod. "Sí."

"Yeah? You want to take that course this year?" Julian teases, chuckling faintly. "Narconomics 101. I'll be your teacher, mamita."

A ripple of fantasies rush at me, and I try to stifle them with a sarcastic smile. "Oh papi, we both know I'd be more of a teacher."

Julian nips the air playfully. "Give me detention?"

I can't help but indulge in it. My gaze steers to the cocaine as I feign an unimpressed expression. "How about 24 to life? Possession with the intent to sell?"

That doesn't seem to sober him up a bit. That untouchable, million-dollar smile stays intact on his lips. "Never."

"She's not wrong," Rio cuts in, his smooth voice slicing the sexual tension in half. "Either you get caught, or someone kills you, Jules."

"Jules," I snicker. "I'm right."

"That's why I'm out," Julian says with a shrug. "After we stretch this and sell it, I'm out. It should give me enough money to invest in something."

"I still don't understand why you're adding baking soda to it," I admit, bringing him back around.

Julian nods, resuming his quick motions—cutting the baking soda into the cocaine. "Right. Narconomics."

"Alright, Neva." Rio places a hand on my knee beneath the table, and a flash of heat rips through me. I turn to face him. "What are you?"

A lazy smile curves at my lips. It's not the first time I've heard the brutally blunt question, and it probably won't be the last. "I'm human," I tease. "What are you?"

"Vaya," Julian chuckles. "Don't you just love her attitude?"

The loose smile that tugs at Rio's lips rivals mine. "Sabes a lo que me refiero. ¿De donde eres?"

My cheeks warm. I don't like to talk about where I'm from—the place that I no longer consider home. "Mexico."

"Mexico has a free market economy," Rio starts, squeezing my knee. "¿Sí?"

I nod silently.

"What we own, we sell," he continues as he passes me the cigarette casually. "Production, consumption, distribution."

Rolling my eyes, I laugh. "I know what capitalism is, Rio."

"Then you understand the principle of supply and demand, mami."

I take a long drag, letting his words sink in like the smoke in my lungs.

"I'll tell you a secret, Neva." A hint of mischief swirls in his eyes. "Illicit drugs are the best example of supply and demand, but especially coke."

My brows raise. "How is that?"

"You sell the first batch uncut, get them hooked on the raw shit, and when they come back for more—and they will—you sell them this garbage."

"Supply them with pure snow," Julian cuts in with that grin, "and you'll have them coming back for anything. Supply and demand."

"In a manipulative sense," I say, twisting the cigarette between my fingers. The ash crumbles at the end, and when I flick it to the ashtray, Rio catches my hand to pull the cigarette up to his lips. "That's how you make more money. You stretch it once they're hooked?"

Julian snickers, shrugs, spares me a single look. "More product, more money, Neva. That's all there is to it."

It's perfectly deceiving, and something about that lights a fire in my blood. "More product. That's why you wanted higher purity," I say numbly, remembering those vaguely high moments of the party. "You can cut it with more."

"Mmm." Julian is still unashamed, his motions never faltering. Now, as Rio hands me back the cigarette, he's coating the cocaine with another layer of baking soda. "Cut it with baking soda, cut it with laxatives, cut it with fucking laundry detergent. By the time this gets to the street, Neva"—his dark eyes find mine—"I'll be making triple the money I didn't pay for it."

Rio snorts beside me. "Greed, Neva. Remember that. That's what gets you killed. Greed."

I take another long inhale and try to process his words, but Julian ignores him completely. Though his hands move expertly, going through the motions, Julian's gaze still holds me hostage. "¿Entiendes?"

"I think so."

"Think of it this way," he soothes, and blinks, releasing me. "One ounce becomes two ounces. Two ounces becomes four ounces. We make double, triple, quadruple the profit."

Smoke wafts between us, heavy in the air. I think I understand now; I think I understand something about cocaine besides the way it can make me feel.

"You wouldn't believe how much you can stretch cocaine once people are addicted," Julian says in a softer voice.

Maybe it's something in my bloodstream, or the sensation stinging my skin, but all I can do is watch the coke in front of me diminish with each sifting wave of baking soda.

It starts in my lips and tongue—the prickling numbness. It only takes me a second to recognize the feeling.

Rio swipes the cigarette from me. I press my lips together desperately, only barely catching the traces of a...high?

"You want to try it?" Julian asks, his brows raising. My teeth dig into my bottom lip, I think, but I nod. "Okay, Neva."

My brain whirls with his fast figure—as he tears off his gloves, spins and saunters away from the table, disappears into his bedroom, and then reappears moments later.

Holding a few tiny, tiny, tiny bags of coke.

"This is raw, Neva." Julian waves the bags teasingly; a minuscule amount of white powder shakes inside. "Think close to 75% purity."

"What is it after you add the baking soda?" I ask curiously.

"It depends on how much I add," Julian says, dropping the bag of coke at the absolute edge of the mirror. "I could cut in some procaine to mask the dilution after, make it a little stronger for a little less money."

Procaine. Dilution.

Fingers wander to the inside of my thigh, breaking my concentration on the strange chemical terms. When I glance at Rio, he's holding out the cigarette again.

Last drag.

I inhale thoughtlessly, stub the cigarette and then shake off his hand. Julian is at the end of the table, separating a section of the diluted coke with the Queen of Hearts. The action is messy and quick, but Julian peers up at me patiently as he grabs the straight razor to perfect the line.

For me.

"Just a little bit," he lulls softly. "I'll mix the rest after."

There's a demand in his voice, as faint as it is, that spurs me from my seat and in front of the line, desperate to completely disobey him—and take all of it.

Greed.

Rio shakes his head in mock pity, but drags a bill from his wallet and rolls it quickly. "Here."

I take it and blow him a kiss; enjoy the tension that it strikes up as I dip down to snort the small line.

The rush isn't instant or euphoric, but I've done it enough times to know that it's not. It's never like the first time, and I don't know if I'll ever stop chasing that.

Julian hooks an arm around my waist possessively, and as I sniff in irritation, I swat it away. "Stop."

His eyes narrow. Infinitesimally. The movement is so fucking tiny that I nearly miss it before he drops his gaze to the table.

A dull high lingers. Like the blunt edge of a blade, sawing, sawing, sawing, rather than jagged ice drilling through my lungs. I can't tell where the disorienting sensation bleeds into disappointment.

How much of what I just snorted was just...baking soda?

The question leaves a hole, eating through me, ebbing and deteriorating like smog blanketing a city of thoughts.

"You know you can't go back to the same people," Rio is saying. The soft warning cuts through the haze with definition. Is he talking to me? "Dan will kill you if he finds you."

Dan. That name. That man.

"We'll run in different circles. Build a new clientele," Julian responds just as quietly. I sink back into myself, realizing that they're talking around me or over me or through me.

"¿En serio?"

Julian's gaze flickers to me, and for some reason, I feel like I'm invading their space. Their conversation. Their business.

I step away from the table abruptly, steady myself with a shaky smile. As my gaze sways to Julian and that scorched stare stifles me, everything smashes together.

They're talking about me.

"We have una gata to help us run some of it."

Oh. Oh. Oh.

Hazily, I blink at them.

"Try this now," Julian says, changing the subject. All his attention recoils; he refocuses on the tiny bag he brought into the room.

Mindlessly, numbly, dizzily, I watch him prep the second line, cleaner and fiercer. And then I repeat the motions that are starting to feel like a breath of fresh air.

Snorting.

This one is stronger, this one is raw.

It comes in ripples, and the tides sway with my knees; everything twists and curls with the lethargic high that inches in slowly between the conversation I can't seem to follow. I'm too attuned to the sounds beyond the windows, the fingers toying at the hem of my shirt, the things in front of me.

Everything feels sharp. Alert. Awake.

I smile.

"Don't you have class, Neva?" Rio sounds muddled beneath all the other sensations, but as I focus on his expression and that fucking stubble, the desire to kiss him is almost too tempting.

"I do," I say breathlessly. "I have my first class. Today."

"Here, Neva." Two leftover bags of coke are pressed into my palm, held there between our hands like a secret. "This is the pure coke," Julian says hastily. "A couple grams. Put some feelers out."

How the fuck am I supposed to put some feelers out? To sell cocaine?

Excitement spikes my pulse. I can't shake it, and I don't understand it, but my fingertips suddenly itch with the challenge.

"How much do I sell it for?" I ask the right question instead, refusing to back down. Julian shrugs, one side of his lips quirking up, and suddenly, the desire to kiss him is too tempting.

Fuck.

"To a bunch of fucking NYU students," Julian snickers. "I bet you could sell a gram for close to $200."

Holy fuck. My throat tightens at the cost of what I'm currently clutching in my hand—of what I just snorted for free. I tug it up in front of me in amazement, and beyond it, everything else blurs. "No mames." 

"College students love this shit," Julian says with a sly smirk. "Especially college chicks."

I press my lips together because as much as I want to defend myself, I can't disagree. I do like this. "This tiny thing can go for almost $200?" I wave it in awe. "No creo que..."

Rio nudges me playfully. "It could go for more. Keep an eye out for the ones that look like they have money to spare."

I quirk a brow. "Yeah?"

"Dime la verdad, Neva. You got poor judgment?"

That's a fucking understatement. "Poor judgment?" I laugh. "I'm a lost cause, papi."

"Well, take it in strides, Neva," Julian cuts in before reeling me into his chest. I squeeze the bags tighter in my palm. "If someone seems clueless, but you think they got heavy pockets, you can get away with charging them more. Prices change, and discounts come with returning customers."

"That's manipulative as shit."

"Actually," Rio chuckles, "eso es avaricia. Capitalism, mamita. We can change our prices based on the demand."

"A free market economy is flawed and manipulative, Rio," I say, taking a step away from them both. "Supply and demand makes the world go 'round. Greed will get you killed." I throw my hands with a smile. "I can make it snow in September!"

Both men look mildly amused, but I can't find it in me to care. I twirl around and head for the door, giggling, "First lesson in Narconomics, compadres."

Rio laughs behind me, and then calls teasingly, "Have a fun first day, honey!"

Just before I can reach for the doorknob, a hand snatches my wrist. The floor tilts beneath me, and as I'm whirled around, our chests collide. All the breath leaves my lungs; I gasp for air, pinned in place by the severe look in his eyes.

"My college chick," Julian says softly, swooping down to steal a bruising kiss. "I know you like it, but don't fuck with it too much. It can get real cold, Neva."

Maybe it's because my mouth still feels numb and my fingertips feel frostbitten; maybe it's because my entire body is dizzy with the fading high, but for some reason, the warning doesn't hit me.

❘❘

**There's a lot to unpack in this one. I'm only going to inform you guys that while cocaine is commonly grouped into 'narcotics' when people use the term to refer to all illicit drugs, it is NOT really a narcotic.

Cocaine is a stimulant, not an opioid.

ANYWAYS. Because of the infodump on this chapter, I won't go into crazy details, BUT I am always here if you have questions!! ❤️❤️