(This story is the third in the X series, and is intended to be read after "Xhalation" and "Xcogitate".)
"Xemplify"
Kev flinched at the sound of the knock on the door. Not just any old knock-he was used to greeting people at odd hours, people who maybe had a little bit of what you might call an urgency to their presence at his old town house in the middle of the night. Kev opened the door for people like that with a grin and a wave, his eyes bleary behind his thick round glasses but his smile warm and genuine. Late night people were Kev's kind of people.
But this was one of
those
knocks. Kev had gotten a little too used to them over the past few months, the sound of a fist swinging at the end of an arm that didn't quite understand how bodies moved anymore. A harsh, arrhythmic thud that smacked into his reinforced outer door over and over again, pounding with grim patience until he finally responded. Kev could almost imagine that if he didn't answer, they'd keep beating against the wooden surface until they broke every bone in their hand. He didn't think that would stop them.
Another knock. Then another, coming faster than usual. Kev sprang to his feet, his fingers worrying their way through his patchy, mousy brown beard as he staggered over to the security camera he'd installed after his first break-in. Kev had never really planned to become a drug dealer-it was a career he'd very much stumbled into by happenstance, and he'd learned most of what he knew through trial and error. And one of the big things he learned was that when dealing with addicts, you couldn't trust anyone.
There were two of them outside. Kev recognized Rowan, one of his regulars, and another woman, a Caucasian with blonde hair that he didn't recognize. No, wait. He did recognize her. She was with Rowan on her last visit, when the exotic dancer pulled up in a car that was practically begging to be stolen and rolled into Kev's waiting room with a wad of cash that she could barely get her fingers around and bought pretty much every last drop of X he had in the building.
He had a bad feeling about that deal when he was making it, but Kev knew better than to argue with a customer. If he didn't sell them their shit, someone else would, and one of the quickest ways to make an addict hostile was to make them think you were holding out on them. Kev had a few nasty scars from making a trial of that particular error. Rowan and... what was her name, Betty? They were either going to handle their shit or they weren't. He wasn't their dad.
Judging by the way they were hammering on his door, they hadn't. He didn't know how much X they'd taken, but judging by their wardrobe, it was a hell of a lot. Rowan had apparently pulled on a very stylish brown Burberry overcoat and absolutely nothing else, and Betty/Betsy had draped herself in a 1000-count linen sheet that she'd seemingly dragged through more than a few puddles on her way here. Kev had to imagine that they came on foot-not only did it explain the mud clinging to their toes, but they both looked like they didn't even know what a car was anymore, let alone how to drive it.
Well, fuck. And Kev liked Rowan, too. She was always good for a little company while she smoked, and at least a handjob depending on what she was on at the time. With a sigh, Kev pulled on a robe over his pale, skinny body and trotted downstairs to answer the door.
He went out into the waiting room, feeling the outline of the gun in his pocket to make sure it was still there. Not that he'd ever met a violent X-head, but there was always something about the way a truly dedicated X addict moved that unnerved and unsettled Kev. They had an awkward, ungainly gait, like they had climbed into the wrong bodies and needed to relearn how to perform basic motor functions. They jerked around every time they moved, their heads lolled and settled into odd positions... it just felt like they were always about to freak right the fuck out, even if none of them ever had.