The California Saga

Genres: African American

Synopsis

When Michael Burroughs arrives on the scene in Virginia Beach from L.A., he floods the East Coast with top-notch product and quickly earns his title as the California Connection—Calico for short. He's also a smooth brotha with a knack for getting whatever he wants out of women. When he meets Jewel, sparks fly and things quickly spin out of control. When Calico shows his true colors, Jewel knows just how to get revenge.
Jewel becomes the queen of the streets. She's making money in a major way. The only problem is that she no longer wants to share her throne. Add to this a federal investigation dubbed Operation California Connection, and Jewel could soon be facing her downfall.
When the dust settles, Jewel is left with a boyfriend on the run and a federal case pending against her. Jewel is concerned with only one thing, though. She is determined to give her unborn child a good life, one that doesn't involve drugs, lies, and deception. Armed with a mother's love, Jewel uses her street savvy to try to gain back everything she lost, minus the pain.
The California Saga is all about revenge and retaliation, even if it means snitching and snaking. It's about money, power, and greed.

Release date: April 1, 2013

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 560

Sample

“Fuck you, bitch!” I held up my middle finger as I grabbed my oversized Chanel bag then stormed out of my now ex-manager’s office. “And take this and shove it up your big, white, cottage cheese ass,” I said to the overweight, unattractive wench that had just fired me. I knocked over the carnation flower arrangement that sat in the waiting area of the medical office then slung a few magazines across the floor on my way out the door.

Thinking of how that wicked witch had just tried to humiliate me, I just wasn’t quite satisfied with my tantrum, so I stopped in front of the huge window that covered the entire front of the office and pulled down my pants. “Oh, and you all can kiss my big, plump, juicy ass!” I yelled as I smacked my butt cheeks then ran off laughing. Now my heart was content, and I was able to get in my truck at ease. That bitch had some nerve calling me out in front of the entire staff and patients, making it seem like I was some sort of incompetent young black chick, I thought. I started up my white Range Rover, the words datbitch on my license plate, a message to let everyone know who was driving this here whip, and zoomed out of the parking lot, leaving nothing but dust.

Evidently that chick didn’t read between the lines of my resume. Of course, I had plenty of medical billing experience, but I also was first a born hustler that could game any nigga, and second a ghost writer, which translated to, “I’m not dependent solely on your fucking pissy-ass check, bitch!” That working shit was never for a chick like me anyway.

If it wasn’t for my homeboy Touch, I would have never been working in the first place. His words were still fresh in my head as I pulled out the parking lot and onto the busy street. “Keep you a li’l gig on the side, Jewel,” he’d say. This nigga insisted that I should always keep a plan B, no matter how much loot I had coming in. I enjoyed having the extra cash on hand, but I didn’t know if that advice was for my benefit or his. I think that was simply a way to keep me out of his pockets.

Touch was my boy, so if I were to ever fall on hard times, he would’ve definitely come through for me, but he knew that I liked keeping my pockets swollen. Regardless, I was on my grind and had money coming in from every direction. My new career as a ghostwriter was really taking off, and I always had a nigga or two that I was constantly gaming. Hell, that’s how I was able to afford my whip and my crib. Me getting fired from that job was actually a blessing in disguise. Now there would be less stress, and more time to focus on my writing, the real money-maker.

I connected my iPod to the radio and blasted the tune “Glamorous” by Fergie as I headed to the bank to deposit my check. I thought about my manager on the way. That bitch didn’t know I was already living the fucking glamorous life. She ain’t doing no damage here. I laughed as I pulled up to the bank’s drive-thru.

From the bank, I headed to the nail shop. I began to laugh again as I thought about what was happening. How many people get fired from their job then go get their nails done? Only a real fucking diva like myself.

I had to call my girl Sasha and let her in on my drama for the day. I smiled as I scrolled to her name in contacts and the picture of her from the back, wearing only a thong, with a whip thrown over her shoulder, popped up on the screen of my iPhone. Sasha was my girl. Although we’d only been friends a couple of years and we’d met on some strange terms at the strip club, she was still on a different level than any of my other friends. She and I had a little closer connection, a connection that I shared with her only.

I waited patiently for Sasha to pick up as I sang along to the reggae tune “Can’t Breathe” by Tanya Stephens, which she had set as her call tone. You can always tell what a bitch was going through by her call tone or voice mail.

“Hello?” Sasha answered right away.

“What’s up, Boobie?” I called her by her pet name. “I gotta tell you about my day at work.”

“Oh Lord! What the hell that fat bitch done this time?” Sasha was aware of the daily drama I had with my stupid-ass manager.

“Bitch, why that fat cow fire me?”

“For real, girl?” Sasha asked in disbelief.

“Yes, bitch. She gon’ come at me with some bullshit about the collections versus production is showing a huge gap”—My sentence was disrupted by the sight of a fine-ass nigga passing by in a black drop-top 2008 Mercedes Benz SL550 that screamed, “I’m that nigga!” My eyes were glued to him as he passed by slowly. I saw nothing but his cornrows, dark chocolate skin, ice grill, at least a three karat diamond stud in his right ear, as he chatted away on his cell phone. It was as though everything was moving in slow motion. I gave him my most seductive look, and he glanced at me from the corner of his eye.

“Jewel! Jewel!”

“Oh, shit. Sorry about that baby. I just saw this fine-ass dude, umph!”

I felt a shiver in my pussy as I thought about what I could do with a guy like him on my team. He could possibly take the place of my MVP and turn him to a bench-rider. His looks were one thing, but his money was what really made my pussy wet. And after getting fired, I was definitely in search for a new player on the team to compensate for my lost wages.

I’d learned the rules to gaming a dude at a very young age. I’d watched my mom use and abuse men my entire life. Her father had left her at a young age, and it seemed liked she was never able to get past it. As a child, my mother taught me to trust no man, never wear my heart on my sleeve, and to always stand my ground, because kindness was a sign of weakness. A while later she taught me the power of beauty and the booty.

As an adult, I’d fallen right into my mother’s footsteps. I guess it’s true what they say, the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree, because I’d mastered the art of gold-digging, just as she did. It was like a gift. I could look at a guy and assess him in a matter of seconds and know approximately how much dough he was holding, and where it came from. In my book, looks alone didn’t get a man anywhere, but money would get him everywhere. Don’t get it twisted though, this book I’m referring to isn’t titled, The Whore Handbook. It’s more like The Gold-digger’s Guide to Financial Security.

“Girl, you crazy. You ain’t never gon’ change,” Sasha said in a disapproving tone.

“Why you sound like that? Did I say something wrong?”

I could tell by the tone of Sasha’s voice that something was bothering her. It was a tone I was way too familiar with. I just didn’t know whether it was something I said, or if it was a personal struggle.

When we’d first met, her life was going downhill, but we pulled together to turn things around. Sasha started off stripping at Blue Light in Hampton, a city about thirty minutes from Virginia Beach, and life was good for her. She had a house she lived in, a townhouse that she rented out to Section 8 recipients, and a nice car. She needed for nothing. But when she stabbed a chick during an altercation, she was fired from the club, and her world began to crumble. Sasha decided that the strip scene was no longer for her, and wanted to work.

Although she had little work experience and education, I was still able to put something together for her. Luckily, she’d actually gone to school for medical assistance and worked in a couple of medical offices. But during her time as a successful dancer, she figured she would never see this kind of money working a regular job, so she let her certification expire. Even though odds were against us, I created an exaggerated, yet professional resume and cover letter for her, and used some of my connections in the medical field to land her a job with Sentara Healthcare.

At first, everything was smooth sailing, more or less, but it didn’t last long. Nearly a year later it had almost become routine for Sasha to call me with some depressing news. It was as though someone had put a curse on her ass or something. In six months alone she’d gotten in trouble with the authorities for welfare fraud. Then she lost her investment property, and as if things couldn’t possibly get any worse, her baby father got robbed.

“I can’t take this stress anymore,” Sasha said, bursting into tears.

“What stress, baby?” I asked, wanting to know what was bothering my friend.

“It’s like everything is going so wrong so fast. I’m working my ass off, but with my monthly bills, plus the money for daycare and gas, it’s just not worth it. I can’t keep living like this, Jewel.”

“So what you want to do?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’m gonna have to start back dancing. I’ve got to get these bills caught up. Since Rick got robbed, he ain’t been able to help out, and I’m at risk of losing everything I own. I’m gonna lose my house.”

Now my first instinct was to tell her about that deadbeat-ass baby father of hers. There ain’t no way a broke-down dude would be living up in my shit and can’t even pay a light bill. Who gives a fuck if he got robbed? That’s part of the fucking game, and a real hustler always knows how to get back on.

Besides, where the fuck was his stash? I didn’t even bother going into that with Sasha because I’d heard all the excuses once before—“He decided to get out of the game since he got robbed. He’s trying to start his own business.” Trying to stay focused on Sasha’s needs instead of her downfalls, I directed my attention back to her statement.

“So how you gonna do that, Sasha?” I knew that once you got a bad rep in the stripping world in this area, your career was basically over. “I thought you were blackballed on the whole dance scene in this area?”

“Well, I heard girls be going to Atlanta and New York and be racking up. Maybe I could just go to Atlanta for a couple of weeks and then come back and hit New York on the weekends. All I need is money to get my business licenses and plane ticket. Plus, my mom lives in Columbus, Georgia. That’s only an hour away from Atlanta. I could take the boys there to stay with her until I get on my feet, and I could crash at her crib the weeks I’m there dancing. What you think?”

I knew Sasha wasn’t so much asking me what I thought of her idea, but more so what I thought about giving her the money to carry it out.

“Hey, I’ve always supported your decision. If you think this is what’s best. So I take it you’re gonna quit your job?” I asked, since she so conveniently forgot to mention her job when explaining her master plan.

“I have to. I mean, I have no other choice. I need fast money, Jewel. They ’bout to foreclose on my house.”

“A’ight, Sasha,” I said, disappointed in my her actions. We’d gone through a lot to get her that job, and now she was leaving it to go right back where she started. “How much you need for the business license and plane ticket?”

Almost before I could finish my sentence, she quickly responded, “Like six hundred.”

“Okay. I’ll call you later, and you can come get it.”

“Thank you so much. I promise I’ll pay you back,” Sasha said, full of excitement.

“Yeah, Sasha. I’m ’bout to get my nails done. I’ll hit you later.”

I wrapped up the call knowing damn well I would never see that six hundred dollars again. I’d lost count of the number of times I’d lent her money and never saw it again, so I never held my breath on a promise to pay. That was always a promise waiting to be broken.

“Love you,” she sang into the phone.

“Love you too, Boobie.” I disconnected the call and jumped out the truck and headed for the nail shop.

“Hey, Kim,” I said to my nail tech as I walked in.

She said, “Me not Kim. Me tell you every time.”

And she was right. She did tell me every time, but I always managed to forget, until she reminded me.

“I want a manicure, pedicure, eyebrow wax, upper lip wax, and eyelashes,” I said, running off my list.

“Sit here,” she said, directing me to the spa pedicure chair. Then she asked about my homeboy, Touch, who regularly came to the nail shop with me. “Where ya friend?”

“Good question.” I turned on the chair’s massager then pulled out my cell phone to give him a call.

I relaxed as I waited for him to answer. Boy, was I drained. I didn’t know if it was just the events from the day or Sasha’s constant issues that drained me, but whichever it was, it was nothing a little pampering couldn’t solve.

“You have reached the voice mail box of . . .” the recording began to say, letting me know that Touch wasn’t available.

Maybe to the average chick or someone else he wasn’t available, but he was always available for me, so I dialed his other cell phone number.

Touch was like my brother. We’d been friends since high school. When I’d first moved to Virginia Beach from Compton, California, all the chicks were hating on me, and all the dudes were loving me. But it didn’t take long for me to sort out the real gangsters from the fake ones, and when it was all said and done, there was only a couple left standing. One, Diablo James, I made my high school sweetheart, and Touch, the other, I made my best friend. We clicked immediately.

As a native Southerner, I was used to seeing many black people and few white people. Sure, segregation was over, but deep in the South, black people stuck together, and the white people did the same. You might call it voluntary segregation—They didn’t bother us, and we didn’t bother them. So when I came to Virginia Beach, it was way too many white people, and way too many black people that acted white for me. For me, it was like moving from Compton to the Valley.

Touch, coming straight from the streets of Norfolk to the center of Virginia Beach, experienced the same culture shock as me. He felt my pain. It was like we were in the fucking twilight zone. So being the natural rebels we were, we acted out and did our own gotdamn thang.

A born hustler, Trayvon Davis knew how to get money by any means. People said that everything he touched turned to gold, so he was given the name Touch by the streets. Unlike most dope boys, Touch had never experienced a loss, never had a nigga buck on him, and never had weak product. He’d been dealt the best of hands in this here poker game of the streets.

Touch’s parents moved their family to Virginia Beach during his high school years to keep him out of trouble, but with my help, he was able to get back and forth to Norfolk on a daily basis. But he couldn’t stay out of trouble at all, which was why he ultimately got sent to the penitentiary.

My homeboy spent three long years of his life locked up. But since he got out, shit had been nothing but uphill for him. Keeping the truth to his name, he was still turning shitballs to gold nuggets.

“What up, bay?” Touch answered right away.

“Nothing. I’m at the nail shop. Meet me here. I need some company. Then afterward we can go have some drinks.” Drinking wasn’t my thing, but Touch’s borderline alcoholic ass loved it.

“A’ight. I’ll be up there.” He already knew I was at our regular spot, which was just around the corner from his crib.

“Hey, sexy,” I said to Touch as he walked in.

Never the flashy type but always dressed tight, Touch demanded attention as he entered a room. He always wore the latest styles but never any jewelry. You could catch him with a different color Prada or latest Gucci sneaker on each day of the week, but you won’t catch him with an iced-out chain. The most he would have on was a watch. He didn’t even have his ears pierced. No jewels, not even a tattoo, he was the most humble nigga around, with enough charisma to charm anyone. Touch managed to get any bitch he wanted. Now, how many niggas would love to be in his shoes?

Before Touch had a chance to respond to my sexy comment, another nail technician directed him to sit beside me. “You can sit here.”

Touch sat down and slid off his Gucci slippers and rolled up his Antik Denim jeans to prepare for his pedicure then focused his attention to me. He looked at me with his thick cornrows and with those big brown eyes as another nail tech grabbed his hand to begin his manicure.

“What’s up, homie?”

“I got fired today.” I laughed.

“Stop playing,” Touch said in disbelief.

“Yep.”

“You a’ight?” he asked.

“Hell yeah. You know I didn’t want to work anyway.”

“So you gonna look for another job?”

“I have a job, damn it!” I yelled.

“A’ight, a’ight,” Touch said quickly.

“And answer your damn phone.” I said, acknowledging his phone that had been ringing constantly since we began our conversation. “I’m sick of hearing that shit ring.”

“It’s my baby mother. She on some bullshit right now, and I ain’t into that arguing shit.”

“Your baby mother is a trip.” I grinned as I thought back to the many stories I’d heard about her. “What you do now, Touch?” I asked, automatically assuming it was his fault.

“I ain’t did shit. She just pissed about my new girl. They stay into it. My baby mother be calling her phone and all kinds of shit.”

I couldn’t do nothing but laugh as Touch continued to tell me about his baby momma drama. Normally, I would be the first bitch to snap when he would tell me about a chick doing him wrong, but when it came to his baby mother, it was nothing but love. I had to respect her because she was just so gangster with her shit. Real talk, she reminded me of myself. Everything she did was some shit I would do.

I felt sorry for the nigga that ever decided to make me his baby mother. A nigga better marry me because, trust me, the shit I would do if my baby father left me would make them give baby momma drama a whole new name.

“It’s okay, pookie face. We’ll go drink our problems away in a few minutes.” I reached over and rubbed the side of his face, careful not to smear my freshly painted nails.

Sticking her little-ass nose all up in my business, the one I called Kim said, “You like him. He not friend. He boyfriend.”

“What?” I balled my face up.

“You like him.” She pointed to Touch.

“Go ’head wit’ dat shit,” Touch told her. “Dis my fucking sista.”

Although I was pissed that bitch was all in my business, I knew where she was coming from. It wasn’t the first time somebody had said that same shit. Hell, all of our friends swore we were fucking. Anybody on the outside looking in felt it was a little more than a tight friendship between us. As crazy as it may seem, they were all wrong. Touch and I hadn’t even held hands before, let alone kiss. That nigga was truly my best friend, nothing more, nothing less.

“Yo,” Touch answered his other cell phone as I headed to the back of the nail shop to get my waxing done.

“Don’t make my eyebrows too thin,” I instructed as I lay on the bench to wait for my wax.

“It not too thin,” the nail technician tried explaining in her best English. “I do nice for you.”

“Okay. I hope so, ’cause last week you made them way too thin.”

As a mixed breed, Panamanian and black, my eyebrows were naturally thick, so thin eyebrows did me no justice. A full face, a head full of thick, curly hair, and little skinny eyebrows wasn’t the business.

“Shit!” I yelled as the nail tech ripped the tape from beneath my eyebrow.

I knew getting wax was no piece a cake, but I didn’t ever remember it being that painful. For a moment I thought that little Vietnamese bitch was applying a little extra force on some get-back shit.

Ten minutes later my waxing was complete. I looked in the mirror closely to examine the wax job I’d just received. Surprisingly, it was perfect.

“It looks good. Can you do it like this next week too?” I asked as I handed back the little woman the hand mirror.

“I told you, I do nice job for you,” she responded as she headed out the door, and I followed her to the cash register.

Touch sat in a chair near the register. “You done, yo?”

“Yep.”

“Let’s roll.” Touch pulled off four twenties from a stack of money he carried in his pocket and paid for our services.

“Keep the change,” I said, as though I’d just paid the eighty dollars for our day at the nail shop.

“See, me told you he your boyfriend,” Kim said, as Touch and I walked out the door.

“Whatever,” I said, choosing to no longer entertain her foolishness. “See you next week.” I asked Touch as we walked to our vehicles. “Where we headed?”

“I thought we was gon’ get a drink?”

“Said like a true alcoholic,” I said, noticing the panic in Touch’s voice. He was like a fiend needing his daily fix. “We are going to get a drink, hon. I was just asking where.”

“Oh, shit. Let’s hit the beach,” Touch said, now much more relaxed.

“You want me to jump in with you, or should I drive?” I asked, knowing Touch’s tendency to want to stay at the bar longer than me.

I couldn’t count the number of times I’d left him at the bar alone. And the funny shit was that no one would ever know he was there alone. Being the social type and loving white people, he had no problems mingling and fitting right in at the bars on the oceanfront. You would think they would single out a young black dude with cornrows from Norfolk. But, I guess, when you got something they all wanted, they wouldn’t care if you dressed like André 3000, had hair like Bob Marley, and spoke like Ozzy Osbourne.

Touch was a real businessman, and knew how to pick his clients, suppliers, and workers.

On top of all that, this nigga was just so fucking reserved, never the greedy type. Although it rarely showed, Touch also had a dark side that would come out and show its dirty little head when a nigga got out of line. Even with all that, he still didn’t think like the average dope boy. He had bigger goals like businesses, houses, investments, and setting up college funds for his twin daughters, his pride and joy.

“Go ’head and drive, ’cause I gotta meet my man there and I don’t know how long this nigga gon’ take.”

“Okay, lead the way.” I pressed the unlock button on my keychain and headed to my truck.

I knew exactly what it meant when Touch said he had to meet his man. Touch tried his hardest to exclude me from his dealings with the drug game, but I knew him way too well. Although I can honestly say I’d never saw a drug transaction go down or even seen the product, I still knew what was up. Of course, Touch had legit businesses, but I still knew he had his ties with the game, quiet as it was kept. I’d have been a fool to think otherwise.

I hopped in the truck and grabbed my iPod and set it to some riding music. I could kiss the muthafucka that invented that shit. The radio was nearly nonexistent in my world. No time for a bunch of commercials and constantly changing the station, trying to find a song I enjoy. Then when it came to CD’s, I hated shuffling through a big-ass CD case and loading and unloading CD’s into the deck. My heart goes out to those still living in those prehistoric ways.

Not even ten whole minutes had passed before we reached Atlantic Avenue at the oceanfront, better known as “The Strip.” I pulled into the beach parking lot behind Touch as he paid for the both of us. By the time I was parked and getting out of my truck, he was already headed to the bar.

I yelled at Touch across the parking lot, “Gotdamn, you fucking wino! Slow down. They ain’t gonna run out of liquor before you get there.”

Touch waited for me at the door of the bar and held the door open for me to walk in. “Do you have to be so damn loud? You used to be a little prissy-ass beach girl, now you ghetto as fuck!”

I paused in the doorway and looked him in the eyes. “I’m prissy when the time calls for it, and I’m ghetto when the time calls for that,” I said and proceeded to walk past.

Touch smacked my ass as he followed me in the bar. “Whatever, nigga.”

“Ugh! Don’t ever touch my booty,” I said, surprised at Touch’s actions.

“You just started getting an ass. Back in high school, you were straight up and down, Miss Nasatall.” Touch joked as we grabbed a seat at the bar.

“Oh, I know you didn’t. You trying to say I had no ass at all.” I laughed at Touch’s taunting.

Our conversation was interrupted by Touch’s incoming call.

“Yo.”

I could hear the person ask from the other end of the phone, “Where you at?”

“The front,” Touch said, trying to give his location without actually saying the words.

Niggas kill me with that shit. They act like every phone is tapped and every phone call is being recorded by the damn feds. I grinned to myself as he continued his conversation.

The overly tanned white woman with obvious breast implants laid napkins in front of Touch and me. “What cha having to drink?”

I ordered Touch’s usual. “X-rated and Sprite for me, and Grey Goose on the rocks for him.”

After ending his call, Touch asked, “You ordered for me?”

“Yeah,” I lied. “I got you a Hennessy and Coke.”

“What? Why the fuck you do that, Jewel?”

I continued to lie just to see how aggravated Touch would get. “I thought that’s what you drink?”

“Man.” Touch sucked his teeth and called for the bartender. “Yo!”

The bartender put up one finger as she made our drinks, signaling that she would be right over in a moment.

“You goin’ to drink that fucking Hennessy too.” Touch pulled out a cigarette.

I didn’t even respond as I watched the bartender bring our drinks over and sit them directly in front of us.

“What can I get for you, hon?” she asked Touch.

“Man, let me get a Grey Goose on the rocks,” he ordered, not even noticing the drink sitting right in front of him.

“Another one?” the bartender asked.

Touch looked down and grinned. “Nah, this good,” he said to the bartender then mushed me in the side of my head.

I busted out with laughter. I teased him, saying, “I told you, you’re an alcoholic. See how mad you got over that drink?”

“Nah, man. Me and my girl just got into it last night over that same shit. Before I go to the bathroom, I tell her to order me another drink. I come back and this crazy bitch ordered me gin on the rocks. I almost threw up when I sipped that shit. I was like, how the fuck this bitch don’t know what I drink as many times as we been out together? Damn, I don’t drink but one kind of liquor.”

“That is pretty bad. Sorry, I didn’t know. She should know you a little better. Next time you’re with her, ask her what color your eyes are.” I figured that would be the true test. There was no way anyone could miss those big brown eyes. Hell, that was one of his greatest assets.

“My eyes? What? I don’t even know what color my eyes are.”

Damn, that’s crazy, I thought to myself. “They are brown, Touch. Haven’t you noticed your eyes are a tad bit brighter than the average black person? I mean, they aren’t hazel, but they are definitely not the average dark brown eyes. Here look.” I searched my bag for my M•A•C compact then pulled it out to hand it to him.

He pushed my hand away. “Hell nah. Put that shit up.”

“Come on, look.” I opened the compact and shoved it in front of his face.

“Go ’head, man. Stop playing.” Touch struggled to take the compact away from me.

“What’s the matter? You too cool to look into a woman’s compact at a bar?” I laughed. I finally gave up and put the compact back in my bag.

“You full of games, I see. Well, I got a game for ya, jokesta,” Touch said in an I-dare-you-to-play-along tone.

“Okay, what’s up?” I quickly accepted the challenge.

“We gon’ play a drinking game—”

“Oh, hell nah!” I yelled, cutting him off. That was definitely a challenge I would lose. I was always up for a fight, but I knew suicide when I was faced with it.

“Gotdamn! Hear me out, homie. The game is not about who can drink the most. I already know I got your little buck-and-a-quarter ass beat when it comes to that. The game is, you order my drinks, and I order yours, and no matter what the next person orders you have to drink it. Cool?”

“Okay, but no off-the-wall shit.”

“A’ight, drink up. After we’re done with these drinks, the game begins.”

I swallowed my drink down, and Touch threw out the straw from his Grey Goose and took the drink to the head.

“Yo!” He flagged down the waitress then signaled for me to order when she arrived.

I looked at all the different liquors that sat behind the bar. “Let me get, uuummmm . . . a shot of piss,” I said. Then Touch and I burst out laughing at the same time.

The waitress said nothing. She just stood there with a puzzled look on her face. She probably thought we were already drunk.

“I’m joking. I’m joking,” I said, noticing the waitress was starting to get a little impatient with our foolishness. “Let me get a shot of tequila, the one with the worm. Matter of fact, if possible, can we get the worm in the glass?”

The waitress shook her head, as if to say okay, then looked at Touch for his order.

“Let me get a Long Island Ice Tea.”

“Thanks,” I said, feeling as though Touch had given me a pass on the first round. I was surprised that he’d ordered it. I was expecting something crazy like I’d ordered for him. I knew he only drank clear liquors, so I was expecting him to pitch a fit right away over t