Dirty Little Secrets

Chapter Sixteen

"My soul is a dark place, but I know your love. My soul is a lonely place, but I'm not alone." –Wild Wolves, Athlete

"What do you want?"

I spun the wheelchair around to face Jeremy the next morning, who was leaning against one of the metal scaffolds that held up the bleachers. His pale arms were crossed over his chest, and his eyebrow was cocked as he watched me.

"Is that any way to talk to an injured girl?" I asked, gesturing to my incapacitated legs, scrapes and bruises.

He rolled his eyes. "All I see when I look at you is karma, Camila."

My jaw dropped open. "Ouch. Oh, my poor feelings. How will I ever recover?"

He turned around to begin walking away, and a flash of desperation coursed through me. "Okay, Jeremy, wait!" I called, clenching my fingers tightly around the arm grip of my wheelchair.

He spun around, and a lank of muddy brown hair fell over his dark eyes. "What? If you came here for a fight, I'm not in the mood to play games."

           

"I'm not," I told him, and this time I meant it. The time for messing around and fighting was done.

"Then why are you here? It's not often I have to meet with someone like Camila Stryker underneath a shady part of the bleachers. What do you need?"

"I need serapax," I told him slowly. "You know, the drug that calms you down. I'm not looking for a hallucinogen; just a stimulant."

"Why?" he asked, too taken aback to form a sarcastic comment. "I didn't realize you were much of a junkie, Cam. Kind of hypocritical for you to be ragging on Perrie, then, isn't it?"

I rolled my eyes. "First of all, she's not a junkie. She just got mixed up with the white trash. Secondly, it's not for me," I snapped. "It's for someone else. They need a favor."

           

"Who?" Jeremy asked curiously, as if he weren't perfectly aware of my policy for discretion.

"I'm not at liberty to say," I told him primly.

He rolled his eyes at my good-girl act, but I guess any chance at money is as good as any. "All right, fine," he said tiredly. "When do you need it by?"

"Friday," I told him, and he let out a low whistle.

"Fine. Fifty bucks, and you've got yourself a deal."

I pulled out my wallet and handed out the bill unflinchingly. Fifty bucks was child's play; especially for the dirt I'd just dug up on Tyler.

            He looked around, before shoving the note into his pocket, and kept his hands there. "I'll leave a note in your locker on Friday. Don't be late."