Page 92 of The Coldest: Stay Dangerous Part 2

“Man, shut up.”

Huge arms circle my shoulders as he pulls me tight to him, smushing my face into his white tee. I’m glad I didn’t put on any lipgloss.

“I swear to God, bro, on my Nana, if you ever even think about picking up a drink or a joint or anything, I will kill you myself.” Shad rests his cheek on the side of my face. “I’m the only suicidal muthafucka in all my friendships, Wyn. It’s only room for one of us.”

I jab my fists into his sides. “You can’t even play like that anymore.”

“You’re right, damn.”

He’s the first to let go, and the easygoing smile on his face has me tearing up.

We’ve talked about this. So many times, so many nights. There would be a time where he wasn’t wading through his big feelings, and I wasn’t smothering mine. He’d joke about curving his own weed habit if it meant I’d stop everything, or maybe he’d feel better if I’d cry with him.

“So, apparently we’re all healed and shit,” I muse, folding my arms. “Does that mean we can’t be friends anymore? Is the bond more than trauma?”

The smile drops off Shad’s face before he gives me his back. “This is why I don’t claim you. Get in. I’m sure you called me to take you to the stu.”

I skip over to his car and nearly bust my ass trying to squat to get in. “But not yours! To the East!”

He snorts as I hold up my index finger. When the car starts, ironically, some old Grimey is playing, and we take turns rapping the verses and choruses as he defies the speed of light to get us to East Kenton.

I’ve learned to stop complaining. Shad’s a speed demon, but surprisingly, he’s never been in a crash–him, nor Ty. And since I’m super cool on ever really driving, I just play passenger princess and aux controller.

But today, when I know I’ma be most likely crying and begging for my job, I wish he obeyed the rules of traffic. All too soon, we’re pulling into the garage attached to Get Money Records. After my and Cochise’s accident, Sheisty built a more secure studio in one of his family’s buildings. The other studio was still operational, but Sheisty and them would be at this building most likely.

And based on the cars parked next to us, Shad was right to bring us here.

“You the First Lady, Wyn. If Sheisty ain’t dropped you yet, he won’t now. Especially when he sees you’re sober.”

“Y-yeah. You’re right.” I lick my lips, wishing I had some gloss or vaseline or something. Shad must be reading my mind, because he hands me an unopened mini water bottle that I down immediately.

“Okay. Let’s go. I’m ready.”

Shad has to help me out this death trap, but I’m thankful it’s him with me. He’s so diplomatic, and even when he and Cochise had their little beef, it never extended to the others. They love him, and if he pleads my case, they may listen.

Maybe. Sheisty’s a shrewd businessman, and let’s be real; I’m bad for business. And sober or not, when they find out who I was with this past year, I don’t know if they’ll be as gracious.

The elevator ride to the fourth floor is quiet. Loud weed greets us when the doors open, but it’s not smoky at all.

“I gave them a heads up,” Shad murmurs as we walk past several doors. “Ain’t no one smoking or drinking around ya ass.”

“I don’t really have cravings…” Strangely, I don’t. But I looked up what Rico gave me a year ago, and I see why. It’s why ibogaine is used to treat addiction outside of the US.

“Still.” Shad knocks on the second to last door on the right before turning to me. “We ain’t taking no chances. However bad Rico was, I’m finna be a hundred times worse.”

My eyes stretch. How did he know—

The door opens, and a young man who looks like he could be my YN twin fills the doorway, scowling at Shad. He’s bean pole skinny, covered in bright tattoos, and has a couple inches on Shad. The murderous energy wafting on him makes my eyes bug more, but Shad is more than unbothered.

The resemblance of me and him is uncanny. Same complexion. His freckles aren’t as pronounced as mine, but this close, I see them.

Okay, maybe we aren’t just alike… his hair is more blonde, especially the tips of his two-strand twisted locs. But he’s for sure a ginger.

He finally turns to me, and his scowl breaks immediately, amber eyes softening.

“You don’t look just like Trinity, but you still twin ‘nem.” He opens the door more, stepping back to glance behind him.

Sheisty and Trippy are seated on the couch, playing some video game. Or they were, before we walked in.