bamboo doesn't grow in dark spaces. [80K Words / Complete]

chapter one.

Case got closer. His eyes adjusted. His insides tightened.

The man was . . . different. More put together, less fidgety than Case expected from a drug dealer. He stood in the doorway like some kind of guard or bouncer for a club, rigid posture and leeriness as the three boys approached him.

Well. This was Case's idea, so it was up to him to do the talking. He stared up at the man, hands in his pockets and squaring his shoulders. He smacked his lips. "Razzle Dazzle?" he asked, lowering his voice to make himself sound older, cooler. As cool as anyone could sound saying a fucking ridiculous name like Razzle Dazzle.

The man nodded, a single bob of the head.

"Case," he replied, lamely pointing to himself as if it wasn't fucking obvious.

"I wasn't expecting tagalongs."

Oh, shit. Whatever swagger Case had about him suddenly wavered. This guy's voice was deep — big, scary grown-up man voice, putting into perspective how much Case was out of his league.

"Oh, it's cool, man," Case replied, some wannabe gangster attitude creeping in unexpectedly. "They're cool. My friend Evan has a car, so he drove us." He pointed to Evan, who offered a wave. Miles stayed in the back, irrelevant but proving he was no trouble.

The man sighed; even the frustrated exhale sounded dark and full of bass. He drummed his fingers on the doorframe, contemplating.

Humidity stuck to Case's skin. He wished for some kind of breeze to cool the sweat on the back of his neck.

With an open palm, the man knocked on the doorframe and stood aside, gesturing for them to enter. Case looked back at his friends, his smile telling them see, I told you it would be fine. Evan seemed to be warming up, giddily smiling back at him; but Miles was still being a bitch. Oh, well. Not Case's problem.

He took the stairs two-at-a-time, shuffling past the man and into the small quarters. The air was different inside the trailer: stale, like a dust box with no ventilation. There was a dingy kitchenette made of paneled wood and yellow linoleum. Stained carpet with dirt trapped into the fibers. He kept walking to the end of the trailer, making himself comfortable on an ugly loveseat.

Evan and Miles sat either side of him.

The man – Case couldn't bring himself to refer to him as Razzle Dazzle, not after seeing who he was behind the screen – grabbed one of the dining chairs in the kitchenette and carried it over singlehanded. He set the chair in front of the loveseat, the metal frame rattling despite landing on carpet. The man sat with his legs open, his sheer physicality dominating the space.

Now that they were up close in semi-decent lighting, Case was able to get a proper look at the man. Truthfully, he looked more cop than he did drug dealer. Somewhere in his 40s, dark hair with a bit of grey in his stubble, the type of old-school Hollywood looks more suited for Bruce Wayne or Don Draper. How did someone like this end up selling drugs out of a trailer in the woods?

For a moment, the trailer was taut with silence as Case sized up the man, and the man did the same. The man's gaze intensely focused on Case, occasionally flittering over to Evan; he didn't give Miles so much as a second glance.

"Do you . . ." Voice crackling, Case paused to clear his throat. "Do you want the money now?"

The man leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. He held out his hand.

Case shuffled in his seat, trying to fish the cash out of his back pocket. The loose fabric of his jacket tangled around his arm, prompting Evan to awkwardly grab at him in some attempt to help. He pulled out a crumpled handful of cash, a few bills flying into their laps. The boys scrambled to collect the stray bills and handed them to the man.