“Fucking hell!” I muttered, looking at my watch.
A nearby stranger raised his eyebrow. “Strong language for a lady, dear!” he said rebukingly.
“Fuck ladies,” I said shortly, and turned back to my worrying.
Let’s see, I thought. Five hours to get there, three days to find out where the hell he’d gotten himself shacked up… what were the chances that he’d be alive when I got there?
Drug-mazed, he’d called me a couple of hours ago.
“Wen, sweetie, ya gotta help me – the Damn Yankees have my balls in the blender and they’re gonna push the button!” He’d gone on to give me enough information about his doomed attempt to do them out of a shittily small amount of crack and money that I was convinced – this wasn’t a paranoid fantasy. Pete had gotten himself into a world of trouble. Again.
Believe it or not, I’m not the knight-in-shining-armour type. Or maiden-in-shining-armour, for that matter. People get themselves into trouble, and they can damn well get themselves out, in my opinion. Pete was the only person I could never turn away, though. I guess that’s what happens when someone saves your life. No wonder the Chinese or someone used to have a tradition that if someone saved your life, you were bound to their service for the rest of your life. Just a formal acknowledgement of a universal truth. My life – such as it was – belonged to Pete. Like it or not.