Narc by Crissa-Jean Chappell Page B

Morgan.”
    Skully stood a few feet away, her shirt snapping in the breeze.
    “What are you guys doing out here?” she asked.
    Morgan smoothed the sand off her jeans. “Looking for you,” she lied.
    “I’m not hard to find,” Skully said, narrowing her eyes. If she’d seen the kiss, she didn’t let on.
    God. That kiss. What the hell was I thinking? I wasn’t thinking. Not with my head, anyway. It’s not like I’d had many chances to make out with a hot girl. Carpe diem , as Collin used to say. From here on out, I had to be more careful.
    We followed Skully around the house, and Morgan drifted away. Clumps of skinny kids sat on plastic chairs facing the water. I watched a girl on a guy’s lap, taking pictures with her iPhone. This party was a false lead. Maybe I needed to find a different crowd before it was too late to blend anywhere.
    Skully scooted next to me. “Having fun?”
    “Not really.”
    “Morgan can be so boring at parties,” Skully told me. “She’s too busy building up her clientele.”
    “What do you mean?”
    She smirked. “You’re joking, right?”
    I watched Morgan weave her way through the chairs. She was talking to one of the skaters I bumped into earlier.
    He dangled a baggie. “So where’s the rest of it?”
    “Don’t try to act like I gave you a slack bag.”
    Their voices grew louder, but I couldn’t hear them clearly anymore. “Let’s talk,” was the last thing I heard her say, as she and her customer slunk behind the house. I took a step, but Skully held me back.
    “Chill,” she said. “Morgan can handle herself.”
    “So she’s a dealer,” I said. Not Skully. The girl in the vintage dress with the butterfly buttons was my alpha dog?
    “Bingo, detective.” Skully giggled. “But I wouldn’t use the word dealer . Morgan is more of an entrepreneur, though she hasn’t quite mastered the art of finance. For instance, she blows all the good shit on her friends and doesn’t charge them a dime.”
    “I thought you didn’t smoke.”
    Skully shrugged. “What can I say? In junior high, I used to hang out in the parking lot with all the stoners because I liked talking to them. They didn’t diss me for not joining in.”
    “Where is she getting it from?”
    “What is this? Twenty questions?” She looked over her shoulder. “Check out Spiderman over there.”
    On the boat docks, I caught a glimpse of Brent grabbing onto those heavy chains that lower yachts into the bay. I watched him swing over the water like a caped crusader. His spiky hair rippled like feathers. A few people clapped.
    “If he falls, I’m not fishing him out,” said Skully.
    I was so over this party. My head was pounding. How could Morgan be the one I was after? She was this cute girl in my history class, an ex-ballerina who drew her own comics. Where the hell was she now? And with who? I had to call her and get this figured out. I reached into my pocket.
    My phone wasn’t there.
    Shit.
    This was bad. Really bad. If anyone found my cell and the numbers in it, I could lose everything. I tried to keep calm. I wasn’t supposed to call my contact unless it was an emergency. The number wasn’t identified on the phone, only the name Carlos. Still, I’d messed up. Big time.
    “Has anyone seen my phone?” I called out, receiving only blank stares in response.
    A crackle erupted from the backyard. Then a hiss. Then a musical series of pops.
    Skully pointed at the roof. “They’re setting off bottle rockets. What a bunch of idiots. Come on. Time to jet before the policia arrive,” she said, tugging my arm.
    “Where’s Morgan?” I asked. A dozen scenarios flashed through my brain: Morgan on the ground, the deal gone wrong, blood in the grass.
    Everyone scattered. As we tore around the front of Skully’s house, a rectangle of light sliced the gravel. Across the street, a woman stood in her doorway, hunched in a bathrobe.
    “It’s four in the bloody morning,” she said, like an actress on Dr.