I folded the two twenty dollar bills in my hands and rubbed the sharp corners with my fingers as I sat there listening to Z wrap up the call.

He'll meet us there in 20 minutes.

I nodded to him and sat back in the empty room leaning against the wall looking at the sole torchier lamp casting a brilliant glow towards the ceiling.

...

We rode silently in his 300ZX. A pearlescent 300ZX to be exact. I always thought men who drove this color car look effeminate. Perhaps I'm wrong. We wound through the quiet dark streets of the night, black shadows falling on our faces with moments of neon lights filtering through. Our faces only visible with the glow of the red stop light. I looked at Z. A product of a Chinese mother and a British father. His profile was non-Asian but his darks brows and dark hair gave way to some secret about him. His face was a creamy milk color. Beautiful and unmarked. His lips were small and naturally pink, a perfect shape. His eyes large, fringed with long dark lashes. Deep and mysterious like the depths of pools that you'd never dare to swim in.

People look at Z and can never figure out that he's part Chinese. He's handsome in his own way and he has a baby face. And you would never guess he could speak Chinese as fluent as he does. Like me, we grew up in America...from an early age. But we never lost the language. We converse in a mixture of English and Chinese, whatever suits our need at the moment.

Z lived not with his parents but with some rich family friend whom he calls 'Aunty' who pays for his tuition at school, who gives him nice cars to drive and money in his wallet to spend. The 300ZX is not his only means of transportation but that's not relevant now. I don't question who this 'Aunty' friend is nor what their association is. I just listen without asking because I really don't need to know all the facts. I know he's a good person deep down inside but yet he manages to mangle his life each and every time. I listen to the sad stories about his life. I listen to his goals and dreams with that certain dash of hope flickering in his eyes. I listen to how much he wants to be a good person and do the things he can be proud of but can't.

It's beyond his control.

...

The purring hum of the 300ZX comes to a halt as we stop in front of the convenience store. It's a well known convenience store in a neighborhood that I thought was safe to be in. I'm probably wrong as most things that seem to be the safest always turns out to be the most dangerous.

Wait here. I'll be right back. If something happens, the key is in the ignition. And DON'T open the doors for anyone.

Again, I nodded as I handed him the two twenty dollar bills that were resting comfortably in the pocket of my pants. Z gave me one quick look with his tired yet worrisome eyes. It was late afterall, probably past midnight when I should have been home under the comforters snuggling in the warmth of my bed dreaming of things that an early twenty something should be dreaming of.

The door shut with a resounding click. And locked.

...

The torchier lamp was set low now. Not as bright as it was earlier. Z slowly emptied the contents of the small plastic bag onto a mirror and used a razor to grind up the substance like how I watch my mom mince garlic on the wooden cutting board. Yes, it's just like that. A single pile became one line, then three, then five, all neatly placed apart. I watched him with precision and with deft as he rolled a one dollar bill tightly into a single strawlike cylinder.

He handed me the makeshift straw and as my head leaned forward, the torchier lamp seemed to dim even more so.

And so did the rest of my world.

...

I'm out.