Wound Up(59)

                She moved past him wordlessly, chancing a single look over her shoulder as she moved along at a sharp clip.

                Justin caught up to her so they rounded the corner to the front lobby as a team.

                The teen waiting on them sat in the hard plastic chair and emitted an air of arrogant disregard Justin recognized. Wearing a black, flat-billed ball cap and a denim jacket marked with Deuce-8’s colors, the kid looked caught between bored and belligerent. Low-slung, superbaggy hip-hop jeans bunched around his ankles, the pockets covered in embroidered graffiti. His white tank top was pristine, as were his white Air Jordan shoes. In all, Justin rang up a mental $800 in threads. No one from this kid’s neighborhood had that much money for clothes unless they were supplementing their income, heavily, and Justin wasn’t thinking a second job working nights stocking shelves. No, this kind of supplement cost people their lives.

                Hands loose at his sides, Justin walked up and loomed over the teen just a bit. “Hey. You must be Gavin Stills.”

                The kid stood, his junior pecs hitting Justin’s ribs. “Back off me, man.”

                “I don’t think so.”

                “You wanna throw down? Cuz I’ll bleed you out right here, right now.” Posturing, the teen bumped into Justin.

                Justin was well aware of how gang infrastructure worked. Only the brutal truth and showing a stronger hand than the kid’s own would garner his respect. Justin had been in the exact same place, faced down a counselor in the same way in this very lobby. “Yeah? And here I’d been told you were smart.”

                “You just call me stupid?” the teen snapped, shoving the bill of his hat around so he had an unimpeded view of Justin.

                “You heard me, but let me make it simpler. I’m all that stands between you and juvie, and you’re right there on the edge of being old enough to do real time. That would make you the prison’s baby boy, and I don’t think you’d like that too much. So it’s up to you. We can figure out who’s tougher right here, right now, or we can talk. Personally? I’d rather talk, but it’s your choice.”

                Gavin gazed up through narrow eyes, adjusting his pants repeatedly. Justin recognized the move as a threatening gesture and wondered, briefly, if he was going to have to pin the kid to the ground while they called the cops. Not the best first impression to make, but he had to earn the kid’s buy-in to the program, and superior strength was the only thing he’d respect.

                “First rule?” Justin said so softly the kid was forced to stop rustling his pants to hear him. “No one comes in here and threatens me.”

                “You said first. What are the others?”

                “Appears you are a smart kid. There are two others. Second rule is that you don’t wear gang colors when you come in here. Period.” When Gavin started to argue, Justin crossed his substantial arms across his chest and forced the kid back a step. “No. Gang. Colors.”

                “A’ight, a’ight.”

                “Third and final rule? No violence on these grounds. You break that rule, I call the cops and your freedom is revoked by a judge. No warnings, no plea bargains, and I won’t be speaking up on your behalf in court. Got it?”

                “I can hear just fine.”

                “Then I’m going to assume you accept the rules.”

                “Whatever.”