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Nachos and Trouble


Half an hour after Jordan should have been there, a man sat down across from Donte, setting his nachos between them as if in invitation. The sharp scent of jalapeno slices burned through the garbage smell of the area.

“Hi, I'm Chad,” the man said. “You're...?”

“Sorry,” Donte said. “I'm meeting a friend.”

“Heard you flattened Alex and two of his thugs,” the man said. He had short spiky hair and a facial piercing that put a small sparkling gem in the dimple of his cheek as he smiled. “Three to one and nobody landed a hand on you. Nice going.”

“I didn't flatten anyone.” Recently, Donte mentally added as Taro would. The boy usually needed qualifiers; there wasn't much that the captain's little brother could state he'd never done.

“Heard of you,” Chad said. “You're at the university. You enjoy the freedom down here on the less regulated side of town. You like nachos.” He bumped the tray between them a little farther across the table.

Donte looked at him. Captain Marcori said to keep his head up when dealing with slime, and Chad's friendliness and nachos made Donte suspicious.

“Sorry about your friend,” Chad said, and took a cheese-covered nacho chip.

Donte held himself still. “What friend?”

“The one not meeting you.”


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