I wasn’t quite able to keep my voice steady when I asked, “Wanna party?”

His smile returned. The haze of smoke separated us, keeping the moment from feeling too real or too scary.

“What do you do?” he asked, his eyes hungry. “X?”

It’s the question of a novice. Anyone who actually does drugs would have seen my trembling hands, the dark circles under my eyes, my slumped shoulders . . . They’d see all that and they’d know X wasn’t my addiction.

“I’m thinking about a different letter,” I said. “Like . . . H.”

I sounded like a little girl . . . or maybe like Marilyn Monroe or even Jennifer Tilly. It was a new sound for me. I could tell he liked it.

“Heroin?” he asked. “You got some?”

I knew by the way he asked that he wouldn’t actually do any . . . but he’d be happy to watch and then he’d take me, making the destruction complete.

I shook my head and gently grabbed hold of his jacket, moving my hand down the jagged open edge of the zipper all the way to the very bottom, which fell below his waist. I let the back of my hand brush against his jeans and felt the evidence of his building desire. His need for me mirrored the need of an addict.

“I know a guy,” I whispered. My menthol cigarette was still in my hand. I had only brought it to my lips twice and the neglect had turned it into a cinder, both dangerous and eerie.

“You want me to buy for you?” he asked. “Why would I do that?”

I swallowed and breathed in the smoke. “I got the money,” I said. “But the guy who sells . . . I owe him a little more than what’s in my wallet, ya know? So . . . if you could help me . . .” Again my hand brushed against his jeans. He was staring at my bra, watching my chest rise and fall, wondering if it was the drugs or desire that made each breath so shallow. “I’ll give you the money for the score.” I sucked in my cheeks, moved in an inch closer. “I’ll give you the money and so much more.”

“Oh yeah? What exactly are you going to give me?”