Judge's Daughter

Roselain's P.O.V.

I breeze through the day, focusing on only minimally existing until I was to meet Billie afterschool. By the time the 7th period bell rang, I was already half way out the classroom door. I decided today wouldn't be the day to try and venture off to locate my locker.

Instead, I'll stick to what I know and what I know is that I'm about to hang out with a green-eyed boy and a bunch of strangers at a place I've never been with music I've never heard and it sounds pretty goddamned fantastic.

Billie is in sight as soon as I push through the doors of the building, which isn’t too surprising considering he doesn’t seem to have qualms with flaking on class.

My nerves began rattling in my stomach as I sifted through the crowd, realizing that he had two other guys with him. I immediately recognized the guy with the fluffy brown hair as the dude who'd been sitting beside Billie this morning. The tall one with the shaggy blonde hair notices me first, giving me a friendly nod and patting Billie on the back to get his attention. Billie spins to face me, a cigarette lolling in the corner of his grin.

"Roz! Was worried you might not come, glad to see you decided to," he chides, plucking the cigarette from his lips and flicking it to the ground.

"Well, you never gave me a reason not to, so I'm interested in tagging along," I say with a smile. The fluffy haired brunette steps up to me, rubbing a hand across his five-o-clock shadow.

"You're cool with being out late, right? 'Cause I'm the one driving and I'm definitely not gonna retire until the night's an old hag. Don't want your old man getting pissed off wondering where you are," he says, his blue eyes wide and buggy.

"Billie’s been talking about my dad I see," I say, side-eyeing Billie who only offers a big, dramatic shrug. "My dad is really not really as uptight as people think."

"Yeah, I 'spose not. You're talking to us, after all," he grins, planting his knuckles on his hips like some kind of smug child. I smile, rolling my eyes.

"What’re your names anyway?"

"Yeah, see, Billie was supposed to do the introductions but he kind of sucks," the brunette says with a scowl as Billie cocks an amused eyebrow. "My name's Tre and this here is Mike."

"They're the drummer and bass player for my band, the one I was telling you about," Billie pipes in, dissolving Tre and Mike into a fit of cheeky grins. I can't help but smirk at their proud glow.

"Ah, so you guys are the ones I'll be hearing tonight?"

"I mean, I guess so. If you stick around that long," Tre says with a wink.

"Well, if you're driving I kind of have to, right?" I tease, idly watching as people begin pouring into the parking lot. I consider getting my camera from my car only to remember I’d left it on my nightstand, which I am now deeply regretting, seeing that I expect this odd little trio to put on quite the show. I glance back at Billie, biting my lip in contemplation. "Hey, if you guys don't mind can we swing by my house? I wanna grab something before we go."

"Uh, sure, I mean, is your dad gonna care?" Billie stammers, fretfully mulling over the idea.

"I'm gonna need you guys to stop worrying about my dad, alright?" I say with a laugh. "Really, it'll be fine. Two minutes tops and we'll be out."

"Alright, my dudes," Tre chants, pressing his hands together beneath his chin like some kind of prayer. "If we're gonna do that we should probably go ahead and leave. Gotta make a beer run on the way out."

"Yeah man let's goooo," Mike chimes, draping an arm around his shorter friend's shoulder and dragging him toward the parking lot. They stumble ahead, kicking rocks and loudly chattering to one another as Billie hangs behind, waiting for me to tag along.

"Are any of you actually old enough to buy beer?" I ask, falling into place next to Billie as we walk behind the others. I already knew the answer, but I guess I was more curious as to how they were planning on getting it.

"Not even close, but that's nothing a fake ID hasn't been able to handle," he chuckles with a wink. "You drink?"

"A little more than I probably should," I laugh, shoving my hands into the pockets of my jacket. He cocks an eyebrow in amusement, playfully nudging my shoulder.

"Really? Would've coined you as a semi-good girl. Surprised your dad lets that fly.”

"I’m going to need you to get temporary amnesia about who my dad is, okay? Also, what he doesn't know won't hurt him,” I say with a shrug. Christ, what kind of pristine, mary-mother-of-god vision do these people have of me now? If anything, my dad being a judge makes him a bit more lenient. He's seen all kinds of shit, so his mind is a little more open than you'd expect.

We edge our way toward a banged up 1981 Nissan Maxima, and god, what a work of art it was. I guarantee there's got to be a story behind every divet and dent in this thing, not to mention the bouts of shittily covered white spray paint splashed along the sides, perhaps the remnants of a dickhead from school? The awful brown paint job was peeling, a crack stretched across the rear window. Somehow it was charming and totally expected.

"So, I'm gonna go ahead and apologize. I really wasn't expecting to have another person in towe, so it's pretty fuckin' messy in here. I only had a spot cleaned out for Billie," Tre says with a nervous laugh, unlocking the doors.

"It's cool, man. I don't mind. My car's only clean because it has to be. Dad would have a fuckin' conniption otherwise," I reassure with a nod.

"Okay then, don't say I didn't warn you," he sings, opening the car door for me. As soon as the door opens, greasy fast food bags tumble out onto the pavement like some sort of comedic, dumpy avalanche. Within the seat, questionable heaps of clothing pile high, a sea of trash crammed into the floorboard. Again, totally expected.

"Your throne awaits, miss," he says, bowing as he motioned toward the backseat.

"Man, fuck you, Tre. I'll sit on that side. Jesus Christ," Billie half-laugh, half-grumbles as he steps in front of me, new heir to the throne of trash. "You can sit on the semi-clean side, Roz."

I stifle a laugh, circling the vehicle and then stop in my tracks. I hadn’t realized he was parked right next to my car. And my car practically parked on top of his. A blush creeps across my cheeks.

“Yeah, have fun getting in that side, miss I-clearly-passed-my-drivers-test-by-flirting-with-the-cop,” Tre teases in a sing-songy voice.

“Whoa whoa whoa, I can drive okay," I say, holding up my hands in defense. "I just…. suck at parking.”

“Clearly.”

“Okay, okay, lay off the poor girl, jesus christ,” Billie interrupts, holding open his door for me. “Here, just climb through my side.” I giggle as I clumsily make my way across the mountain of clothes before cozily settling into my nice, clean seat.

It certainly is a stark contrast, just a few bud burns, cigarette ash, and a minimal amount of trash in the floorboard. It looks like something had exploded on the ceiling, maybe coke? I didn't ask questions. I giggle as Billie struggles to climb atop the mound of clothing and trash.

"You sure you don't want me to sit there? I'm a little smaller than you, won't be as much of a crunch." Billie groans in response, grimacing as he dangled a dirty pair of socks between his fingers before letting them drop to the floor.

"Of course I'm sure. There's no telling what's on these clothes."

Tre adjusts his mirror to see the two of us. "Oh yeah, Bill. Saved you a tasty little treat in there," he grins, wiggling his eyebrows. I laugh as Billie kicks the back of his seat, finally closing the door and settling in. We ease out of the parking lot and down the hectic streets of Pinole, California.

"So, like. Where are we taking you exactly?" Tre asks, letting the wheel spin in his hands as we make a turn.

"I live on Kains Avenue, just off Harrison. You know where that is?"

"Uhhhh," Tre's eyes flicker between Billie and Mike, desperately craning for help. Mike suddenly jerks, spinning around to face me as he excitedly drums his fists against the seat. I blink, taken aback by his sudden outburst of energy.

"Shit, dude, I know where that is!" He chimes, wrapping his arms around the headrest, his blue eyes glowing with a fervent joy. "She's like a road over from Gilman Street," he notes to Tre, who's face lit up like it was fucking Christmas.

"You ever been to a show there?" Mike asks, propping his cheek against the side headrest. "The venue, I mean. It's on Gilman street but it's also the name of the place."

"The one with all the couches and spray paint? The floor's always kind of sticky and you're not sure if it's beer or worse?"

"Sounds like the right place," Billie snickers from beside me.

"Yeah, man, I used to sneak out my window to go see shows there. They left a flyer on a light post by my house, otherwise I probably never would have known it existed. I mean you can hear a lot of the music from where I live, but I still didn't know where it was at first. I haven't gone in about a year, though. Got barred from entering," I frown, glancing out the window as we slip onto I-80.

"Barred? Why? How?" Mike implores, a skeptical crease forming between his brows.

"Well, after going a few times, I got appointed as the photographer for a few gigs. It was cool until one of the singers tried to get handsy with me in between sets."

"And you got barred for that?" Billie asks incredulously, sharing a what-the-fuck look with Mike.

"No, I got barred because I knocked out a couple of his teeth."

"Oh shiiiit!" Tre screeches, banging his hands athe steering wheel. Billie claps a hand to my back in approval, the three of them cackling. My chest swells at the momentary praise. God knows my dad certainly wasn't happy when I came home with busted knuckles and the threat of a lawsuit. Dad always taught me to lay low and avoid conflict at all costs. Mom taught me to take no shit. Maybe I'm more like her than I'm ready to admit.

"Y'know, we play shows there quite a bit. We can get you off that barred list sometime, yeah?" Billie grins, seeing my eyes spark at his suggestion. Being a photographer obsessed with vivid, dynamic shots is a hard thing to be when you don't have many chances to capture them.

"Count me in for that. I haven't been to another show since that one. Fuck, I miss it."

"There's one catch, though: you gotta be our photographer instead," Billie adds coyly, a smirk playing on his pretty, pink lips. I raise an eyebrow, realizing that I hadn't mentioned the whole purpose of running by my house.

"Not much of a catch considering we're literally on the way to pick up my camera right now."

"No shit?" Billie pipes, seemingly taken aback, an unmistakable excitement buzzing in his eyes. If there’s one thing I'm most looking forward to photographing, it’s his eyes. They're so large and pretty, like peering into a mossy well. It seems like I've already been been caught within their cast numerous times, and I always find myself attempting to read them. Feels like I could find some interesting stories hidden in all those folds of color.

"Aw, man. If I knew this was gonna be a photo-op I would have sharpened up a bit," Mike jokes, licking his palm before slicking it back through his hair. I grin, drumming my nails against the back of his seat.

"You all look wonderful, no need for sharpening up. Tidy perfection's not my kinda art," I say with the click of my tongue, glancing at Billie as he eyes me, a faint smirk on his lips.

"So, what is your kinda art, then? A bunch of roughed-up looking punks?" he asks with a grin, scratching his knuckles beneath his chin. As rhetorical as the question seems, it still makes me feel a bit vulnerable. Do I look like some loser pining after a bunch of band dudes? I mean, that is what I primarily photograph, right? My thought processes were interrupted by Tre's uneasy speculating.

"Okay, so you told me the road, but not the house number. And as good as I am at making guesses... which fuckin' one is it," Tre asks with a laugh, only then did I notice we were easing through my neighborhood at a creepy, better-take-your-kids-inside speed. I lean between the front seats, pointing toward my house.

"Three houses down on your right. Just park on the side of the road, I'll run in and grab the camera." We ease off to the side of the road as Tre timidly turns toward Mike and Billie, all sharing a look of concern.

"What if your dad comes outside and-"

"Oh my god, please shut up about my dad!" I cry as leap from the car, slamming the door behind me.

My dad isn't even home yet, he usually isn't here until around five or six and that involves him slinking into his recliner and napping until I fix him dinner. Tonight, he'll have to heat up some leftovers, because I highly doubt he'll be awake when I get back.

I fumble with my keys as I unlock the door and quickly jog up the stairs to my room.

As messy as my room gets, it’s never hard to find my film camera. Perched on my nightstand, shrouded in negatives and doting a woven strap from the 1970's, my AE-1 Program sits faithfully: the most important thing I own. My mother gave it to me when I was 13, hoping I'd find the same fascination in capturing the world as she did. Bitterness didn’t consume me as it normally does when it comes to her; I took her hobby and made it my life.

I quickly snatch up a few rolls of black and white film, slinging my camera around my neck before yanking a navy-blue shoebox from under my bed. Inside is a little collection of forbidden gems: a couple packs of cigarettes, small bottles of liquor, a few sheets of crass poetry, some risqué polaroids. I settle for the Maker’s Mark and a pack of cigarettes, sliding the box back under the bed and bounding down the stairs toward my dad's office.

I rustle through the papers on his desk, grabbing a pen and legal pad, quickly jotting down a note

Out with some new friends from school. Probably won't be home until late! There are still some left overs in the fridge. Don't wait up.

Love you, Roselain.

My dad isn't really used to me ever going out with people, so I guess it's only fair to let him know where I'll be so he doesn't worry himself into a panic. He never cares so long as he knows, in fact he’ll probably be thrilled to know I’m making friends.

I place the note on the fridge and head out the door, slipping my bourbon and cigarettes into my shoulder-bag as I made my way back toward the car; the door ajar, awaiting my return.

"Hurry up, Blondie. You said it'd only take two minutes, but it's definitely been about three," Billie says, smirking like a little pisser as I slide across the seat and shut the door. I eye him for a moment, flashbacks of my rock-throwing, childhood neighbor playing in my mind. He was this annoying little asshole who kid always called me blondie or cupcake, so they weren’t names I was particularly fond of. I reach out, grabbing Billie's jaw, smooshing his cheeks together between my fingers.

"Blondie isn't a name you wanna call me, got it?" I murmur, a challenging smirk playing on my lips as I gently grip his jaw. His eyes grew wide, completely thrown off by my advance.

"Yeah, Bill, don't get your teeth knocked out," Tre chuckles, pulling back onto the road. I release Billie's face, relaxing back into my seat and removing the camera from around my neck. Billie, who previously seemed so smooth and confident, now eyed me nervously, attempting to piece his thoughts back together. Vulnerability looks cute on him.

"So, you. Uh. What do you normally take photos of? Y'know, now that you don't go to shows," he stammers, watching as I pop open a film canister.

"I photograph everything: nature, animals, abstract stuff. You can usually find me around town pulling stalker-level shit. I like getting photos of strangers when they’ve no clue anyone can see them," I explain, flipping open the back of my camera, loading film onto the spool.

"Why?" Billie presses. I close the back of the camera with a click, looking up to meet his gaze.

"Why what?"

"Why take photos of aloof strangers? Aren't you worried they'll see you and get pissed?" The questions came tumbling off his tongue fervently, almost with a hungry interest. I'm not sure what is fueling it, but it feels nice. No one really cares to know about what I do. I advance the film, quickly opening the aperture and upping the shutterspeed.

"Ah, those are questions for another time. Ask me again later," I tease, swiftly lifting my camera and snapping a photo of the flabbergasted green-eyed boy.

"Fuck, I think I moved. I probably look fucking stupid," he sighs under his breath, shoving an uneasy hand through his dark hair. I watch as he bites his lip, eyes strewn to the back of the seat. It’s odd how he can have such a cocky edge to him when it came to smirking or giving me a stare-down, yet now he seems so flustered, so unsure of himself.

"It won’t be blurry or weird looking. I adjust for people's nerves. Don't worry, you'll look like art," I smile reassuringly, advancing the film again before placing the camera back in my lap. Another thing I adore as a photographer is helping others see themselves as the rest of the world does: glowing, radiant, and full of life. He's a pretty guy, if he doesn't see it yet, he soon enough will. Tre cuts his eyes toward Mike, flashing a grin in the rear-view mirror.

"Damn, Bill, she's running some smooth lines on you, step up your game, bud,” he cackles, instantly met with Billie's scowl and pink-tinged cheeks. Billie groans, looking out the window, attempting to hide his blush.

"Really starting to regret introducing you to these two.”

"Oh yeah? So, you regret inviting me tonight, is what you’re saying," I pry, resting my chin in my hand, gazing at him cooly.

He whips his head back toward me, sternly studying my expression for a moment. It’s clear he wants to keep me reeling somehow, but his disguise quickly falters. Wouldn't have worked anyway. Being a fly on the wall really gives you the ability to read people.

"No. I don't," he says simply, the corner of his mouth turning up into a smirk.

"Good. Me either," I whisper with a smile. His eyes burn on mine, creasing lightly around the edges as if he were refocusing, trying to see further into my head. God, why does getting caught in his gaze make me feel so exposed? Guess I'm not used to soul-peering... though I think I could get used to it. Maybe it’s weird to think that about someone I’ve only just met, but what are social boundaries anyway? Fucking aesthetically pleasing green-eyed boy, slowly blinking back at me with a jewel in his eye. Mike clears his throat. Our eyes snap away from one another in embarrassment as we turn our attention toward the two nerds up front.

"... Anyway, what do you guys want from the beer store? We've got $30 to work with for the four of us," Mike asks.

"You know I'm cool with anything, man. Mix it up. Liquor and beer," Billie chimes in, stretching out his legs and crossing his ankles over the front arm-rest.

"What about you, Roselain?" Mike turns back to face me again. I pull my bourbon from shoulder bag, wiggling it playfully in front of his face.

"I'm covered and I'll share. Spoil yourselves," I say with a smirk, watching as Mike raises his brows, nodding in approval.

"Alright, then. We’ll be right back.” I watch as Mike and Tre clamber from the car, setting off in different directions. I raise a brow, glancing at Billie in confusion.

"There's a liquor store on either side of the block, if you're gonna have a fake ID, it's better not to present them both at the same place," he explains. Makes a bit of sense actually. Smart kids.

"So, how do you go about getting your alcohol? You gotta know the right people to get a convincing fake ID, so what's your line?" Billie asks, angling to let the back of his head rest against the window. I shake my head, a light laugh escaping my lips as I pull the cigarette out from behind my ear.

"It’s kind of weird, you’re probably not going to believe me,” I say, placing the cigarette between my lips. “Got a light?”

He digs in the pockets of his black jeans, pulling out a faded orange lighter. He extends his arm toward me, flicking a thumb over the wheel. Leaning forward, I gently cup my hand around the soft skin of his knuckles, watching as the flames singe the end of the cigarette.

"I’m sure it can’t be too crazy of a story, but wrangle me in," he whispers comically, flaring his eyes and wiggling his brows as he slides the lighter back into his pocket. I grin, taking a drag as I recline back in my seat.

"It’s a pretty long, arduous story, so to make it short, my mailman buys it for me,” I say, exhaling a streamline of smoke through the corner of my lips. He snorts, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Your mailman? How exactly does that end up happening? Did you just ‘hey-mister’ him every morning until he finally caved?”

“Kind of, I guess. When I was 14 I started spending the early morning hours sitting on the roof outside my window, writing and waiting for the sun come up. He’d always greet me, eventually took up the challenge of attempting to chunk the papers up onto the roof, which he was rarely ever good at,” I breathe with a laugh, remembering the failed attempts, mail raining down on my yard like fucking confetti.

“Yeah, but how do you get from that to asking him to buy you alcohol?”

“Ah, I could spend a full thirty minutes trying to explain it all, but I don’t really feel like getting into that right now, maybe another time. Basically, he just bought me alcohol in exchange for short stories,” I say simply, smoke seeping out of the corner of my mouth. Billie cocks a brow at this, seemingly wanting to pry still, but deciding upon a different battle instead. He props his chin in one of his hands, a smile playing on his lips.

“Short stories? So you’re a writer too?”

“What can I say, Jack of all trades, master of none,” I say shaking my head, lazily lolling the cigarette between my lips.

“I find that hard to believe, I’m willing to bet you’re way more talented than you’re giving yourself credit for,” he assures warmly, leaning toward me, the sudden proximity catching me off guard. “May I?” he asks, motioning toward the cigarette in my mouth. I nod, but before I can so much as lift an arm, his fingers are already gently plucking it from my lips, lightly gracing them in the process. The entire thing seemed so innocent, so accidental, but that didn’t stop the blush tinging my cheeks at such subtle contact. He smirks, leaning back against the window, taking a drag off my cigarette, his squinting eyes burning through me in thought.

Despite the alarmingly direct eye contact, his gaze seemed distant, lost; like he’d left a sign out front to let everyone know he was out traveling. Thin lines of smoke drifted from his lips, his dark brown hair slightly curling around his cheekbones. It was clear that it'd been recently cut, a not too-short, not too-long length, but it left me wondering if he'd sported a mop of curly locks previously. Regardless, the current look complimented him well, drawing attention to the sharp angle of his jaw as it sloped toward his soft, pink lips.

My eyes slowly drift down his body, a faded white Husker Du shirt clung to his torso, his nicely toned arms resting across black skinny jean-clad legs, busted up converse tied to his feet. At first glance he might look like your everyday Gillman street punk, but something about the affinity in his aura made things different, more charming.

Only now is it occurring to me that I haven't taken the time to really, truly look at Billie this afternoon. I mean, yeah I’d seen him, got caught in his stare, briefly glanced over his whole, but I hadn’t really looked at him. Attention from new people makes me too nervous to focus; it’s like trying to view the world through foggy drunk-goggles. Being around the other two dulled my senses a bit, but those senses are definitely coming back to me now.

Yeah, I know, I know. Billie is a new person too, but he's a slightly less new person than the other two, so naturally they call for more disorientation on my part. I like them as a group, I really do, but looking at Billie now, legs stretched across the arm rest in front of me, eyes lazily floating around my face as thought bubbles keep bursting in his mind, well that was something I kinda wanted to get used to. Some people might find issues in Billie's rugged appearance, but I certainly didn't.

"So, what kind of things do you write about," Billie asks, tugging me slightly out of my dream-like hyper-focus. His eyes felt smoothly intense again, like they had earlier, only this time I was far more aware and unsure I could handle it. I dip a hand into my bag, removing the bottle of bourbon, my trusty side-kick for when my anxiety starts to take over. A grin melts across his lips, “Depending on what you tell me, I’m starting to wonder if you got that out for me or for you.”

“Oh, no, it’s nothing bad. I’m just not used to talking about myself this much is all,” I say with a nervous laugh, bringing the bottle to my lips and knocking back a generous swig.

“It’s okay, I’m not so great when it comes to talking about myself either,” he says, my lipstick stained cigarette resting in the corner of his grin. My gaze lingers there a moment, my mind wandering to places where my lipstick might meet his mouth for other reasons. I shake off the thought, a thought that I shouldn’t be having this soon to begin with.

“So I uhm, I write a lot of poetry, about anything really. As far as stories go I like to write little pieces that take place between the 20’s and the 50’s,” I say, passing the bottle to him. His warm fingertips pass over mine momentarily as he takes the bottle, throwing back a shot before focusing his eyes on me again.

“Oh yeah? Why such an older time frame?”

“I’m a sucker for anything historical, a lot of my stories are focused around the soviet espionage and things of that nature.”

“Think you’ll let me read them sometime?” He asks, a certain eagerness to his words that he might’ve meant to contain. I rub my arms nervously, trying to decide if I’m even able to answer that yet. “If you ever decide to, I’ll let you read some of the songs that I haven't even let Mike or Tre see yet,” he adds, a bargain that seems almost impossible to refuse. Hell, I’d love to read any of his writing. He nudges the bottle back toward me and I oblige, taking another drink.

“Maybe. You drive a hard bargain. Can’t make any promises on that one, though,” I softly smile, watching as his eyes flicker to my mouth momentarily. He licks his lips, turning to snuff the cigarette out in a pile of garbage in the floorboard.

"You know, you've still got to answer my questions about your photography," he says, removing his legs from the armrest so that he can sit forward, closer to me. Our eyes meet momentarily and my gaze drifts down toward the bourbon clutched within my hands.

"Like I said, ask me later," I reiterate, gently tracing my fingertips along the mouth of the bottle. A small sound of protest slips from his lips, bringing my attention back toward his face. For a moment, disappointment paints his eyes, it kind of made me feel like a jerk, made me want to spill all my secrets to him right then and there. But I just wasn’t ready for that yet.

"Why later?" he asks dejectedly.

"It just feels like this entire afternoon has been you guys pummeling me with questions about my life. I live in my head all the time; it'd be more fun to hear about something else for a change," I murmur, nudging my bourbon in his direction.

"Something else? Like what?" He asks, gently taking the bottle and bringing it to his lips.

"Like you."

He freezes, slowly lowering the bottle as we lock eyes yet again. Shit, was that too forward? I hadn't meant it in a weird way, but honestly, yes, I did fucking want to know more about this green-eyed boy. My life was so boring, these three were the kind of change I needed and I was so mentally ravenous at the idea of knowing them. Something in his eyes changes, a trace of credence swelling through them. Billie opens his mouth to speak.

"Okay, lovebirds, you ready to get this show on the road?!" Mike booms, suddenly slamming his face through the rolled-down window. I flinch, grabbing Billie’s arm out of fear, fingernails digging into him. Billie nearly fucking threw the bourbon in the air, resulting in little splotches of liquor soaking through the leg of my shorts as well as some of Tre’s belongings. Count on us to waste the alcohol and make a mess. Count on them to continually butt-into the wrong moments.

"Jesus Christ, guys, glad I bought enough to make up for the amount you guys end up spilling," Mike snickers; climbing through the window with his loot as Tre comes running.

"Bill, open up!" he shouts, leaving Billie with only seconds to roll down the window before Tre slung bags of beer and liquor into his lap. "I pocketed a couple of high end shots without anybody noticing, let's get the fuck out of here!

"Tre, you greedy fuck!" Billie howls with laughter as Tre spins us back into the street like goddamned speed racer.

Tonight is sure to be one hell of a night.