— Riff knew he wasn’t a good man. Infamous leader of the jets, making a living off selling no-good substances. He’s gotta feed his boys somehow.

Despite knowing he’s not a good man, he never thought he’d stoop so low into corruption.

Riff couldn’t help it, he’d seen you around: At dances with your gals’ chatting it up in diners or just walking around town. Somehow, someway, your paths had crossed one day. Just a sweetheart, not a bad thing came from your lips during your first chat with Riff, not one mean or judgy glance sent his way. Even when he’d make the dumbest comment or asked the stupidest question.

He’d coaxed you into hanging out with him, baby steps. First, it was around the parks or at a dance. Then he convinced you into coming to his place “More privacy, babydoll. That’s all s’for, swear it.” He was lying straight out of his ass.

The more you came over, the more he got comfortable. He’d let clients come over for their fix, and Riff never failed to miss the curious glint in your eyes each time.

There’s some low jazz playing on Riff’s shitty radio, the two of you are on his equally shitty couch while he goes over his inventory. Of course, he spots that look, he knows that look. It’s curiosity, to know what the effect is, to know why people crave it.

“Nah,” You hear Riff speak up, his accent laid on thick with a slight rasp. “This stuff ain’t for you, girly girl. It’ll make your head all fuzzy, more than it already is.”