Chet led Garner out of the dim bar, pushing through the back door into an alley. They approached an old Ford F-150, its paint faded and chipped.

Behind the wheel sat Danny Maddox, whose face twisted into a smirk when he recognized Garner.

“Well, well, if it ain’t Garner Nash,” Danny drawled, his voice dripping with mock surprise. “Running back to me here on the outside. Still wanna be my bitch, is that it, boy?”

Garner’s jaw clenched, but he kept his cool. “People change, Danny. Circumstances change.”

Danny snorted. “The only thing that’s probably changed is the size of your shithole.”

Garner produced a small plastic bag from his pocket. “I’ve got something that might interest you,” he said.

Danny eyed the bag, his skepticism clear. He snatched it, flicked it open, and stuck a finger inside. Bringing it to his mouth, he tasted the contents — and his eyes lit up with approval.

“Not bad, Nash. Not bad at all,” he conceded, a hint of respect creeping into his voice. “Meet me at my place. We can talk business there.”

Garner nodded, a plan forming in his mind.

“And Nash,” Danny added, his gaze shifting to Chet, “leave that loser right here. This is between you and me.”

“You’re gonna trust that snake?” Chet asked as they watched Danny drive off down the icy alley.

“Sometimes you gotta dance with the devil to get out of hell,” Garner said.

Text and photo copyright © 2023 L.T. Hanlon. All content in this post is fiction.