Excerpt of Off Leash: Bonus Content by Renee Pace

Chapter One

"Watch."

That's all Mr. Bling says. I'm huddled inside his massive, souped–up motherfucker of an Escalade and feeling sick to my stomach. I'm sure it's nerves and the fact I haven't eaten all day, plus the stench of Mr. Bling's spicy cologne is killing me. Mr. Bling isn't the man's real name. It's my nickname for the gangster who rules my neighborhood. He's got enough gold chains looped around his bulldog neck and even more expensive rings on his fat cigar–like fingers that I've always called him Mr. Bling. His reputation is as lethal as the show–off Jeep I got hauled into on my way home from school. For once in my life, I keep my big mouth shut.

I'm watching but don't want to. For a few minutes nothing out of the ordinary happens unless you like boring, no–traffic roads and skinny pine trees as a landscape view. Then a toothpick white teen pulls up to the run–down gas station. He fills up a red gasoline can, goes in and pays for it and then gets back in his beat–up blue Chevrolet. I start to fidget on the white leather seats, thinking to myself these must be custom–fitted.

"Pay attention, Eje," says Mr. Bling, forcing me to look out the window.

The car pulls out of the gas station and goes about a mile down the road and then...boom. The kind of blast you feel all the way to the marrow of your bones rocks our vehicle.

"What the fuck!" I scream. I'm about to open the door to run and help the kid when Mr. Bling slaps his beefy paw on top of mine.

"That's what happens when debts don't get paid. I heard you were a smart kid so that's why I had you come along for this ride. That there boy took the only option left to him. My reputation is key and I'm not about to let some punk take advantage of me. His other option was to watch as I had my guys have some fun with his family ...you feel me...then of course, we'd off them. You understand what I'm telling you?"

I nod, but I can't process what he's telling me. Inside I'm screaming what the fuck over and over again, trying to figure out how the hell I ended up in Mr. Bling's car in the first place.

"What's that got to do with me?" My voice cracks and I can't help but gulp as the stench of smoke fills the area like a mean storm cloud. Another minute passes before the sounds of sirens fill the space, but still we don't move from our hiding spot. We're parked on a dirt road halfway between the gas station and the burnt–out car. I'm trying to hold it together but the image flashing in my head is that of a skinny white kid on fire.

"You," says Mr. Bling, unwrapping another expensive Cuban cigar, which he casually lights. "Eje, you are my collateral. You see, your father owes me a lot of money and he missed his last payment, so considering how kind I am, I thought—why go to the father when I could go to the son?" He grins. I shiver. "A son, who I'm sure will want to help his family."

I blink. "My Pa owes you money." I know that comes out sounding stupid, but I'm in shock. First the kid who literally blew up in front of my freaking eyes and now this...this shit, Pa said he'd never do again.

"Smart. That's right, your father owes me a good twenty G's and normally I'd laugh that away but since he didn't pay his interest, well, you know how it is. Reputation is key."

He laughs, like the dozen fire trucks screeching to a halt is nothing new to him. "So you want me to talk to him?" My glance keeps sliding to the car on fire and that sick feeling I had earlier comes back to life. I force myself to calm down. Mr. Bling loops his arm around my bony shoulders, drawing me in close. His body sweat, cologne and cigar do nothing to ease the bile trying to work its way up my throat.

"No, Eje, I'm giving you a month to get me five thousand, or I'll be collecting what was owed to me my way and trust me your sister won't like it."

Okay, I'm not a genius but only an idiot wouldn't get his meaning. I might not like my sister, Keisha, much at the moment because of our early morning fight, but she's still my sister. And, right now the hatred I feel for my Pa is roaring like the car fire down the road, totally out of control.

* * *

You've got to be kidding me! I should have stayed home today. Instead I do what I'm told. Get my butt in gear and go to school, like Pa orders. Why can't he do what I want? Stop gambling. Since that's about as likely as me ending up without a detention today, I'm not holding my breath. Instead I'm here and hurting from round three with the school's bully. Since he's twice my size and thinks of me as his latest punching bag my gut still feels on fire. I knew I should have waited for Charlie this morning. Charlie's my friend, but more than that he's a homegrown boy who's got tough stamped all over him. One side glance from Charlie to bully means I'm safe. Not so today because Charlie overslept and my attempt to get to class on time only earned me a black eye and fat lip along with any hope of not being labelled a coward in my neighborhood .

My lip's bleeding and my knuckles hurt like hell. My feet feel like lead as I make my way to the office. I stick my head inside the room and the secretary gives me the look. Disappointment. Yeah, that I understand. Thing is, I've been disappointed with my life since I came to this place. God I hate it here. Well, that's not entirely true. I just hate where we live and the how of it. Don't get me wrong, this place is like a freshly mowed lawn compared to the refugee camp we were stuck in for five years. But Canada, with its cold, sleet and snow hasn't offered up one of those cozy Hudson Bay blankets for an immigrant like me.

"He's not very happy with you." That's an understatement coming from Mrs. Sharp. Rumor has it she's been with the school since its start–up. From the look of this place that's got to be close to sixty years ago. She's got the right name, too. Everything about her white, pasty face is all hard lines and sharp angles, including her so–called fashionable pointy eye glasses. Someone should tell her they were in fashion in the 1950s.

The "He" she's referring to is Mr. James Smythe, the principal of Central City High School. He's tough as nails and won't put up with shit.

Twenty minutes later, I'm the disappointed one. Should have known better than to think he'd believe my end of the story. Of course, sporting a new shiner and fat lip wasn't sitting in my favor, but if he thinks for one second I'm following his damn advice he's so wrong. No way am I picking option one, which basically amounts to me enrolling in something he calls "The Stroke Forward" program, which sounds a lot like a load of crap. And option two, well, getting kicked out of school will kill my Pa, so looks like I'll have to wrestle up another option. Pull up my marks, keep my head down and try to become invisible in my neighborhood.

Since I've got about as much hope for that as a Pit–bull making peace with a cat, I shuffle to class feeling defeated and deflated. The world ain't offering up any chips in my favor these days. With my luck, Principal Smythe will call home and have a heart–to–heart with my Pa, who then will have a man–to–man talk with me, layering on the guilt about everything he's sacrificed to get me where I am. Since I have no idea where I am in my life or what I want to do, the guilt feels like well–chewed gum, tasteless.

"