When I get home, I knock on Vic’s door.
“Come in!” he calls.
I push the door open. His bedroom is tiny. He only has a minuscule window high up on one wall, like in a prison cell. He doesn’t seem to care, though—he’s papered the walls with posters of all his favorite musicians, and the space is as cheerfully crowded and messy as any teenage boy’s room.
He’s got a desk squished in there with his bed. He’s currently working at that desk, hunched over the laptop I bought him a couple years back.
He sits up a little too quickly when I come into the room.
I automatically glance at the screen, to check if he’s doing his course work.
Instead, I see some kind of music program. It looks like a bunch of slider bars and squiggly graphs.
“What’s that?” I ask him.
“Well . . .” Vic looks guilty.
“Come on. Out with it.”
“It’s this thing for making beats,” he admits.
“What kind of beats?”
“You know. Backing tracks for songs.”
I don’t really know, but I’m interested. I come and sit down on the edge of his bed.
“Let’s hear it,” I say.
“Okay . . .” Vic says nervously.
He places his cursor over the right spot on the screen and presses enter.
The beat plays out of his tinny speakers. I don’t know much about this kind of music, but I can hear that it’s upbeat and catchy, with a 70’s funk sound to it.
“You made that?” I ask Vic.
“Yeah,” he says, grinning shyly. “Listen to this one.”
He clicks another track. This time the beat is slightly eerie, with an instrumental backing that sounds like it belongs in a Kung fu movie.
“Vic, that’s really cool!” I tell him.
“Thanks,” he says.
“What do you do with them?”
“Well . . . I posted a couple online. And I sold them, actually.”
“Oh yeah? What does somebody pay for a beat like that?”
“Well, at first I was charging twenty bucks. But now I’m getting fifty per track.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
I’m impressed. My enterprising little brother has found a way to make money that actually sounds legal.
“I wish I had a better mixing board,” he says. “If I sell a few more, I could probably buy one. But I know I have to save for college too,” he adds hastily.
“Save for both,” I tell him. “Half for college, half for the equipment you need.”
“Alright,” Vic grins. “Fair enough.”
I’m really proud of him. I always knew my little brother was brilliant. He just needs to turn his attention in the right direction. To things that will help him out in life, instead of getting him in trouble.
I look at his thin, handsome face, dominated by his dark eyes and girlish lashes. The truth is, he doesn’t look entirely like my mother. She was 100 percent Puerto Rican. Vic is more fair. It’s possible his dad was a white dude.
I search his features, trying to find evidence of Raymond Page in his face. Could my mom have known a man like that? Dated him, or slept with him?
All kinds of men visited Exotica. As far as strip clubs went, it was one of the fancier ones in the city. People said my mother worked as an escort, too. I didn’t want to believe it. But it’s possible she met Raymond and accidentally fell pregnant.
That’s not information that Page would want anybody else to know. He would have been married to Bella’s mother at the time. And even if she’s okay with him philandering, I doubt that extends to unprotected sex with strippers.
God, it makes me feel sick just thinking about it.
“What?” Vic says. “What are you looking at?”
“That eyelash thing,” I tell him.
He laughs. “It’s kinda cool.”
“Vic,” I say hesitatingly. “Did mom ever tell you anything about your father?”
“No,” he says, frowning. “I told you she didn’t.”
“Do you remember any guys coming around her apartment? Anybody she was dating when you were little?”
“I don’t remember anything about her at all.” Vic scowls.
“What about a tall, bald man?”
“Why are you asking me all this stuff?” Vic says angrily. “I don’t care who my real dad is. Axel’s my dad.”
“I know that, of course he is,” I try to soothe Vic. “It’s just . . . maybe your real dad has money. He might owe you child support.”
“I’m not a child anymore,” Vic says. “It’s too late now.”
I don’t think that’s true, strictly speaking. Vic’s still seventeen. Raymond Page is a wealthy man. I might be able to get something for Victor, to help pay for college.
Because I’m not going to be able to chip in on that anymore. My dad got his test results back from the hospital. He’s got Stage 3 Adenocarcinoma. His doctor says it doesn’t seem to have spread yet, and he’s got a decent chance of recovery if he gets in right away for surgery.
But we have no insurance. I told the hospital we’re broke. They’re trying to get financial aid for us, setting us up with a payment plan in the meantime. That’s going to sap every dime I’ve got, without anything left for Vic.
Which makes me think it might be worth hitting Raymond up for money. I don’t love the idea—he’s wealthy and powerful. And if his daughter is any indication, he’s probably a complete asshole. But what other choice have I got? If he really is Vic’s dad, he owes him something.
Jesus. I just realized that means Bella is Vic’s sister. Or half-sister, I guess. The same as me.
That pisses me off. I don’t like Bella having any connection to my baby brother. It makes me jealous and territorial. I’m the one who raised Vic. I’m the one who always protected him, and took care of him.
Well, it doesn’t matter. It’s not Bella I need to talk to. It’s Raymond. And I need a better plan than just ambushing him at work. He’s not going to want to hear what I have to say. I need proof.
“Don’t forget about your schoolwork,” I say to Vic, ruffling his hair on my way out.
I head back down to the auto bay. It’s just me down here today—my dad’s at Midtown Medical going over his treatment plan with Doctor Yang. I wanted to go with him, but he reminded me that we had two cars that were supposed to be finished by the end of the day. And there’s nobody else to do the work but me.
Even though the tasks are menial, I’m fully immersed. Cranking the radio so loud that I’m sure it’s echoing down the street, I’m elbow-deep in grease, losing myself in the intricate engine of a 2018 Camry. It’s a relief, focusing on this and nothing else.
I can’t think about my dad, or Vic, or Nero. I’m just working hard and fast, getting it all done as quickly as possible.
I get so lost in the work that I’m actually starting to feel good. That old Joan Jett song comes on the radio, and I start singing along, forgetting that the auto bay doors are open, and anybody could hear me:
“Bad Reputation” – Joan Jett (Spotify)
“Bad Reputation” – Joan Jett (Apple Music)
“Is this your theme song?” a male voice growls in my ear.
I shriek, straightening up so fast that I slam my head on the open hood of the Camry.
Bright stars burst in front of my eyes like flashbulbs. I put my filthy hand up to my temple and feel warm blood trickling down.
I spin around, coming face to face with Officer Schultz, who’s standing way too close to me.
“What are you doing here?” I gasp.
“You weren’t answering my text messages. Or my phone calls.”
“I’m working,” I snarl. “I don’t exactly have my phone attached to my hip.”
He hasn’t backed up, so there’s only a couple inches of space between us. He has me pinned between him and the Camry. My head is throbbing, and my heart is still pounding from the shock of the surprise.
“Can you move?” I say. “My head is bleeding.”
“Let me look at it,” Schultz says.
“I don’t need your help.”
He pushes me down on the nearest bench, not listening. He grabs a handful of paper towels and presses them against my temple. He’s sitting right next to me, his tanned face only inches away from mine. I can smell the spearmint gum on his breath.
“Sorry I surprised you,” he says.
He’s smiling. He doesn’t look sorry at all.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I mutter. “If anybody sees you—”
“I’m not wearing my uniform.”
“So what? You don’t live here. People will notice you. And not to burst your bubble, but you reek of cop.”
“Come on,” he says. “In these clothes?”
Today he’s wearing some kind of Tommy Bahama shirt and cargo shorts. It’s slightly less obvious than his sports gear, but it still doesn’t strike quite the right note if he’s trying to look like a tourist. It’s that military haircut, the stiff set of his shoulders, and the watchful way he looks around the room. Tourists are a lot more clueless.
“So what do you have for me?” he says.
I rattle off what little information I gathered at Levi’s last party—mostly the names of people I saw buying drugs.
Schultz doesn’t seem very interested in any of that.
“What about his supplier?” he says.
“How am I supposed to figure that out? Levi doesn’t even like me, let alone trust me.”
There is one piece of information that might interest him.
“Sione beat the shit out of Nero Gallo,” I say. “You could arrest him for that.”
“Arrest him?” Schultz scoffs. “Give him a medal, more like.”
I sigh in irritation. “You don’t give a shit about any of the crimes I’ve actually witnessed. So I don’t know what to tell you,” I say.
“You could tell me what you were doing at Alliance Bank,” Schultz says coolly.
My throat tightens.
How does he know about that?
This motherfucker is following me.
I want to tell him off, but I try to play dumb instead.
“I was opening an account,” I say.
“Nice try,” Schultz sneers. “You don’t have the bank balance to interest Raymond Page.”
“You’d be surprised. Once I dug through the couch cushions, I had almost thirty-eight dollars.”
Schultz is not amused. He presses the wad of paper towels hard against the cut on my head, making me wince.
“Is everything a joke to you, Camille?” he growls.
“I don’t find stalking very funny,” I say, glaring right back at him.
“I wasn’t following you,” Schultz says. “I was tailing your buddy Nero.”
“I didn’t even see him there,” I lie.
“Did you see his new girlfriend?” Schultz asks, his voice a soft hiss.
Now my throat is clenched up so tight I can barely breathe. I feel that same rush of bitter jealousy, remembering how beautiful Nero and Bella looked, standing side by side. She is the type of girl he should date, if he actually wanted to date someone. Rich. Gorgeous. Well-connected.
I’m a fucking nobody. An embarrassment. Can you imagine Nero introducing me to his family? He’d never do it. My dad vacuumed out Enzo Gallo’s car for god’s sake. You might as well date your maid’s daughter.
“Are you talking about Bella?” I rasp.
“Of course. Who else?”
“I didn’t know they were dating. Good for them.”
My lie is incredibly pathetic. Schultz shakes his head in wonder at how stupid I sound.
“I hear they’ve had some kind of on-off thing since high school,” Schultz says, staring right into my eyes. “I bet she’s a hellcat in the sack. Girls with daddy issues always are . . .”
“I told you,” I whisper. “I’m not friends with any of these people . . .”
“Right.” Schultz nods slowly. “You’re just a loner. A loser. Is that right, Camille?”
God, I fucking hate him. He’s still pressing that wad of paper towel against my skull, digging his thumb into the cut. Deliberately trying to hurt me.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m guessing you’re in the same boat. Seeing as we went to the same school, and I never even heard your name before.”
I see a muscle jump in his jaw. Oh, he didn’t like that. Schultz can dish it out, but he can’t take it.
“You look like the sporty type,” I say. “Let me guess—you made the freshman team, but not varsity . . . never got that letterman’s jacket . . .”
“No,” Schultz says quietly. “I never did. But I’ve gotten plenty of awards since then. Locking up the scum of Chicago. The fucking rats that feed on the filth of this city.”
I push his hand away, standing up from the bench.
“You know,” I tell him. “Not everybody chooses to be a rat. Some of us just happened to be born in the gutter.”
Schultz stands up too. He can’t bear me being taller than him. He has to look down on me.
“Spare me your sob story, Camille,” he says. “You make choices every day. The same as everybody else.”
“Do you actually see a hero when you look in the mirror?” I ask him.
“I like what I see just fine,” he replies. “I know you’re close to Nero. It’s no coincidence you two are always in the same place at the same time. You stick to him, and you report back to me. No more fucking around, Camille. This is your last warning.”
He puts his hands in his pockets, lifting the edge of his stupid tropical shirt. I see the gleam of a gun tucked in his waistband. A silent threat, aimed right at me.
“Don’t come here again,” I tell him.
“Don’t make me come back,” he spits. “This place fucking stinks.”
He turns around and stalks away.
I sink back down on the bench, my legs giving way beneath me.
Schultz is an idiot.
There’s nothing wrong with the smell of gasoline and oil.
What stinks is his breath, under the cover of that spearmint gum.
