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“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 → geni.us/savage-lover-spotify
Apple Music → geni.us/savage-lover-apple
“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.”
