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I look the guns over once more. “This is good,” I tell him. “I’ll take it all.”
We haggle over the price for a while—him, because he’s still trying to get Patricia back, regardless of what she did to the side of his car, and he probably wants to buy her something nice. Me, because he made me drive way the fuck over here to this ratty-ass neighborhood where the trash is blowing around like tumbleweeds.
Finally we agree, and I hand him the wad of cash. He transfers the guns to my trunk, into the hidden compartment I built under the spare tire.
If some bitch ever keyed my Mustang, I’d chuck her in the lake. I love this car. Built it up from blocks, after I crashed my Bel Air.
“So,” Mason says, once business is done. “What are you doing tonight?”
“I dunno.” I shrug. “Nothing, I guess.”
“Levi is throwing a party at his house.”
I consider it. Levi Cargill is a trust-fund frat-boy who likes to pretend he’s Pablo Escobar. I never liked him in high school, and I don’t like him now. But he does throw pretty decent parties.
“You going over there now?” I ask Mason.
“Yup. You gonna come with me?”
“Alright. We’re taking my car, though.”
Mason scowls. “I don’t wanna leave mine here. Somebody’ll fuck with it.”
“Nobody’s gonna bother with your car unless Patricia finds it again. It’s not even worth stripping down for scrap metal.”
Mason looks wounded. “You’re a snob, you know that?”
“Nah,” I say. “I like all cars. Except yours.”
Mason gets in the passenger side and we drive back to Old Town. He tries to fuck with my playlist, and I slap his hand away before he can touch it. I do let him roll the windows down, ‘cause it’s hot as balls and the breeze is nice.
We cruise up to Levi’s house, where the party is already in full swing.
This was a nice place when Levi inherited it from his grandma. He’s abused it ever since, throwing so many ragers that the neighbors probably have the cops on speed-dial. They don’t say anything to Levi, though. He may be a puffed-up poser, but he has a nasty temper, enough to go off on any octogenarians who dare to give him the side-eye.
I already see a few people I recognize. That’s usually the case. I’ve lived in Chicago my whole life. Went to school at Oakmont, ten minutes from here. Tried a semester at Northwestern, but left six weeks in. I hate sitting in classrooms and I hate taking tests even more. I don’t give a fuck about physics or philosophy. I like things that are practical. Real. Touchable.
I went to one lecture where the professor spent the whole hour yammering on about the nature of reality. If he can’t understand reality, then how am I supposed to?
You know what you can understand front and back, up and down? A car engine. You can take it apart down to the last bolt and put it right back together again.
Speaking of which, as we walk up to the house, I see a red Trans Am pulled up to the curb. It needs new tires and a fresh paint job, but it’s a classic all the same.
I’m giving it a full once-over, until a shapely little redhead draws my eye in another direction. She’s walking up to the house in a tight black skirt and ankle boots, her hair pulled up in a high ponytail that swishes as she walks.
I automatically fall into step behind her, walking close enough that she turns around to see who’s behind her.
“Oh, hello Nero,” she says, a saucy little smile breaking out on her face. She’s got dimples on both sides of her mouth, with little silver piercings through them. She looks familiar, and also fucking hot in that short skirt and her tight little crop-top. Small tits, but that’s fine. Like I told Mason, I’m not picky.
“Hey, Red,” I say, since I can’t remember her name. “What are you doing out here all alone? Aren’t you afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?”
“Is that supposed to be you?” she says, looking me up and down so her lashes swoop down to her cheeks and up again.
“Well, I’m definitely big,” I say in a low voice, stepping closer to her.
“I’ve heard that,” she says, grinning up at me.
“Yeah, from who?”
