Page 4 of Tony

Nope. That girl is all kinds of wrong.

“Hey! There you are. What the hell are you doing, Belinda? We have people who need checking in.”

I glance to my right and see Vann coming around the corner of the alley. It’s nice out today. Nice enough for him to be wearing a t-shirt that shows off all the tats running down his arms. His long legs cross the distance between us in just a few strides and then he stops to peer down at me with a smile. “What’s up?” Vann is perpetually good-natured.

“Have you ever talked to the bookstore girl?”

He makes a face. “The fake blue-haired one?”

“Yeah.”

“No. She’s dumb.”

“How do you know?”

“Because she’s…” He pauses for a moment. His smile falters, but he recovers before it can truly turn into a frown. “She’s not real, Belinda. Stay away from her.”

“Not real how? Not that I don’t believe you. I do. You’re right. There’s something wrong with her. She was… polite just now when I was in there.”

“Yeah.” He laughs. “Girls who look like her aren’t polite. It’s a carefully cultivated look. Like yours.”

“Wait. Am I fake?”

He smiles at me. I’m talking full-on beaming grins at me. “No, toots. You’re not fake at all. You’re the definition of real.”

“Toots,” I say, tsking my tongue. “You know I hate that name.”

“But it’s cute—”

“If you call me ‘cute’ one more time, I’ll clock you, Vann.”

He shakes his head and points at me. “See. Now that threat? That’s all you, toots. Totally you.”

I frown. And sigh. “I’m not really real, am I? I’m an invention of the FBI witness protection program.”

“Just stop it.”

“Hey, wait! Do you think she’s one of us? That could explain the inconsistency between her cool dark look and her stupid helpful attitude.”

Vann looks towards the street, kind of in the direction of the bookstore. “No.” He shakes his head and that almost-frown is almost back. “No,” he says, looking back at me. “She’s definitely not one of us. But never mind her. Come on, we’ve got customers.”

He takes my hand and starts to lead me back towards the front of the shop, but I immediately pull away and slip my fingers out of his grip.

“Jesus Christ, Belinda. I wasn’t trying to hold your hand. It was a casual gesture.”

“I know,” I say. “But my hand is all sweaty and I didn’t—”

“Whatever.”

I know I frustrate him. I know he wants more. I know this because he’s told me lots of times. He likes me. A whole bunch.

And I like him too. Just not in the same way.

Vann Vaughn is my rock. He is the most consistent, most true, most real thing about my life these days.

And I will not fuck that up by sending the wrong signals and getting his hopes up that we will turn into something more, because we won’t. Ever.

Plus, even if he is mad at me for pulling my hand away, he’ll get over it.