by Lamar Giles
The clothing that kept this from turning into my most guarded fantasy consisted of tan shorts that she might’ve borrowed from a Barbie and a top that swooped around her neck and shoulders like a silk wave.
I stood with one leg in the car, one on the ground, comparing my typical sneakers-jeans-tee-hoodie combo to her glam-girl look. “Should I change?”
She appraised me. “You’re fine. All the guys dress like you.”
“Do all the girls dress like you?” I pictured the Dust Off in music video format.
She smiled in a way I hadn’t seen since that day in the gym, about a hundred years ago. “I told you I’d provide your distraction.”
It wasn’t supposed to distract me. I climbed in and caught a whiff of her body spray, something with melon. It mingled with the citrus scent of my cologne. We smelled like we’d vandalized a Bath & Body Works.
Being in the Beetle again was a strange déjà vu, spooky even. I considered bringing it up. Some conversation about Eli might help us—me—refocus.
She shot that plan to hell when she said, “We’re on a date.”
“Hunh-what?”
“We’re on a date. If anyone asks, that’s our cover.”
“Right,” I said, “pretending.”
She glanced sideways, then back to the road. “People are going to talk when we come in together. We better give them what they ask for. It will make the night go more smoothly.”
“Hope I don’t mess up your rep.” I imagined our gossiping schoolmates, with hushed voices and scowls, linking her to the loner who found her dead brother, then consoling each other as if Reya died, too.
She laughed. “Mess up my rep? Do you own a mirror?”
“What do you mean?”
“De pinga! I can’t tell if you’re being modest or you’re one of those guys who got cute over the summer without realizing it.”
Focus, focus, grin, focus . . .
She drove us into the only part of town I hadn’t explored, North End, not just a direction but the neighborhood’s actual name, where Stepton’s rich residents lived. Home to requisite McMansions and driveways displaying their luxury vehicles, even though every house had a three-car garage.
“That one is my uncle Miguel’s.” Reya motioned toward a stucco-sided two-story. The way she said it, I knew she thought the house was spectacular. Envy and awe.
I wasn’t impressed. Crime syndicate money could buy estates, and I’d seen a few. Still, I said, “Wow, that’s nice.”
“He actually acted like a decent person today. I barely recognized him.”
“That’s good, right?
She shrugged. “If it lasts. Which I doubt.”
“Him and Pilar get along?” I said, testing my theory about their relation.
“When he claims her, which is like never since she got pregnant. Was pregnant?”
Was?
“Wait,” I said, twisting in my seat to face her. “Shut up.”
Reya gave me a sharp nod. “She popped like an hour after the funeral.”
“Is she okay?”
“She’s fine. Might still be in labor. Mami went to the hospital to be with her since her own mom’s dead. I should thank Pilar and that kid. There’s no way I could’ve left the house in this outfit otherwise.”
Mention of the outfit popped it to the forefront of my mind. I should thank Pilar, too. Every guy at this party should thank Pilar.
We turned in to a cul-de-sac and joined a line of cars inching through an open wrought-iron gate. High hedges blocked my view of the house, but I heard a Kanye West track thumping.
“It’s like we’re going to the Playboy Mansion,” I said, impressed now.
“Dustin always does it big.”
“The neighbors can’t be happy about this.”
“There are perks to being the mayor’s son. The police won’t bust up your party, no matter how pissed the neighbors get. I’ve seen people catch major beat downs at these things, as long as no one dies it’s—”
She trailed off. Someone already had.
Reya parked the Beetle behind a Honda where two kids were hooking up on the trunk.
I left the car, waited. Reya pried off the Nikes she’d worn while driving, replaced them with a pair of four-inch wedge heels that matched her shorts. Her lethal ensemble complete, she joined me, almost my height now, and grabbed my hand. “Date, remember.”
Closer to the house, randomly scattered groups were involved in whatever activity was preferential to their clique. Smokers smoked. Musical kids engaged in freestyle rap battles. Most had a beer can or plastic cup in hand.
A girl smoker flicked mini-meteorites into the bushes before touching Reya’s shoulder as we passed. “Sorry about Eli, Rey.”
Similar sentiments came from others but felt less genuine, like Reya showing up was an unwelcome reminder that the night was supposed to be a celebration for her dead brother, and not just a party. She squeezed my hand tighter through the halfhearted condolences. By the time we entered the house I was happy she hadn’t broken my fingers.
She leaned into me and whispered, “Get ready to split up.”
“What if I can’t find Dustin? This place is huge.”
“If all else fails, stand by the blender.” Then louder, so others could hear, “Go get me a drink, baby.”
She let go of my hand, kept moving until I lost sight of her.
I spent a moment totally paralyzed.
Some guy holding a bunch of neon lights bumped by, unfreezing me. I stepped into the path of the next person moving with purpose, a stocky girl who tensed as if expecting a fight. I held my hands up, peaceful. “I need some help.”
“What?”
“You know where the blender is?”
After twenty minutes of leaning on the Burkes’ granite countertops while some shaggy-haired kid played Mixed-Drink Mad Scientist—I swear I saw him throw a cucumber into a swirling batch of strawberry daiquiris—I began doubting Reya’s strategy. At least twenty people had come through the kitchen to either grab another beer from a sweating floor cooler or risk their lives on questionable cocktails. But no Dustin.
I ventured back to the foyer, tired of waiting. Two lengths of rope were secured to the staircase banister, marking the second story off-limits. Past the stairs was a dark corridor with a few people hanging around the entrance, but little activity beyond. That’s where I’d start.
I knew I wouldn’t find Dustin there, but I needed a break from all this normal teen stuff. My untuned social meter was on overload. Also, I had a suspicion about the corridor that I needed to satisfy.
A piece of wisdom from Bricks came to me. When you’re in a place you’re not supposed to be, the best thing you can do is fake as much confidence as possible. People always notice the guy acting like a thief. They never notice the guy acting like the owner.
I strolled down the hall like I was Mayor Burke himself and no one gave me a second look. I thought.
The first door I came to was ajar, and I saw a toilet and mirror in the shadows. Moving on. The next door was closed. I tested the knob and found myself staring at a large garage occupied by Dustin’s yellow Xterra, the blue BMW that had taken me to the municipal campus, and empty bays for two more cars. I moved on to the last room, sealed by lacquered double doors that didn’t swing but slid into the wall. I parted them wide enough for a view and found what I was looking for.
The mayor’s office.
Inside, I flipped on the lights, revealing several full but neat bookshelves, an uncomfortable-looking leather couch, and a TV mounted on the wall next to a gun cabinet.
Like the bookshelves, the cabinet was full and neat, a couple of rifles, a shotgun, and several handguns. The pistols weren’t like guns I’d seen when I was younger, scratched and scarred with tape around the grips and threaded barrels for illegal, screw-in suppressors. These sat on red velvet, illuminated by special lights like props in the Smithsonian. Clint Eastwood’s .44 from those old cop movies, an U
zi from The Matrix. Display guns. Not gun guns.
I lost interest in the cabinet, moved toward the PC sitting on top of the polished glass desk in the center of the room. This was where Eli planted his spy software and stole information on Whispertown.
I sat in the mayor’s chair and ran my fingers across his keyboard. Something about violating his space appealed to me. Payback for his nice-guy threats.
Mostly everything else on the desk was office normal—a coffee cup full of pens, a mail holder, a red stapler—except for the trophy. A single bronze boxing glove that punched the sky. The engraved base read: VA State Golden Gloves—Richie Burke—1989.
Mayor Burke was a former boxing champ? Proud enough of the accomplishment to keep this trophy around while not having a single picture of his kid anywhere in sight? I remembered Dustin’s bruised eye. Must be nice having a sturdy teen for a stand-in punching bag. Keep the skills up.
Someone said, “What are you doing?”
Brief images of being tossed from the party flickered through my head.
It wasn’t the mayor, or Dustin, or anyone who might care about me trespassing in this private space. The voice belonged to a gorgeous brunette.
She said, “I thought this was the way to the pond.”
A gorgeous drunk brunette. I caught the slur in her voice this time, and if I hadn’t, her stumbling over an invisible piece of furniture would’ve clued me. She went down on all fours, laughing. The way she leaned gave me a perfect view of bouncing cleavage in her low-cut tank top. She met my eyes, and I got the impression she wasn’t offended.
“You thought there was a pond down this hallway?” I tried to measure her level of intoxication.
“Well, it’s gotta be somewhere.” She stood on shaky legs, came closer. She limped now, hunched, massaging the knee she banged, giving me another view of her incredible chest. “Hey, can I check my email in here?”
I stood. “No, you can’t.”
Time to go before someone else caught me, someone who’d remember it tomorrow.
“I don’t feel real good,” she said, rubbing her stomach.
I could’ve—should’ve—left her. But I thought about that Golden Glove trophy and the mayor’s reaction if he found liquor vomit in his office. Dustin might be making trouble for himself by throwing this party, but I didn’t feel right letting this girl add to it.
“Come on,” I said, hands on her shoulders, “let’s get back to the party.”
“The pond!”
“I don’t know where the pond is, uh—?”
“Callie, nice to meet you. What’s your name?”
“I’m Nick.”
“No, you’re hot.” She let out an ain’t-that-clever? giggle and pressed her boobs into my stomach. The alcohol on her breath smelled like medicine. “Take me at the pond. I mean, to the pond.” More giggles.
Gently, I pushed her away. “I’m here with a date.”
I thought she’d press the issue more, forcing me to get mean, but instead she whined, “I don’t feel good and I’m supposed to meet my friends at the pond.”
She lurched forward, gagged, but nothing came up. Thank God.
“Okay, okay. Let’s get you some fresh air and I’ll help you find the pond.”
Only then did she allow me to lead her away from the mayor’s office, into the garage, and through a side door to the exterior. In the open, she seemed steadier and took point through a wooded path where no other partygoers were visible.
Callie pushed aside low-hanging branches and warned me about jutting roots. For someone who’d been so drunk and clumsy and unsure moments ago, she got us to the pond without a single misstep. Why didn’t I see it then?
Water lapped like wet hands clapping, and the path opened onto a black mirror. A cedar observation deck, with large boxes of fish food mounted to the railing, marked the end of the line. A couple of dozen koi swam toward the deck, drawn by our movements, expecting a feast. Pumpkin-colored heads broke the surface, Whac-A-Mole-style. The moon hovered over the far end of the pond, its silver-dollar reflection rippling.
Callie approached the railing but did not take in the view. Instead, she faced me without meeting my eyes.
A sick feeling crept over me, no alcohol needed. “Where are your friends, Callie?”
An unwelcome voice sounded. “Right here, bitch.”
Zach Lynch.
I turned slowly. They were all there. Russ, the twins, and, of course, their leader. Callie skirted around me, careful to keep her distance. Smart girl.
She pressed herself to Russ, kissed him on the lips, then jogged up the path, leaving me to my fate.
Skank.
CHAPTER 29
ZACH DRANK JACK DANIEL’S STRAIGHT FROM the bottle. The long bicycle chain wrapped around his knuckles scraped the glass when he sipped. “Heard you was talking junk about us. And you’re here with my girl.”
He shattered the bottle on the deck, splashing my shoes with backwash.
It could’ve been for show, him being a big man in front of his lackeys. But I didn’t think so. Not the way Dee and Dum kept trading furtive looks, or the way Russ kept glancing at the path like he wanted to run after his girl. They didn’t want to be a part of this, because Zach planned to do something worse than bloody my nose in the locker room.
His chain jingled.
Maybe they’d all been drinking. If I moved fast, I could probably beat them back to the party, where they’d be less likely to jump me. That was a good plan. A smart plan.
Instead, I took two running steps, made as if I was breaking right, and when Zach Lynch moved to intercept me, I stopped short and punched him in the spot below where the ribs met the sternum. He went bug-eyed, doubled over. With him off balance, I grabbed both of his shoulders for leverage then rammed my knee into his balls.
First move Bricks ever taught me.
It took Zach and his crew by surprise, but their shock wouldn’t last.
I ran at Dum. He tried to juke to one side, but I grabbed his arm, used his momentum to spin him around, then kicked him in his Achilles tendon. His leg shot up like a punter’s and he landed flat on his back.
With two down, I had my best shot at escaping. I ran, craning my neck to make sure no one followed. Bad move. Callie had led me to the pond, pushing aside low-hanging branches as she went.
When I faced forward I ran full speed into an oak branch slung across the path.
It caught me in the mouth, put me horizontal to the path before dropping me on my tailbone. Dee pounced and held me until his friends recovered.
Pinned to the ground, viewing things upside down, I saw Zach approach, massaging his crotch and swinging his chain. He didn’t talk, or threaten.
The whine of a low-powered motor interrupted the sound of that chain cutting the air. Light flashed on us, halting Zach.
“Back off, Lynch,” said Lorenz, his mousy voice always odd coming from his huge frame. He stepped from a clownish-looking golf cart. Carrey followed, as did the wheelman, Dustin.
Zach said, “What are you doing here, Burke?”
“This is where I live. And Callie can’t shut up about how clever you guys are. Figured I’d better get down here.”
“This don’t have nothing to do with y’all,” Zach said.
Dustin. “My house. My party. It’s all about me.”
Zach’s chest heaved. “This pussy has been disrespecting me ever since he got here. All in my girl’s face. I’m supposed to let that ride?”
“I think you’re confused about a couple of things.”
Lorenz and Carrey helped me off the ground while Zach contemplated his next move.
He took a step toward me, still swinging that chain. Dustin signaled to Lorenz.
The big guy leveled Zach with a punch.
“Go home,” Dustin told the rest of Zach Lynch’s crew, “and take him with you.”
Carrey and Lorenz walked me to the cart, kept me upright since I was still shaken from the tree bra
nch. I took the seat next to the mayor’s son. They sat in the back.
Zach rolled around in some dead leaves, groaning. His neutered friends circled their fallen idol.
“They won’t bother you anymore tonight,” Dustin said.
No, not tonight, but this wasn’t over. With guys like Zach Lynch it never was.
Dustin puttered us back to the party, where the crowd was thinning. He noticed me noticing.
“Beer’s gone,” he said.
Dustin parked the cart. We entered a rec room, where stragglers abused all the things that didn’t belong to them. I scanned faces for Reya but didn’t see her.
I said, “I thought you were grounded. Where’s your dad?”
“Business trip to D.C. He goes up a lot, and he can’t rule with an iron fist when he’s MIA.” He held up a loaded key chain. “I’ve got the keys to the kingdom. Liquor cabinet, Beamer.”
“You’re not worried about getting in more trouble?”
“Life’s short.” He led us toward the foyer and the roped-off staircases. He ducked under the barrier, as did Lorenz and Carrey. I hesitated.
“It’s cool,” Dustin said. “Come on.”
I followed them up to Dustin’s room. Or apartment. It was massive, four of my bedrooms put together. I could see a jetted freaking tub through his open bathroom door. If this was what Dustin’s space was like, I imagined the mayor’s having a retractable dome roof like Cowboys Stadium.
Lorenz flopped on the unmade California king and rummaged through the drawer on Dustin’s nightstand.
“Lorenz,” Dustin said. “Stop going through my stuff.”
Lorenz rolled his eyes and grabbed the new Sports Illustrated. When he lay back, he froze, sniffed. “Dawg, why’s your bed smell like vanilla ice cream?”
“Alexis Carter works at the Cold Stone in Portside Mall,” he said, matter-of-fact. “She brought samples.”
Lorenz scrambled off the dirtier-than-he’d-anticipated sheets, and Carrey crowed, “Pimp!”
Dustin shrugged off the conquest. “I do what I can.”
