Savage Lover: Chapter 17

I have to see Levi again, because I’ve got to give him the cash for that bag of Molly I was supposed to sell. Also, much as I’d like to avoid it, I need to see Bella Page.

I figured out how I can confirm if Raymond is actually Vic’s father. At first, I thought I’d need to steal his empty coffee cup or chewed-up gum. I can’t pull a hair out of his head, because the guy is bald as an egg and I doubt his security guards are going to let me get within ten feet of him again.

But then I realized that I don’t have to test Raymond’s DNA. I’ve got the next best thing—his daughter.

Of course, I doubt Bella’s gonna want to spit in a tube for me. But if I can get her at a vulnerable moment . . . I’m sure I can come up with something.

Then there’s the other person I’m both hoping and dreading seeing . . . Nero.

Just thinking about him makes my heart race.

I want to see him again. I just do. It’s stupid, and I hate admitting it, but I can’t help the way I feel.

I call Patricia to see if Levi’s throwing any more parties in the near future.

“Not that I know of,” she says. “But everybody’s going to some bonfire on the beach tonight.”

“Are you going?” I ask her.

“Yes. But not with Mason. I had a perfectly good job interview lined up for him at my cousin’s restaurant, and he tells me he ‘has something else in the works.’ And I’m like, are you kidding me dude? It better not be anything illegal, because you told me you were done with all that shit, and now you’re suddenly too busy for a serving job that makes a hundred and fifty in tips a night? That doesn’t make sense . . .”

I’m listening to Patricia, but my ears perk up at the first part of her rant. Mason has something in the works? So does Nero, as far as I can tell. Something at the Alliance Bank. It doesn’t take a genius to guess what that might be.

“He wanted your number, by the way,” Patricia says.

“Mason?” I say in confusion.

“No. Nero. Mason asked me for it, and I know it was to give it to him.”

Nero asked for my phone number?

He didn’t call it. Didn’t send a text, either.

But maybe he wanted to . . .

“Did something happen after the race?” Patricia asks me.

“No!” I say, a little too quickly.

“Are you sure?” I can hear the disbelief in her voice, and the teasing tone that means she’s smirking on the other end of the line. “The way he dragged you out of there like a caveman . . . kinda hot, wasn’t it?”

“He was just keeping me from getting arrested,” I say, glad that Patricia can’t see me blushing.

“But why, though? He’s not exactly the chivalrous type . . .”

“I dunno. I guess we’re friends. In a way.”

“Friends that have each other’s babies . . .?”

“No!”

Patricia is laughing, enjoying having something to tease me about. Usually, she’s the only one with a dramatic romantic life. This might be her only chance to stick it to me.

“My god, girl,” she says, “if you end up fucking him, you have to tell me what it’s like.”

A little shiver runs down my spine.

“I’m not doing that,” I say quietly.

“Why not? It’s like climbing Everest, or skydiving. My friend Jess did it and she said—”

“I don’t want to hear about it!” I say sharply. I can’t stand hearing about Jessica or any other girl that Nero’s been with. I’m burning with jealousy, and he doesn’t even belong to me. Not even a little bit.

This is why I could never date him, even if I wanted to. It would eat me alive.

“Sorry,” Patricia says, chastened.

“No, I’m sorry,” I say. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just wound up. You know my dad—”

“Yeah,” Patricia says gently. “I saw his file. I’m really sorry about that. You want me to bring over some dinner or something? I make this amazing soup with rotisserie chicken and carrots . . .”

“I think he went to bed already. Thank you, though. That’s really kind.”

“Oh. Well . . . come over here and we can get ready for the bonfire together,” Patricia says. “Have a glass of wine before we go and relax a little.”

“Sure,” I say. “That sounds really nice.”

“Okay. Ten o’clock, then.”

“Alright. Thanks, Patricia,” I say.

“Of course. See you soon.”

I drive over to Patricia’s apartment on the corner of Willow Street at 9:45 p.m. I’m early, because I wasn’t exactly sure how long it would take me to get here.

She lives on the twelfth floor of a pretty white brick building. I take the elevator up, then tap on her door. She opens it immediately, wearing a pink robe and fluffy slippers.

“Hey!” she says. “I’m not dressed yet.”

“That’s okay! I’m early.”

I follow her inside. I haven’t seen her place before—it’s clean and bright, and decorated in that way that some people seem to instinctively understand, where everything doesn’t match exactly, but it all coordinates to make the place look classy and comfortable, and like an actual home. She has a large bookshelf in the living room, with all the books arranged by the color of their covers, so they run down the shelves like a rainbow, from red to violet.

“Have a seat!” Patricia says cheerfully.

She gestures toward a spotless white couch with blue Aztec pillows. I don’t know if I’m supposed to move the pillows or sit on them. Also, I’m scared of smudging the couch or spilling the glass of wine Patricia hands me.

“Your apartment’s so nice,” I tell her. “How long have you been here?”

“About a year.”

“Jesus. I’ve lived in my place almost my whole life and I think we have like, maybe one picture up.”

Patricia laughs. “I always told myself I’d have my own place, no roommates. With a fireplace, a nice shoe collection, and a view.”

She pulls back the gauzy curtains so I can see out the window.

“Check that out,” she says proudly.

Sure enough, between the various buildings, she has a corridor view down to Lincoln Park.

“Absolutely perfect,” I say.

Patricia takes a sip of her wine, looking out at the green treetops with satisfaction.

“That’s why I always liked you,” she says to me. “You were a hard worker. So was I. We knew what we had to do. I don’t think Mason’s ever gonna grow up and be somebody I can count on.”

“He cares about you, though,” I say.

“I know,” Patricia says. “But I keep trying to change him. And you know that never works in the end.”

“You’d know better than me,” I say, taking a gulp of my wine. “I think my longest relationship lasted a month.”

“Why is that?” Patricia asks, setting down her wine on the coffee table. “You know you’re beautiful, Camille. Much as you try to hide it.”

“I dunno.” I shake my head, too embarrassed to meet her eyes. “Just busy with work and family stuff.”

“It’s okay to be selfish, sometimes,” Patricia says. “My whole family’s a fucking mess. That didn’t stop me going after what I want. I’m going to keep working. Keep saving money. Make something of myself. If they want to stay in the same cycle forever, that’s their problem.”

“That makes sense . . .” I say, twisting the slender stem of my wineglass between my fingers. “It’s complicated for me . . . Vic and my dad need my help. And they deserve it. My dad always worked super hard. He’s just unlucky.”

Patricia nods sympathetically.

“Well!” she says. “You can have some fun tonight, anyway. Did you bring clothes to change into?”

“No . . .” I say, looking down at my jeans and t-shirt. “I was gonna wear this.”

“To the beach?” She shakes her head at me, then grabs me by the hand and pulls me toward her bedroom. “Come on, you dummy. You can borrow something of mine.”

Patricia’s closet is as nicely organized as the rest of her apartment. She flips through the hangers, pulling out a few items to hold them up in front of me, then putting them back again. Eventually she takes out a printed romper that reminds me of the pillows on her couch.

“Put that on,” she orders.

“Uh-uh,” I shake my head. “No offense, but those onesie things remind me of something a toddler would wear. Also, how do you pee once it’s on?”

“You just pull it down,” Patricia laughs.

“Like, all the way?”

“Yes.”

“So I’m totally naked?”

“Basically.”

“How am I going to do that down on the beach?”

“You just . . . sometimes you have to suffer to look sexy,” Patricia informs me.

“That doesn’t sound like a great trade-off.”

“Not even for Nero?” she says, giving me a mischievous look.

Man, she is really not going to let that die.

“Especially not for him,” I say.

“Bullshit!” Patricia says. “I know there’s something going on with you two. You’re coming to parties all of a sudden. He’s saving you from cops . . .”

I press my lips together, like that’s going to suddenly help me become a better liar.

“Out with it!” Patricia says.

This is not a friendly glass of wine. She’s a goddamn CIA interrogator.

“Fine!” I shout, cracking like I’m being waterboarded. “We did kiss.”

“I knew it!” she whispers, eyes alight with glee.

“But that’s it!” I hastily add. “And it’s probably never happening again.”

“Probably . . .” Patricia says.

“Most likely. Almost definitely.”

“Right.” She grins. “And?”

“And what?”

“Does he taste like cherry pie?”

“No,” I laugh. “He smells amazing though . . .”

“God, I know . . .” Patricia groans. “I tried his jacket on once in high school. I wanted to live inside it forever . . .”

“His sweat is like catnip. It makes my head spin.”

It feels good to admit this to someone.

Patricia is loving it—discovering that I do have feelings after all. Every once in a while.

“That’s it,” she says. “We’re going all the way tonight. You’re going to look fucking gorgeous.”

I let her pull me into the bathroom. She spends almost an hour on my hair and face.

The hair is the trickiest bit.

“Do you use a pre-shampoo treatment?” Patricia asks me.

“Like . . . brushing it?” I say.

“Sweet baby Jesus, please tell me you don’t brush your hair.”

“I mean . . . I kinda have to.”

“Oh my god. A wide-tooth comb, woman, never a brush. What about your deep conditioner? And do you use a satin-wrap at night?”

“I use Suave shampoo . . .”

Patricia gasps like I’ve shot her.

“You’re KILLING me,” she hisses.

With a lot of leave-in conditioner, and an infinite amount of patience, Patricia manages to tame my mane and turn it into something that actually looks intentional—or at least, less electrocuted.

She spends a long time on my face, too, moisturizing my skin and shaping my brows before she even starts applying makeup.

As she rubs the moisturizer under my eyes and across my cheeks with smooth, steady strokes of her thumb, I could almost cry. I’ve never been taken care of like this. It’s so gentle, and so loving.

“What’s wrong?” Patricia says.

“Sorry,” I sniff. “I just . . . uh . . . my mom never showed me how to do my hair and all this stuff.”

Patricia puts down the bottle of moisturizer and hugs me.

“Sorry,” I say again. “I know this is stupid. I’m an adult, I could have learned it myself . . .”

“It’s seriously no problem,” Patricia says. “Just please, show me how to change the oil in my car, because I haven’t done it since I bought it.”

“Deal,” I say, hugging her back a little too hard.

“Alright,” Patricia says finally, when she’s finished working on my face. “Take a look.”

She turns me around to face the mirror.

It’s funny, because I don’t look so different—it’s still me. Just a version of me that glows like a fucking angel. A hint of shine on the lips and cheeks, a little swipe of eyeliner, and a mane of soft, spiraling curls, dark at the roots, fading down to a sun-kissed caramel at the ends.

Even the romper looks pretty damn cute. It hangs off my shoulders, leaving them bare, with patterned bands of green, blue, and cream that look pretty and summery, without being too bright.

Patricia lends me sandals and little beaded hoop earrings, until suddenly I’ve got an actual outfit.

Then Patricia gets herself ready, which takes a quarter of the time with no less stunning results. She puts on a loose white summery top with shorts that make her legs look about a mile long, and pulls her hair up in her signature high ponytail.

“Okay, damn,” I say. “Why are you so good at making people look hot?”

“I know!” Patricia grins. “I missed my calling as a celebrity stylist.”

We drive Patricia’s car over to Osterman Beach. It only takes a few minutes, since it’s right on the opposite side of Lincoln Park. It’s almost midnight by now, and I’m confused because usually the public beaches are closed by this time. Not to mention the fact that bonfires and alcohol are banned at all times.

“Aren’t we going to get kicked out?” I say to Patricia.

“Nope,” she shakes her head. “Miles Kelly is throwing the party. His dad is the Super of the Parks Department. As long as we don’t murder anybody, we’ll be fine. And even then . . . depends who does the murdering.”

Sure enough, even though the long stretch of cool sand is deserted, nobody stops us walking down to the water. I can see the bonfire already blazing out of its cubby of sand—at first, a distant torch, and then as we draw closer, a beacon that shows the silhouetted figures clustered around.

I look back toward Lincoln Park. From the water, you see three distinct vistas layered on top of each other—the beach, then the leafy green park behind, and beyond that, the jutting fingers of the skyscrapers in the downtown core. It looks odd, like the three different views don’t belong together.

It’s equally strange to see the beach so empty. I can hear the waves crashing gently on the sand. I can see faint stars in the black half-dome of the sky.

It’s difficult to recognize anybody around the fire. Everybody looks orange and glowing, only parts of their faces illuminated. Levi and Sione stand out, because Levi’s blond hair is impossible to miss, and so is Sione’s bulk. I’m guessing the figure next to them is that idiot Pauly. When I spot Ali Brown, I wave to her.

She ambles over to Patricia and me.

“Drink?” she says, offering us each a Heineken.

“Thanks,” Patricia says, popping the caps off with her keys.

“You look different,” Ali says, gazing at me with her dreamy eyes.

“Oh, thanks,” I say. “Patricia dressed me up . . .”

“No, not the clothes,” Ali says. “It’s your face. You look excited.”

I had just been scanning the rest of the partygoers, searching for Nero. I blush, embarrassed that I was being that obvious.

I don’t see him anywhere. Though I do see that Russian guy that Bella was dating—Grisha Lukin. He’s crouched down on the sand, playing some dice game with a couple other guys. It might be a drinking game, or else he’s taking shots to cheer himself up when he loses.

“Nobody’s Love” is playing on a Bluetooth speaker. People are sitting on sand-dusted logs, others on spread-out Mexican-style blankets. A couple of girls dance in a mellow sort of way, just swaying to the music.

The vibe is peaceful. Maybe because Nero isn’t here, nor Bella either. Only Beatrice, who seems a lot less aggressive, stripped of the rest of her squad. She actually sends a little wave in Patricia’s and my direction.

One of the girls brought a pack of marshmallows. Beatrice tries to roast one in the bonfire, but the flames are too high, and it instantly incinerates. She shrieks and swings the stick out of the flames, flinging the charred gooey mess in the direction of Levi and Sione. It barely misses Levi’s shoe, landing in the sand right next to his foot.

“Watch it,” he growls at Beatrice. “Or I’ll throw you in the fuckin’ lake.”

“Sorry,” she cringes.

Levi looks like he’s in a sour mood. I don’t know about what. He’s sprawled out on a blanket, not talking, just glowering at everybody else. Sione tries to make some comment to him, and Levi doesn’t even bother to reply.

Ali sits down on the lid of a cooler. She has one of those little plastic bottles of bubble solution, and she’s blowing bubbles away from the bonfire, out over the dark, smooth sand.

I sit down next to her.

“Wanna try?” she says. She hands me the bubble wand.

I haven’t used one of these since I was a little kid. It’s harder than I expect to create a steady stream of perfect bubbles like Ali is making.

“You’re blowing too hard,” she laughs. “Look.”

She takes the wand back, pursing her lips and blowing a slow, steady, and gentle breath of air into a dozen round, glossy bubbles that go spinning away over the sand.

“How’s your week been going?” I ask her.

“Good,” she says. “It was my birthday on Tuesday.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing,” she says serenely. “I went for a walk by myself in Lincoln Park. It was perfect.”

“Levi didn’t take you out?”

She laughs. “No. He said we’d go for dinner, but then his brother called, and they got in a big fight. And he didn’t want to go anymore.”

“What were they fighting about?” I ask, casually.

“Oh . . . his brother is coming back from Ibiza.”

“So?”

“So he wants his house back.”

“I thought Levi owned that house?”

“No,” Ali says patiently. “The other one.”

I frown, confused. Ali is such a conundrum, because she’s strangely innocent and seems to say whatever comes into her head. But she also seems to assume that I already know what she’s talking about, when in fact I have no fucking idea.

I want to keep talking to her, but I can see Levi watching us with a malevolent expression on his face. Catching my eye, he motions me over with a jerk of his head.

I get up reluctantly, joining him on his blanket.

“What’s up?” I say.

“Why are you talking to Ali?” he demands.

“Uh . . . because she’s cool?” I say.

“You know she used to dance at Exotica.”

“Yeah, she mentioned that.”

“That’s where I met her.”

“Good for you,” I say, trying to sound sincere. The idea of Levi hitting on Ali by shoving dollar bills in her thong is not at all romantic to me.

“I saw your mom there, too,” Levi says. “Before she quit.”

My skin prickles with anger and disgust.

I don’t give a shit that my mom used to strip, or whatever else she got into. That’s her choice. What I fucking despise is how everyone tries to use it as a weapon against me—to shame me and degrade me.

“She was really hot,” Levi says, an ugly smile on his face. “Hotter than you.”

“I know that,” I say stiffly. Everybody always said how beautiful my mom was. She wanted to be an actress when she was young. She wanted to go down in history as one of those timeless faces, like Sophia Loren or Ava Gardner.

Instead she got pregnant with me.

I’m not angry at her for abandoning me. She was sixteen years old—way younger than I am now. Younger than Vic, even. Just a kid.

I’m mad because she never came back. I have to hear about her from shitheads like Levi. I have to know she’s still here in Chicago. I have to wonder if she’s okay. And I have to wonder why she doesn’t ever call me anymore. Is she ashamed? Is it painful for her? Or does she just not care?

Levi is still smiling at me in that cruel way.

Why do men enjoy hurting women? Why does he feel good making me feel low?

“I have your money,” I say, handing him the wad of bills Schultz gave me.

“Good,” Levi says, passing it over to Sione. “I’m glad to see we’re not going to have a problem.”

Not right this second, anyway.

“You have any Ex left?” Levi asks.

“A little.”

“Let me see it.”

I take the baggy out of my pocket—the one Schultz told me to keep in case I needed it. There are about twelve pills inside.

“Good.” Levi nods again. “Take it.”

I stare at him.

“Take it where?” I say stupidly.

Levi sits up a little straighter, the smile falling off his face. His eyes are boring into mine. His pupils are tiny dark pinpricks in the expanse of his pale blue irises.

“Take one. Right now,” he says.

I try to swallow, my mouth dry.

“Why?” I say.

“Because I don’t fucking trust you.”

My heart is beating fast, but my breathing is slow. I’ve never taken a single drug in my life besides a few puffs of weed. Mostly because I was trying to be responsible. But also because this stuff really freaks me out. I don’t like not being in control of myself. Not to mention, I have no idea where Levi gets it. There could be rat poison in here, for all I know.

“I’m not into Molly,” I say weakly.

“I don’t give a FUCK what you like,” Levi hisses. “Take one right now, or you’ll fucking regret it.”

I cast a swift glance around at the group. Nobody’s looking at me. Nobody’s coming to my rescue. Patricia is in conversation with Ali. Beatrice is dancing with the other girls. The only person paying any attention to me at all is Sione, who stands a few feet away, silently keeping watch in case Levi needs him. He’s not going to be any help to me—he’d probably shove this whole baggy down my throat, if Levi gave the order.

“Okay . . .” I say hesitantly.

I take out one yellow pill. It’s hard and chalky, like an aspirin.

I put it on my tongue, washing it down with the dregs of my Heineken.

“Open your mouth,” Levi whispers.

I open my mouth and stick out my tongue, showing that I swallowed it.

Levi laughs, breaking the tension.

“Alright,” he says. “Go have some fun.”

I try to laugh, too, but I can’t even smile properly. I get up from the blanket, stumbling away from him.

Oh shit, oh shit.

I have no idea what’s about to happen to me. I really don’t know anything about Molly, which is ironic since I’m supposed to be one of Levi’s army of dealers. How long does it take to kick in? Can I go hide somewhere and puke it up before anything happens?

I’m already feeling anxious and sweaty, but I don’t know if that’s from the drug or just nerves.

Jesus, why do people do this for fun?

I’m freaking the fuck out.

Patricia grabs my arm.

“Hey! What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I just . . . uh, can I talk to you for a second?”

“Sure. What do you—”

I was going to ask Patricia what the hell I should do. But at that moment I’m distracted by the sight of Bella Page joining Grisha and his friends on the opposite side of the fire. Grisha slings his arm around Bella’s shoulder as soon as he sees her, apparently not aware that she was out on a date with Nero the other day.

I’m not interested in ratting her out. Actually, there’s just one thing I want from Bella.

“Never mind,” I say to Patricia. “Let’s go talk to Bella.”

Patricia stares at me like I’ve lost my mind.

“What? Why would we want to do that?”

“Just humor me, okay?” I say.

Sighing, Patricia trudges across the sand with me, making our way toward the little knot of people.

“Hey! It’s Mario Andretti!” Grisha says as we approach. He laughs and holds out his fist to me for a bump, apparently not holding any grudge about my race against Bella.

Bella is less pleased. She frowns at me, probably thinking she can’t go one damn place in this city without seeing me.

Well, she’s right. I’m going to be all up in her face until I get what I want.

“Hey, Bella!” I say, with false friendliness. “How was your lunch the other day?”

Her eyes get big and her cheeks flush, as she realizes I could blow up her relationship with Grisha if I wanted to.

“It was great,” she says, forced to be civil.

“What lunch?” Grisha asks.

“Bella and I bumped into each other outside her dad’s office,” I say, cheerfully. “I was eating at River Roast.”

“Love that place,” Grisha says. Turning to Bella, he says, “You should have invited me!”

“I didn’t think you’d want to meet my dad just yet,” Bella says awkwardly.

“Parents love me.” Grisha grins. “I’m very charming,”

“My father doesn’t like anybody,” Bella says seriously. Her face looks sad, like that includes herself.

Not allowing myself to feel pity for her, I reach behind her and twine my fingers in a couple strands of her hair. With a quick tug, I pull them out, making Bella yelp and spin around like a bee stung her.

“Ouch!” she yells. “What the hell?”

“Sorry,” I say, vaguely. “I thought there was a hair on your shirt. Guess it was still attached.”

Bella narrows her eyes at me, silently fuming. She knows I’m fucking with her, but she can’t say anything in case I wreck her stupid lunch story.

I tuck the hairs into my pocket, hoping that I got enough of them to serve my purpose, and that they won’t be ruined by sitting in the pocket of a romper for a few hours. I really don’t know how all this forensic stuff works. I could ask Schultz, if he wasn’t such a dick.

At that moment, the strangest thing happens to me.

I’m hit with a wave of warmth and relaxation.

All of a sudden, the night seems ten times prettier than it was before. The movement of the water lapping against the shore looks peaceful and rhythmic. I hear every crackle of the fire behind me. The reflected light looks beautiful on the faces of the people around me. Their eyes are sparkling, and their teeth shine brightly every time they smile.

I feel a rush of love for all these people, even the ones I barely know. I look at Patricia, and I think how much I admire her—she’s strong and intelligent and hardworking. It was incredibly kind of her to dress me up so nice tonight, to let me borrow her clothes. I wish I would have known her better in high school.

Then I look at Bella, and I think she really is beautiful. I didn’t want to admit it before, but there are some similarities between her face and my brother’s. Her big blue eyes can be sad and vulnerable just like Vic’s. Those pretty, thick lashes are just the same. They remind me of when Vic was little and so, so sweet. They make me feel nostalgic and wistful.

Bella’s always been awful to me, but all of a sudden, I see her behavior as a reflection of her own pain, directed at me but not having anything to do with me—not really. Once I can separate those two things, it doesn’t hurt me anymore. It just makes me realize how badly she must be hurting inside, to lash out like that all the time.

I feel a compulsion to share that thought with her. To be totally honest.

“Bella,” I say. “I wish you and I could be friends. I don’t think we’re actually that different. I think you’re smart and determined. And I think you’ve been through some rough shit, the same as me. I bet we have a lot in common, despite appearances.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Bella says with a horrified expression.

Her disgust at the idea of us being anything like each other makes me giggle. I’m drifting in a cloud of peacefulness. She can’t upset me at all.

“I was jealous of you . . .” I say to her. “You had money and friends. But your dad sucks. And I’ve got a great dad . . . but he’s really sick. I guess I just realized everybody has something tormenting them . . .”

Bella is speechless. Her mouth is hanging open. I can tell she’s trying to figure out if this is some new strategy on my part, some new way to get at her. Every interaction we’ve ever had is combative, so she doesn’t know how to process this at all.

Patricia grabs my arm and pulls me away from Bella.

“Dude, what is up with you?” she whispers.

I laugh. It’s funny because even though Patricia’s pulling on my arm kind of hard, it actually feels good . . .

I try squeezing her arm, and that feels good too, the way my fingers kind of sink into her skin.

“What are you doing?” Patricia says.

I laugh even harder at the baffled expression on her face.

I’m having so much fun. I don’t think I’ve ever actually had fun at a party before. It’s always been shades of awkwardness. Now I couldn’t feel awkward if I tried. I don’t care whatsoever about what happens. I’m just peaceful and interested in everything.

Everything looks lovely. Ali is still blowing bubbles from atop the cooler. The stream of bubbles looks like translucent gems, floating on the wind.

I follow the bubbles along, until my eye is drawn to the parking lot where Nero’s Mustang is just pulling in.

“Look!” I say to Patricia happily. “Nero’s here!”

I start marching off toward his car.

“Uh, I don’t think you should go talk to Nero right now . . .” Patricia says.

“I’m fine!” I tell her blithely.

I’m hurrying across the sand toward Nero’s car. It’s hard to hurry, because my whole body feels limp and relaxed, in a dream-like state.

Nero is just stepping out of the vehicle. His silhouette stands out starkly against the streetlights behind him. I see his tall frame. Broad shoulders, strong legs in his tight jeans. He turns to the side and I see his thighs flexing, and the curve of his ass, which is as lean and powerful as the rest of him.

A surge of lust almost knocks me off my feet.

I’m aware on some level that the pill Levi made me take has kicked in. But here’s the thing—the Molly is not manufacturing emotions where none existed before. Instead, it’s like a key, turning the locks on every door inside of my brain. It’s flinging those doors wide open, letting everything I’d shut away come pouring out all at once.

When I walk up to Nero, it’s with the intention of throwing myself on him. I need him. Desperately. If I don’t get him, I’ll die.

He catches sight of me, and he turns to face me fully. He runs his hand through his hair, to push it back from his face. This gesture seems to take an endless amount of time. I see the ink-black strands of hair sweeping through his fingers, some escaping to fall down over his eyes again. I see his straight, dark brows drawing together. Those steel-gray eyes focusing on me. He bites his full bottom lip and releases it, a movement both uneasy and infinitely sexual.

“I was hoping you’d be here,” I say.

I would usually never say anything so vulnerable. But with whatever the fuck this is coursing through my veins, I’ve lost the ability to hide. I’m compelled to be honest.

“Yeah?” Nero says, surprised.

“Yes. That’s why I came.”

“I thought you were mad at me. Because I was with Bella.”

“It hurt my feelings for a minute,” I admit. “But I know why you were at the bank.”

He’s staring at me, trying to figure out what the hell is going on.

“Are you . . . going to tell anyone?”

“No,” I say simply.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t give a shit what you do. I only care . . . how you feel about me.”

Nero frowns. “What’s going on with you?” he says.

“Levi made me take Molly.”

He lets out a surprised snort, like he thinks I might be joking.

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you okay?” he says. “Let me look at you.”

He puts his hand on the side of my face and tilts up my chin so he can look in my eyes.

The moment his fingers touch my face, I feel an intense swoop of pleasure, like his fingertips are stroking down raw nerve. It’s a rush of warmth and sensuality, that seems to leave visible sparks in its path.

“Oh yeah,” he says, looking into my dilated pupils. “You’re high as fuck.”

He leans into his car, pulling out a bottle of water.

“You better drink this.”

He twists off the cap. I drink down half the bottle. It tastes delicious and refreshing, even though it’s not cold.

“You want me to take you home?” he says.

“No,” I say dreamily. “It makes me sad being at home. I want to spend time with my dad, but also, I want to cry every time I see him. I can’t stand it.”

“What’s wrong with your dad?” Nero asks sharply.

“Lung cancer.”

“Oh,” Nero says. There’s real anger and sympathy in his voice. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that.”

He seems to be searching for what to say or what to do. I can tell he feels uncomfortable and helpless, and that makes him even angrier.

Usually, that would make me feel awkward too, and one of us would say something stupid that would offend the other person. But right now, nothing can offend me. I feel like I’m seeing things in a completely different way. I understand Nero, and I understand myself.

“Do you want to go for a walk or something?” Nero says, desperately.

“Yeah,” I say. “I would.”

We walk along the lakeshore, away from the bonfire. We’re walking right along the waterline on the wet sand. I’ve taken off my sandals and Nero left his shoes behind, so the cold water laps against our bare feet. For me, this feels utterly incredible. Nero doesn’t seem to mind it, either.

For once in my life, I’m talking openly and freely without holding anything back. I’m telling Nero absolutely everything. About my dad and my brother, the fact that I’m flat fucking broke and I have no idea how I’m going to pay for Vic’s school or my dad’s treatment.

I even tell him about my mom. How I miss her so badly. And then I hate myself for missing her, because I know I shouldn’t care when she obviously doesn’t give a fuck about me. And how I feel guilty for having that hole in my heart, when my dad has always tried to make our family complete, with or without her.

We’ve walked far enough from the fire and the city lights that it’s almost completely dark. I can’t really see Nero’s face anymore. That removes the last shred of reserve. I feel safe telling him anything.

We sit down on the sand and I rest my back against his body to keep warm.

“If I lose my dad, I won’t have anything,” I tell Nero. “He’s the only person who ever tried to take care of me. I’ll have to help Vic all on my own. And I’m not that great of a sister. I don’t even have my own life figured out, how the fuck can I tell Vic what he should do?”

Nero is quiet for a long time. Long enough that I think I’ve said too much.

Then, finally, he says, “My mom got sick when I was little. My father thought it was a flu. She was up in their bedroom. He told us all to leave her alone and let her rest. I didn’t listen, though. I wanted to show her a pocketknife my uncle gave me. So I snuck in there.”

I can feel his heart beating hard, against my back. I’m silent, picturing Nero as a boy, already too handsome in a way that would be unusual and almost frightening in a child.

“I went up to her room. She was lying in bed. Very pale, not breathing normally. I felt . . . afraid. I thought I should leave. But she saw me and motioned for me to come over to her. She had . . . very pretty hands. She was a concert pianist.”

He swallows hard, his throat making a clicking sound.

“I lay down on the pillow by hers. She tried to brush my hair with her fingers. Which she did all the time. But this time, she couldn’t seem to move her hand right, and her fingers got tangled. I pushed her hand away, because I was scared. Her hand was clammy, and her breath smelled like metal.”

His arms are tightening around me, squeezing me too hard. I don’t say anything to interrupt him.

“I kept thinking I should go get my father. But I knew I’d be in trouble for waking her up, when she was supposed to be sleeping. Then all of a sudden, she started choking. Not out loud, though. Silently. I was right there, so I could see her face. Her mouth was open, without any sound coming out. Her body was jerking. I kept thinking I had to yell for my father, I had to get up and run down and grab him. But I was frozen in place. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even shut my eyes. I was just staring into her face while the blood vessels burst in her eyes. I didn’t understand what was happening, that she was suffocating. She looked possessed, with the whites of her eyes all bloody. It was horrible. And then she died, and I still didn’t move. I couldn’t move or speak at all, or make the tiniest sound. I just watched and let it happen. I let my mother die.”

I turn around to face Nero, to see his face as best I can.

In the darkness, I can only see the gray gleam of his eyes and the wetness on his cheeks.

I have to feel my way to kiss him. I kiss him softly, tasting the salt on his lips.

“That wasn’t your fault,” I say.

I kiss him again. And then I repeat, “That wasn’t your fault, Nero.”

I’m hoping that after all the things I told him tonight, with total honesty, he’ll know I’m telling the truth right now.

For a moment he seems frozen, unable to respond to me.

Then he kisses me back, deeply and intensely.

All my senses are heightened to a fever pitch. I can feel his lashes tickling my cheek, his tongue tangled up with mine, his fingers thrust in my hair.

I’m cold, because the heat of the day is finally leeching away. I pull Nero’s shirt up over his head so I can run my hands over his warm flesh. I kiss his neck, I run my tongue down his throat, all the way down his chest.

I can taste the salt on his skin. It seems to burst against my tongue with visible sparks. The smoothness of his skin is incredible – it would almost be like a girl’s, except there’s nothing feminine about Nero. His energy is wild, angry, vengeful, animalistic . . . but never feminine.

Nero comes alive in response. He pulls down the top of my jumper and presses his bare chest against mine, holding me tight. Then he runs his hands over my breasts, feeling their shape without really being able to see them, as if he were blind.

“Fucking hell, Camille,” he groans. “Your body is unreal.”

I laugh. I can’t help it.

“You thought I was a boy under the coveralls?”

“No,” he growls, “I saw you that one day in the garage. I knew you were hiding the most gorgeous fucking breasts imaginable.”

He takes them in his mouth, flicking the nipples with his tongue until they harden to aching points of flesh. He sucks on them in turn, going back and forth between them as the sensation builds and builds in waves.

Now I realize why MDMA is called Ecstasy. The heightening of physical pleasure is acute and extreme. Even the smallest things become insanely pleasurable—Nero’s hand sliding down the outside of my arm, or his fingers twining in mine. Things that would already be sexual become near-orgasmic. I want him to suck on my breasts forever. It is so achingly good that all I can do is moan and writhe against him, grabbing the back of his head and pressing his face harder into my breasts.

Nero pulls the romper all the way down so I’m completely naked. Then he grabs me by the hips and buries his face in my pussy.

I’m not a virgin. I’ve hooked up with a couple guys before. But what I’m learning is that Nero possesses skills on an entirely different level. I thought that girls threw themselves at him for aesthetic reasons. What I didn’t know is that he’s a master of sex. It’s no wonder that women turn into desperate Ophelias when he moves on—after five minutes of this, I think I’m completely addicted. I don’t know how I’ll live without it.

He’s using his fingers, lips, and tongue in ways I never imagined. He’s gentle, yet intent. Seeking out all my most sensitive areas, then teasing and tormenting them until I could almost sob with pleasure. He’s licking my clit, the folds of my pussy, and even my ass.

When he ventures down there, I try to squirm away, but he holds me pinned with those big, strong hands, forcing me to let him put his tongue absolutely everywhere he wants to go. And that part of my body that I never even imagined as sexual, suddenly seems to be made of a thousand pleasure receptors, just waiting for the right kind of touch. It’s kinky and naughty and outrageously intimate.

He moves his tongue back up to my clit, using his fingers to apply just the slightest amount of pressure to my ass. He’s not penetrating me with his finger, just rubbing his thumb over that tight little bud, which has become as slick and wet as the rest of me. It intensifies all the other sensations, creating pleasure in an entirely new way.

He slides two fingers into my pussy, increasing the pressure of his tongue against my clit. I’m rolling my hips against his fingers and tongue, so wildly stimulated that I barely even have the breath to moan anymore.

I look up into the dark sky and I see much more than stars—I see streaks of light like a meteor shower. It’s like rain made of lightening. I don’t know if it’s real or imagined, and I can’t ask Nero because he’s more than busy. All I know is that the light seems to rush across the sky as the orgasm finally explodes inside of me. It’s an arc of bright white brilliance, so dazzling and intense that I could cry.

My legs are shaking, my whole body is shaking so hard that my teeth chatter together.

“Oh my god,” I whisper. “What the fuck did you do to me . . .”

Nero is pulling my clothes back on my body, trying to find my sandals in the dark. He gets me entirely dressed again, before I think to say, “Don’t you want to keep going?”

“Of course I do,” he growls. “I feel like my cock is going to rip through my pants. But I’m not doing anything else until you’re sober.”

“I’m totally lucid!” I tell him.

“That’s not the same thing as sober.”

I try to kiss him again, but he stops me.

“Camille,” he says. “I want you. But not . . . not like I usually do. Not to just fuck and get off.”

Before, I would have thought that was an excuse. But I felt the way he kissed me, the way he touched my body. I know Nero wants me as badly as I want him.

He’s exercising self-control. Something I couldn’t do to save my life right now.

“I’m going to take you home. Tomorrow . . . if you want to call me . . .”

“I do,” I say.

“We’ll see how you feel in the morning.”

I’m too limp to argue.

He half walks, half carries me back to his car.

And I let him take me home, my body and brain still flushed with pleasure.