“I’ve got some idea,” I growl.

I take her face between my hands and I kiss her. This time I do it slowly, so she could pull away if she wanted to. She stays completely still. She lets me run my tongue over her lips, and then thrust it into her mouth, tasting her. She tastes a little bit like beer, a little bit like Coca Cola, and a little bit just herself.

Her lips are soft and flexible under mine. The top and bottom lips are almost equally full.

This time it’s me who sneaks a look at her face up close. Her thick, dark lashes fan out against her cheeks. Her skin is smooth and clean. Her face is rounder than usual—not a supermodel oval. But that makes her look youthful, especially when her hair is loose. Especially when she isn’t frowning for once.

She smells like fresh rain and clean laundry. Her tongue massages mine—gently, softly.

She brings her hands up to my face, too, and I smell the last remnants of diesel on her skin. One of my favorite scents in the world—intoxicating and raw. It makes my heartbeat pound against my throbbing ribs.

I pull her down on top of me, trying not to groan at the pain in my ribs. We lay side by side on the narrow, lumpy mattress, still just kissing.

I’ve never kissed a girl like this, without trying to go further. I’m so wrapped up in how good it feels that I’m not pushing on to the next thing. I just want to taste and smell and touch her, just like this.

Maybe I’m still floating from that hit to the head, because I barely feel the floor beneath us. I feel wrapped up in the rain and her warm skin. I feel a rush of contentment that I haven’t known for years.

I don’t know how long it goes on. Maybe an hour or two. The time has no meaning, because it’s the only time that matters. If you could see my whole life laid out on a string, this would be the one bright bead. The one moment of happiness.

Then my hand brushes over her breast, accidentally, and she stiffens.

I don’t know if she’s pulling away, or if she liked it. But the moment is broken.

We’re both drawing back, staring at each other. Both confused.

The rain stopped. I didn’t notice it, when it happened. The room is utterly silent.

“I should go home,” I say.

I don’t know if I’m saying what I want, or what I think she wants.

She nods.

“Thanks. For . . . you know.” I gesture awkwardly at the bowl of rusty water.

Camille nods again, eyes darker than ever.

And that’s it. I leave. Wondering what the fuck is happening to me.

13

Camille

When Nero falls to the floor, Sione, Johnny Verger, and about five other guys start kicking and stomping him from all angles. Nero has more than a few enemies, eager to get their licks in while he can’t fight back.

Mason tries to intervene, jumping on Johnny from behind, but he’s no match for all of them.

I have to physically throw myself on top of Nero to get them to stop.

I do it on impulse, because I’m afraid they’re going to kill him. In fact, they look like they still want to, whether I’m in the way or not. But Levi backs me up.

“That’s enough,” he says to Johnny and the others.

He lets me haul Nero out of the party, out to my car. Probably because he doesn’t want to get in serious trouble with the Gallos.

“You gonna take him home?” Levi asks me.

He looks twitchy, like he thinks Dante Gallo might be back an hour later to set his whole house on fire.

“No,” I say. “I’ll take him to my place.”

I tell Levi that to put his mind at ease. But once I pull away from the curb, it doesn’t seem like such a bad idea. After all, I’m not exactly looking forward to facing the Gallos myself—Enzo scares the hell out of me, and Dante isn’t much better. Plus Nero’s in no state to defend me.

So I bring him back to my place and haul him up the stairs, which really isn’t an easy task. He’s heavy as hell, dead weight. Plus, wherever I put my hands, I can’t help noticing how hard his body is. Even unconscious, Nero is made of tense, lean muscle just about everywhere.

I lay him down on my bed and try to clean him up a little.

He’s an absolute mess. It’s almost like he wants to get his face caved in. Like he’s trying to destroy its beauty.

It won’t work. The cuts and bruises can’t hide what’s underneath.

With every bit of blood and grime I clean off his skin, I reveal another inch of that perfect face.

It’s funny how the most beautiful faces are atypical. Nero doesn’t look like Brad Pitt or Henry Cavill—he looks only like himself.

He’s got a long face, high cheekbones, a sharp jaw. The whites of his eyes and his white teeth gleam against his olive skin, whenever he speaks or looks your way. His eyebrows are straight black slashes directly above those light gray eyes—eyes that sometimes look bright as starlight, and sometimes as dark as the underside of a storm cloud. He has a broad nose, one that would almost be too big for his face. Except that it perfectly balances his full, soft lips. Lips that should be gentle. But are always twisted up in a sneer.

He’s got a shock of black hair, without a hint of brown in it. It falls over his eyes, then he tosses it back again. It’s an impatient, angry gesture, like he’s annoyed at his own hair, or anything else that dares to touch his face.

He dresses like James Dean, in a battered leather jacket that looks older than he is, torn up jeans, boots, or filthy Chuck Taylor’s.

That’s the Nero I’ve known for most of my life.

The one laying on my bed is a little different. For one thing, he’s sleeping. Passed out or knocked out, I’m not sure. So that intense look of anger is absent from his face. His features are relaxed. Almost peaceful.

The only other time I’ve seen him like that was when we were driving together in his car. Granted, we were fleeing from the cops. But it was the only time I’ve seen him that he almost looked happy.

His T-shirt is torn open from the fight. There’s a long gash across his chest. I clean that up, along with his face.

I notice that the skin on his chest is as smooth and hairless as the rest of him, and as deeply olive. I’m surprised to see that he isn’t covered in tattoos. Actually he doesn’t have any at all that I can see.

I wash his face clean. He groans as I touched the swollen parts of his face. It’s a pitiful sound.

I realize he really is in pain.

I never thought of Nero as someone who could feel pain like a normal person. He always seems to enjoy it.

I look at him lying there, and I think how young he is, really. Only twenty-five, like me. He always seemed so much older. Especially when we were in school together.

But he was only a kid back then. He’s barely an adult now.

He just grew up rough. Rougher than even I did.

The Gallos have money. But how old was he the first time somebody put a gun in his hand?

I look at that hand, curled up on his chest, trying to hold onto something. His knuckles are bloody and battered. His fingers are long, slim, and finely shaped.

I slip my hand into his just for an instant, to give him something to hold. I have long fingers, too. Our hands link together perfectly. Like fingers inside of a glove. Like they were made for each other.