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?”

I know girls love to gossip about the guys they fuck, and I know she just said that to be flirty, but I’m irritated all the same. It pisses me off when people talk about me. Even if it’s supposed to be a compliment.

Red hears the snarl in my voice. She falters, smile fading.

“Well, you used to date Sienna . . .”

“I didn’t date her,” I growl. “I let her suck my cock in the sauna once.”

“Yeah,” Red giggles. “That’s the night she told me about. She said you—”

“Why didn’t you text me when you got here?” a male voice interrupts.

A big, burly guy in a Bears t-shirt slings his arm around Red’s shoulder. He’s got one of those faces where everything is almost in the right place, but there’s just something off about it. A square jaw, but a long face. Straight nose, but eyes too deep-set on either side of it. This guy I do remember, because he’s a complete twat. His name is Johnny Verger.

He’s got two of his buddies with him, a couple other washed-up meatheads that probably played football with our boy Johnny once upon a time.

They’ve all been drinking while waiting on Red. I can smell the beer leeching out of their pores. Johnny most of all—he’s bleary-eyed and belligerent.

“I was just walking in,” Red says nervously.

“With Nero Gallo?” Johnny sneers.

“Maybe you should put her on a leash,” I say. “Then you can make sure she doesn’t talk to anybody else.”

“Why don’t you fuck off?” Johnny snarls at me. “She’s not interested.”

“I doubt you know what an interested girl looks like,” I reply.

Red glances over at me from under Johnny’s arms, her lashes giving that flirtatious little swoop again.

“See?” I say quietly “It’s that look. Like they want you to grab them and bend them over the nearest table.”

Johnny lets go of Red, glowering down at her. Red’s cheeks are burning as bright as her hair.

“What the fuck, Carly?” he demands.

“I wasn’t doing anything!” she says. But her eyes are flitting back to me, betraying every dirty little thought in her head.

Johnny shoves Red. She stumbles backward on her high-heeled boots, landing on her ass on the lawn.

“Hey!” she shrieks, tears springing into her eyes.

Nobody helps her up. Johnny and his buddies have their attention entirely fixed on me. I ignore her too, ‘cause I’m no white knight. She’s the one dating this asshole. She can deal with his temper tantrums on her own.

Apparently, Johnny is set on making their little spat into my problem.

“Keep your filthy fuckin’ hands off what’s mine,” he snarls.

“I didn’t touch her,” I say. “But if I wanted to, I sure as fuck wouldn’t ask your permission first.”

“Oh yeah, tough guy?”

Johnny is crowding into my space, trying to force me to back up. I’m staying still, watching him, just waiting for him to throw the first punch. He’s so big and so drunk that I’ll see it coming a mile away.

“Johnny . . .” one of his buddies says warningly.

“Yeah, I know who his dad is,” Johnny snarls. “I know his brothers, too. I’m not scared of a bunch of greasy gangsters. It’s not 1920 anymore.”

“Is it 1980?” I ask him. “ ‘Cause you look like that douche from Cobra Kai.”

I don’t know if Johnny gets the reference. It pisses him off anyway. He roars and swings a fist the size of a brick at my head.

I duck under it, then I flex my legs like pistons and drive my head directly upward into Johnny’s face. The top of my skull meets his nose with sickening force. In the roshambo of body parts, skull beats nose every time. The sound of the break is oddly hollow, like a baseball bat against a pumpkin. Blood comes flooding out both of Johnny’s nostrils, soaking the front of his Bears t-shirt in an instant.