Camille was trying to sneak away. My question pulls her up short. She turns around again, not quite meeting my eye.

“Yeah,” she says quietly.

“Is it a ‘77 LE?”

“Yes.”

“Same as Burt Reynolds.”

She smiles.

I haven’t seen Camille smile very often. I’m surprised how nice her teeth are, and how white they look against her tan skin and grease-streaked face.

“I have a Mercedes G-Wagon,” Bella says loudly.

Jesus Christ. She would. I bet it’s white with rose-gold rims and a bunch of shit hanging from the rear-view mirror.

The conversation goes on a few more minutes, but I’m rapidly getting bored of it.

Camille slaps back at Bella about her asshole father, which is fun to see. Even if it has zero effect—you can’t force Bella to self-reflect. She’s got about as much clarity as a fifty-foot oil well.

My lip starts throbbing again and I want to be done with all of them. I steal a swig of somebody’s liquor off the counter, then I ditch the girls, thinking I’ll challenge Mason to a game of Madden if he hasn’t gotten too blitzed to play.

Instead, I bump into Red on the stairs. She’s looking kind of weepy-eyed, reading something on her phone.

“How’s your ass?” I ask her.

“Bruised,” she says. “No thanks to you.”

“I’m not the one who shoved you. That was loverboy.”

“He’s such an asshole!” she cries, glaring at her phone once more, then shoving it in her purse.

I assume Johnny is bitching her out through text, wherever he wandered off to. Probably the hospital, if he cares about straightening his nose out.

“I know how you could get back at him . . .” I say.

I’m standing very close to Red—close enough to feel her breath on my arm. Invading women’s personal space is a great way to make your intentions clear. You get the scent of your pheromones right in their nose. It makes them go crazy, like a dog in heat.

Red looks up at me, eyes wide and lips parted. Her little tongue pokes out to moisten her lower lip.

“You’re trying to get me in trouble again . . .” she says.

She doesn’t say it like she’s telling me off. She says it like she’s begging me to keep going.

I bend my head to speak right into her ear.

“Well, I don’t want to get you in trouble. So here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to touch you. And you tell me when you want me to stop . . .”

I start at her knee, slowly sliding my hand up her inner thigh. Her legs are freshly shaved and silky smooth. Her flesh trembles under my fingertips.

I can feel her breath speed up as I slide my hand higher. She isn’t stopping me. In fact, she shifts her feet ever so slightly to spread her legs apart.

My hand goes under the hem of her skirt. Her inner thigh is warm and slightly damp, because it’s hotter than a Louisiana swamp on this staircase. The pounding music vibrates the walls.

My fingertips reach the edge of her panties. I pause to see if she’ll say anything . . . all I hear is her rapid little gasps against the side of my neck.

I tuck my fingers under the elastic of her panties, and find her velvety pussy lips, as smoothly shaven as her legs. I slide my index finger down the crevice of her lips, slick and wet though I’ve barely even touched her yet. Red lets out a desperate little mew.

She grabs my face and kisses me like she’s trying to swallow me whole. She tastes like wine coolers and lipstick. She’s darting her tongue into my mouth, splitting my lip open all over again.

I push my fingers inside of her and she groans into my mouth, grinding her body against mine.

“Take me upstairs,” she begs.

I grab her hand, leading her up the stairs to the closest bedroom. There’s already a couple inside, but they’re just making out on the bed, still fully clothed. I grab the guy by the back of his shirt and yank him up, shoving him out the door.

“Hey, what the hell!” he shouts.

The girl blinks up at me, mascara smeared and shirt half unbuttoned so I can see her generous cleavage above her lacy bra.

“Stay or get out,” I tell her.

She looks up at me for a second, then smiles. “I’ll stay.”

“Fine by me.”

I throw Red down next to her on the bed.

Then I close the door in the other guy’s face and lock it.

3

Camille

When I wake up in the morning, the sun is streaming through the rattan blinds in the little glassed-in porch I call a bedroom. Its brightness fills me with relief, like it’s going to wash away the nightmares of the night before.

Then reality crashes down on me. Those were no nightmares. I was absolutely pulled over on Goethe Street by a cop, who now has a backpack full of evidence in his trunk.

It’s 7:22 a.m. Vic is supposed to be at work by 8:00.

I stomp into his room, ripping the blanket off of him.

“Hey . . .” he groans, too hungover to even protest.

“Get in the shower,” I order.

He tries to roll over and put the pillow over his head. I snatch that away, too.

“If you don’t get up right now, I’m coming back with a pitcher of ice-water to dump on your head,” I tell him.

“Alright, alright.”

He rolls out of bed onto the floor, then stumbles out to our one and only bathroom.

I head out to the kitchen to make coffee.

There are only two bedrooms in our cramped little apartment. My dad has one and Vic has the other, which is tiny, windowless, and closet-less—probably meant to be an office, really. I sleep on the porch. My dad tried to weather-proof it, but it’s hotter than Hades in the summertime, and freezing in the winter. If it rains, my clothes get damp and my books swell up from the humidity.

Still, I like my room. I like the way the rain and sleet beat against the glass. On clear nights I can open the blinds and see stars mixed with city lights, all the way around.

I hear the shower sputter into life. Vic better actually be washing up and not just letting the water run while he brushes his teeth.

The coffee maker starts hissing as blessed dark brown wake-up juice dribbles down into the pot.

By the time Vic stumbles into the kitchen, hair damp and shoes untied, I’ve got toast and a poached egg waiting for him.

“Eat up,” I say.

“I don’t think I can,” he says, giving the food a nauseated look.

“Eat the toast at least.”

He takes half a piece, crunching it unenthusiastically.

He slumps in his chair, running a hand through his thick, messy hair.

“Hey, Mill,” he says, looking down at my feet. “I’m really sorry about last night.”

“Where did you get that shit?” I demand.

He squirms in his chair. “From Levi,” he mumbles.

Levi Cargill is the flash-ass drug dealer who owns the house we were at last night. He went to the same high school as me. Like most of the assholes at the party.

“You’re dealing for him?” I hiss, keeping my voice down because my dad is still sleeping, and I don’t want him to overhear.

“Sometimes,” Vic mumbles.