Well then, Whitaker better just stay the fuck away.
“Okay,” Hopper says, dejected. “But I’m still gonna let Boone paint with me because he’s got good energy and a really big cat.”
Hopper’s friends gather around him, pulling him into a big hug as they chuckle.
“That sounds like a good compromise, Hop.”
“As long as Patch likes his cat, that sounds okay to me.”
“Never change, Hop.”
Heh. As if Hop would ever change.
17
MAVERICK
Professor Davi is tryingto kill me today, I’m sure of it. After he throws me on the floor for about the hundredth time does he say that my grappling technique is passable. Somehow, he makespassablesound like a real achievement.
I’ve burned so many calories my arms feel shaky. It’s a good thing I’ve got a protein bar at the bottom of my duffel—gridlock on Lamar is no joke this time of day.
As though there aren’t dozens of restaurants within a five-block radius, including that food truck park just up the road.
Mm. Tacos and churros. Yeah, that’s the ticket.
Besides, I can’t complain about being worked to the bone since I was the one who asked Professor Davi to amp up my training. I’ve had a lot ofpissed offto work out lately.
For one, I still haven’t been brought into the family business, even after it became clear that something huge went down the day Truett was kidnapped. They all came back a little worse for wear, and the only thing I could get out of them was that the problem had been solved, permanently.
After that, we went back to rooftop pool parties and not talking about whatever it is we’re not talking about.
Fine. I’m used to this bullshit. People assume I won’t understand because I have reading difficulties and because, unless I’m really, really focusing, processing conversations can sometimes be difficult.
What they don’t seem to get is that, yes, shit is hard, but since every fucking thing is hard, I’ve learned how to do the hard work.
Which is why I tripled down on trying to join Uncle Jake’s WhiteHat group. And because I’m good at doing hard shit, I created dozens of different accounts, providing a variety of different personas and skills until the mods found something they liked.
In the end, they approved user booneyruney819, which is…admittedly cringey.
Shut up. I was feeling nostalgic and a little drunk when I created that one.
Anyway, I’m pretty sure Jake thinks it’s really Boone who holds that account.
To my surprise, the group is not that bad. Sure, it’s full of basement nerds and weekend warriors, but no one’s in it for the money, or even the prestige. They’re just going after bad actors who are using the app to harm people. It pisses me off to think that no one in my family thought I’d be useful on any of those fronts.
I’m talking more and more with my cousins about what they can share about what they do. Rami thinks he sees a lot with his social media pull, but my accounts are at least ten times the size of his, and I see so much more. He’s helping Truett go after shitty influencers, which…I guess. But the influencers are like the little runners that grass sends out. They’re missing the entire fucking lawn.
I mean, yeah, the prison and law enforcement reforms of the last decade have been nothing short of a miracle, but money still trumps everything.
There are entire systems dedicated to catering to the whims of horrible rich people, and Rami’s little influencer op isn’t doing much to stop it.
Which is another reason I’m letting Professor Davi dial up the intensity of our training sessions. I don’t just want to be dangerous. I want to belethal.
He seemed happy to oblige, even though I think he’s trying to kill me first.
“I can barely raise my arms,” I whine, changing into my street clothes. “I hope you’re proud of yourself.”
Professor Davi, standing at the ready with his arms crossed behind his back, shakes his head. “No, Mav. You’re the one who needs to be proud of yourself.”
