“Bobby…” she whispers.
“It was his idea to tutor you,” I say, because I’m a prick.
Basher shoves me, but he can’t deny it. Itwashis idea. We needed someone in her school, and he had the master’s in computer science, so he bought some slacks and registered with the New York Board of Education. We laughed about it at the time. Then he actually started teaching Miss Priss quadratic equations and everything got a lot less funny.
Bobby presses a hand to his heart like he’s Romeo or something. “January, I mean it. I’m so sorry.”
I elbow his side. “Hey Basher, remember what she said about you in the confession box?”
January claps her hands to her mouth. She’s already learned it’s pointless to try and stop me. She braces herself for impact instead. Maybe she’s not so stupid after all. “You should have heard her go on about you, Bash. ‘He’s so nice, I hang around the library asking him about axels and shit just to see if he’ll talk to me.’”
Basher’s face is scarlet and he’s looking anywhere but at January.
“I wanted to know if she was rubbing her virgin kitty thinking about you. But they don’t let you ask questions when you’re the priest.”
Tears splash down January’s cheeks and into her tits. I could rub my dick through those tears. Make her taste them.
“How long have you been watching me?” she whispers.
“Years,” I say. “How do you think I know what your Zia Teresa looks like?”
Heavy footsteps pound down the stairs behind me. Adriano in a green Henley, heavy canvas pants, and boots. Looking, as always, like he shops exclusively at the military surplus store. I raise a hand. “Evening, brother.”
He ignores me, looking at Basher. “Tarp?”
“Here.” Basher bends and collects the plastic sheet.
There’s a strangled sound from January but Adriano doesn’t seem to notice. “Where’s Eli?”
“Still on his way,” I say. “You ready?”
He doesn’t reply. Adriano’s never been one for talking. At school, he was everyone’s pick for ‘most likely to shave his head, climb a cell tower and start gunning down strangers.’
January is looking at him like he’s Frankenstein come back to life. Which isn’t far from the truth. Adri’s not bad-looking, but he got cut in Bolivia. Now there’s a silvery scar from his right eye down his cheek. It doesn’t do his ‘serial killer’ vibe any favors. But even before the scar, he scared the shit out of girls. I used to have to give them an ounce of weed before they’d agree to fuck us both.
Adriano points to the bodyguard piled in the corner like firewood. “Awake?”
“Nope,” I say. “The girl is, though.”
Only then does Adri turn to take in the slumped figure of January Whitehall.
She stares back at him as though she’s going to puke. “You’re the janitor from my dance studio.”
Adriano’s lip curls, revealing his gold incisor. “Is that right?”
I laugh. “January confessed about you too, Adri. She felt bad about your fucked up face. She was too scared to say hello. It’s probably the tatts.”
Adriano looks down at his hands, covered in mementos to hate and revenge. “You feel sorry for me, girl?”
“No!” she squeaks, but there’s an unmistakable softness in her voice. Pity is something we can sense like blood. We exploit it in others; we conceal it in ourselves.
Adriano takes a step toward her. “You talked about my scars?”
“N-No.”
I laugh. That’s the thing about Adriano. No matter who you are, he’s fucking terrifying, which means you can always count on him to liven things up. It would be something to watch him fuck her. That does it for me sometimes, watching ugly and pretty get crushed together. And God how precious January would cry getting fucked by Adriano Rossi.
“Adriano,” Basher warns. “We’re waiting for Eli, remember?”
