Page 14 of Savage Lover

“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.

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