Page 18 of Savage Lover

My skin crawls. I hate being threatened. And I’m especially pissed that he’s doing it over some baggie of bullshit party drugs. There are people murdering each other every day in this city. He’s gonna rake me over the coals because a bunch of rich kids like to get high and dance around to shitty music?

“What do you expect me to do?” I say, through gritted teeth. “Wear a wire or something? I don’t know any serious criminals. Just a bunch of idiots who like to get high. And we’re not even friends.”

“Where did the Ex come from?”

“Levi Cargill,” I say without hesitation. I’ve got no problem throwing that guy under the bus after he recruited my underage brother to sell drugs for him. “He lives on—”

“I know where he lives,” Schultz says.

“If you already know who he is, what do you expect me to do?”

“Get close to him,” Schultz says. “Find out where he gets his product. Find the names of all his dealers and suppliers. Report back to me.”

“I’m not Inspector Poirot!” I cry. “I don’t know how to do any of that!”

“You’ll figure it out,” Schultz says with zero sympathy. He hands me a business card. On the back he’s written his personal cell number.

“Memorize that number. Get used to calling it,” he says. “We’re going to be seeing a lot of each other.”

I stifle a groan. I would like this to be the most I ever see of Schultz. Or Levi either, for that matter.

“And what if I can’t get any more information?” I ask him.

“Then you go to prison,” Schultz says coldly. “And your brother, too. Don’t forget, he had product in his pocket. He’s old enough to be charged as an adult.”

I press my lips together to keep from snapping at Schultz. Vic and I are just tools to him. He doesn’t care if he destroys us, as long as he gets another tally in his arrest book.

“Memorize that number,” Schultz tells me again.

“I’ll put it in my phone,” I say. So I can make sure never to pick up when you call.

“Perfect. You got any more of those sodas?” Schultz says, nodding to the half-empty can on the reception desk.

“No,” I lie. “Fresh out.”

Schultz chuckles. He knows I’m lying.

“Nice to see you, Camille,” he says. “Let’s do this again real soon.”

I stand there with my arms folded until he leaves.

When I head back into the garage, my dad says, “What did he want?”

“Nothing,” I say. “Directions.”

My father shakes his head. “Tourists.”

“Yeah.”

“At least he was a Cub’s fan.”

“That’s the only reason I talked to him.”

My dad laughs, which turns into a cough. The cough goes on a while, long enough that when he straightens up, his lips look a bit blue.

“You okay, Dad?” I ask him.

“Of course,” he says. “I might go lay down a while though. If you’ve got these brakes covered.”

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