Page 39 of Savage Lover

I nod to the people who actually bother to look in my direction.

Levi takes a long pull off his roll-up. His eyes already look glassy and bloodshot.

“Here,” I say, tossing him a wad of cash—my earnings from the race. “That’s for the pills my brother lost.”

Levi nods to the burly Samoan, who picks up the money and stows it away.

“You get that from Bella?” Levi snickers.

“From her boyfriend,” I say.

“He’s not her boyfriend. He’s just fucking her,” Levi laughs.

“Who is he?” I ask.

“Grisha Lukin.”

“What kinda name is that?”

“Russian,” Levi says. His gaze sharpens slightly. “You’re kinda nosy, huh?”

“Not really.” I shrug. “I just thought I knew most people in Old Town. I’ve lived here forever.”

“Yeah, but you don’t ever come out of your little shop,” Levi laughs. “I don’t think I ever saw you drunk in high school even. Now you’ll get your fun, though.”

He holds out the joint to me.

“No thanks,” I say.

“I’m not asking,” he snaps. “Sit down.”

I sit down on the couch next to him, trying to keep space between us without making it too obvious. He shoves the joint in my hand.

I take a pitiful little puff. Even that makes me cough. The thick, skunky taste fills my mouth and my head spins. I don’t like pot. I don’t like being out of control of myself.

“There you go,” Levi laughs. “Now you can chill the fuck out.”

It does make me relax—physically, at least. I sink back in the cushions, feeling mildly dazed and in less of a rush to get out of here.

I recognize the girl on the other side of me. Her name is Ali Brown. She was three years ahead of me in school. Her parents own the flower shop on Sedgewick.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey,” she replies.

She’s got straw-colored hair and freckles. She’s wearing a crop-top with no bra, and a pair of boy’s underpants with Superman logos all over them. She looks half asleep.

After a very long pause, she says, “I know you.”

“Yeah,” I say. “We both went to Oakmont.”

“No,” she says. “I saw your picture.”

She’s way more high than I thought. Still, to humor her, I say, “What picture?”

She pauses again, breathing shallowly. Then she says, “The one where you were eating ice cream on the pier.”

I stiffen. My dad had a picture like that. He took it when I was fourteen.

---