Page 5 of Savage Lover

“Get out of my face, before I call your parents,” I snap at him.

He smirks at me. “Good luck with that. They’re in Aruba right now.”

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll call the cops and report you for underage drinking.”

“Alright, alright, I’m coming,” Vic says blearily. “Lemme get my bag at least.”

He grabs his backpack out from under the pool table, almost tripping over his own feet in those ridiculous sneakers.

“Come on,” I say, impatiently hauling him along.

I drag him through the side gate, not wanting to walk through the house again and risk another meeting with Bella.

Once we’re back down on the sidewalk, I relax a little. I’m pissed at Vic for getting drunk though.

“You’re still going to work tomorrow,” I tell him. “I’m waking you up at seven, and I don’t care if you’re hungover.”

“Man, I hate that fuckin’ place,” Vic complains, shuffling along after me.

“Oh, you don’t like bagging groceries?” I snap. “Then maybe you should pull your act together and get a proper education, so you don’t have to do it the rest of your life.”

I stuff him into the passenger seat of the Trans Am, slamming the door to shut him in. Then I go around to the driver’s side.

“You didn’t go to college,” Vic says resentfully.

“Yeah, and look at me,” I say, gesturing to my filthy clothes. “I’m gonna be working in that shop forever.”

I pull away from the curb. Vic leans his head against the window.

“I thought you liked it . . .” he says.

“I like cars. I don’t like changing people’s oil and fixing their shit, then hearing them bitch and complain about the price.”

I turn onto Goethe, driving slowly because it’s getting late and the street isn’t very well lit.

Even so, Vic is starting to look a little green.

“Pull over,” he says. “I might puke.”

“Hold on a second. I can’t stop right—”

“Pull over!” he cries, jerking hard on the wheel.

“What the hell!” I shout, yanking the wheel straight again before we hit the cars lined up along the curb. Before I can find a good place to stop, red and blue lights flare up in my rear-view mirror. I hear the short whoop of a siren.

“FUCK!” I groan, pulling over to the side of the road.

Vic opens his door, leaning out so he can puke in the street.

“Pull it together,” I mutter at him.

Before I can do anything else, the officer has gotten out of his car and is knocking on my window, shining his flashlight in my face.

I roll down the glass, blinking and trying to moisten my dry mouth enough to speak.

“Have you been drinking tonight?” the officer demands.

“No, I haven’t.” I tell him, “Sorry, my brother is sick . . .”

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