Page 58 of His Passerotta

I pull out a card and breathe through the lead in my throat when I read the sloppy handwriting.

Told you I’d figure something out. I’ll call you tonight.

PS Sorry about the last one.

— A

My eyes water as I hug the note to my chest.

This is the man my brother wants to kill. The man I’ve had a crush on for months. The one man in my life I’ve allowed myself to develop feelings for. The same man who, just last night, kissed me in a way I’ve barely been able to stop thinking about.

I can’t let that happen.

The track phone alarm goes off, telling me it’s time to go to my kiosk job at the mall. I set the note down, rub my eyes, and get ready to leave. Normally, I dread this job. It’s boring, and customer service gigs suck in general.

But today, I don’t dread it. Who knows, maybe I’ll finally have something to distract me from this shitfest.

Leaving the new phone on the counter, I head out the door.

14

BAILEY

One hour.

One more hour of this hell, and I can go home. It’s been dead today at the kiosk, but worse than that, a guy about a half hour ago asked if I was a hooker. Not exactly, more like suggested I take him up on a not-that-generous offer, but it feels the same.

That’s happened several times in my life—none of which I took the proposal—especially when I was a teenager, but at least those times I was slumming it looking for easy work on the street. But this time? A fucking mall kiosk? Do I scream desperate, for fucks sake?

Fuck that guy. Honestly, right now, fuck all men. I’m too tired for this shit. It hasn’t been a good day.

I pick up the smoothie a friend working the food court hooked me up with, but it still isn’t enough. I need food. Real food that doesn’t spike my blood sugar just to make me crash again. It was low earlier, but now, I think I’m just cranky. And hungry. And tired. And stressed, so stressed.

The phone Anthony gave me has been on my mind all day, and I regret not activating it before I left the house. I keep telling myself he’s okay, that the Lost Boys—or whatever my brother’s gang is called—wouldn’t just randomly attack him. They’d want to make sure it looked like the Irish did it, and that would take time to plan… Right?

Right. That has to be right.

The empty straw makes a gurgling protest when I run out of smoothie to suck, so I set the cup down at my little post. I pull out the track phone to check the time, and when I see it’s only been a couple of minutes, a long, angry sigh puffs my cheeks.

“Would you take forty for these?”

My spine snaps straight as I startle at the feminine voice and fling around to face a young teenage girl. “Shit.” I press my hand to my chest. “Sorry, you scared me.”

She nibbles on a piece of gum between her teeth, still holding the sunglasses. They’re a pair of Ray-Ban rip-offs, but they’re cute and would look good with her long blonde, wavy hair to frame them. Still not worth fifty bucks, though. The bright red frame doesn’t match enough clothing for me to justify that kind of expense.

“Umm, sorry. We don’t really bargain,” I say, wondering if the girl thinks I own this place. Eyeing her up, I’d say she’s probably fourteen, maybe fifteen.

She sucks the gum back behind her teeth and shrugs. “It’s cool. My brother makes me ask anyway. Says these places always try to fuck people.”

I rear back, surprised at the language. She looks like a princess with her perfect teeth and pearl necklace.

Her eyes flit around my face. “Dang, your makeup looks good. What do you use?”

A variation of drug store bullshit.

“Oh, a few brands. Nothing fancy.”

She squints and leans forward until I can smell the fruity bubblegum. “Gah, your eyes look awesome. Anytime I try smokey eyes, I look like Dracula’s whore.” She laughs, and I try to return it but only manage a bashful chuckle. I wish kids would just be kids. Whatever happened to pig tails and Dr. Pepper lip smackers?

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