Page 80 of Hunter's Hidden Camera
Oscar is now staring down at his hands, which are shaking.
I say, “You okay?”
“Nah, man,” he replies. “I just stabbed a dude in the neck! Do you think he’s dead? I hope he’s not dead.”
“I mean, I don’t know.”
“Hunter, I don’t wanna go to jail. I got relatives in jail. I swore up and down my whole life I wasn’t gonna be like them. I can’t get in trouble like that. But the thing I’m worried about most is, my mom would be so disappointed in me. Like, she and my dad went through a lot to get from Cuba to America. I mean, my dad died on the way here. You know that. And I don’t want my mom to think she came all the way to America for her son to end up locked up.”
“You’re not going to jail, Oscar,” I assure him. “That guy was gonna shoot me in my face. You were defending me.”
What I don’t say is that jail is probably the least of his worries. From what I can tell, Nikolai is some kind of big-time criminal, involved in drugs probably, maybe more. If he survives, I’m afraid of retaliation. If he doesn’t survive, then it sounds like he’s part of a shady organization that could very well come after Oscar, come after me. There’s no telling what they might do to settle the score.
As if my conscience weren’t stained enough, I keep feeling worse and worse about myself. My stupid hidden-camera project, my dumb porn “business”: it all led to Alessandra’s deathand, now, to Oscar stabbing a vengeful crime boss and me stabbing my own brother, both of whom may or may not be dead.
If there’s such a thing as a hell, I always thought I would be going there after I die. But now it’s certain. It’s a done deal. See you soon, Satan!
“Dude, I don’t think I’m into fuck parties,” says Oscar. “That shit’s way too intense for me.”
“Me too.”
“And . . . uh . . .” Oscar hesitates. “I’m not gonna tell anyone about what happened in there, okay? I’m not gonna say anything, okay?”
I think Oscar feels weird about “Olympic skiing” next to me. I get it.
“Yeah,” I say. “I won’t say anything either. It dies here.”
Oscar nods, satisfied that what happened will remain secret.
He then suddenly moans in pain. “I feel like everything in my body is broken.”
I stretch out my neck. “Same here.”
“Now what?”
I hurt all over. “We gotta get to a hospital.”
“Like the ER and shit? Nah, man, my family don’t got insurance. If I go, they’re gonna send my mom a bill for like thousands of dollars. We don’t got that kind of money.”
“I’ll pay for it,” I say. “We have to see a doctor.”
“Pay for it with what?” Oscar asks. “All your money is gone.”
He’s right. And not only that, my porn side hustle got shut down, so I have no new money coming in.
Then, a name just pops out of my mouth: “Patricia.”
About an hour later, we’re back in Point Liberty.
As Oscar and I approach the front porch of Patricia’s house, we hear the laughter of several people coming from inside.
“You sure this is it?” asks Oscar.
“I think so.”
When I saw Patricia at the hospital earlier today, she wrote all her contact information on a piece of paper since my phone was (and is still) dead. (And both my and Oscar’s phones are still back at Perpetual Sunset.) The paper has been folded up inside my wallet all day, and my wallet has been in my jeans, and luckily, because of Oscar, I have my jeans.
But when we dived into the swimming pool on Nash’s college campus, the writing on the paper got smudged. I’m able to make out the street (Myrtle Avenue), but not all of the numbers. As best as I can tell, it’s 2365 Myrtle Avenue. We’ll see.
