Page 62 of Vile Bastards
“They’ll find me if I make myself visible.” I rub my thumb against the side of the phone and then turn, moving over to the trash can and tossing it inside. If it rings again, I’m not answering it. We need to leave this park soon, too. Preferably within the next five minutes.
“Meaning what exactly?” Scarlett asks, and Bohnes offers up a smirk.
“Meaning they can’t find him where I’ve got him. They want Alexei to live out and proud on the street. Not a particularly promising premise, seeing as everyone in this town wants him dead.”
“I have an idea,” Widow offers, opening his eyes to look up at me. He smiles then, and the sentiment behind it is nothing less than wicked. He doesn’t like that I’m interested in Scarlett. The feeling is entirely mutual. Only, I won’t admit to that. Not even to myself. “Let’s enroll him in Prescott.”
There’s a pause there as the idea settles in.
As soon as it hits me, I feel dizzy. My stomach churns. My heart races. My palms sweat.
That school is filthy. And it’s full of even filthier people. There’s asbestos in the ceilings and floors, I’m sure. Lead in the paint. Rodent droppings in the cafeteria food.
I almost retch.
“The Mayor and Company, trademarked, all rights reserved, won’t be looking for you in plain sight like that. Besides, what sort of idiot would enroll in a beaten-down, old high school whose diplomas are worth less than dirt when he’s supposed to be on the run? It’s brilliant.” Scarlett puts her hands on her hips and surveys me from head to toe. “You can be that idiot, can’t ya, Mr. Grove?”
I return her look with one of cool indifference.
If I admit to myself that I’m interested, I’ll have to admit to other feelings, too, and I’m not prepared to do that. I’m not prepared to truly allow myself to think about what happened to Papa, what happened in the river, what my life has become or the possibility that this might be it.
At the same time, I can’t resist. Thus, my reason for asking to court her.
Besides, paired up against the other three men, I’m the clear winner. How dare she not dump them to the side and pick me? I’m the obvious choice.
“He’ll need a different look though, that’s for damn sure.” Widow snorts and lights up a cigarette, taking a drag on it as he surveys the silk-cashmere sport jacket that I’m wearing. Paired with a plain t-shirt, understated blue jeans, and sneakers, I could walk a fucking runway. Have, actually, in the past. But only before my mother died. After, nothing. I had no life outside of the racetrack.
“There’s nothing wrong with my sense of style.” I return Widow’s stare, offering him a complimentary once-over to assess his holey, faded blue jeans, mud spattered boots, and too tight t-shirt. “You, on the other hand, are distinctly lacking thereof.”
“This isn’t called style; it’s called poverty.” Widow continues to smoke the cigarette, forcing a mean smile to his face. “I was given a bag of free, used clothes after I got out of juvie. This outfit was part of it. I’m sorry that it isn’t to your liking, your majesty.” He exhales and gestures at me with the cigarette. “Don’t worry, sir. I’ll make certain to win some pieces at the track so as not to offend you further.”
Scarlett chuckles, and Widow smirks, flicking his cigarette into the ashtray atop the trash can. The way her eyes follow him, I see that they’re distinctly compatible. Similar backgrounds, shared culture, equal socioeconomic status.
It pisses me off.
“There’s a whole crop of new kids enrolling next week,” Scarlett offers up. “Transplants from Mohawk High School over in Marcola.” Her eyes narrow and her voice goes bone-dry. “They’re demolishing the school to put in a new subdivision. That makes perfect sense, right? Kill the rural high school, add yet more residents to the town, and then get everyone in the area to ship their kids to an already underfunded and overcrowded high school in the southside. Pure brilliance.” She sighs, and I come to the uncomfortable realization that my father—and his company—were unknowingly complicit in making her life hell.
Not that the Borisov Group would be in charge of suburban sprawl. My father believed cities could have—and should have—denser cores with storefronts on the bottoms of buildings and residences up top. He used to say keep the city buzzing, and the countryside sleeping.
Fuck, I miss my papa.
I want Chief Bolin to squeal as I make him bleed. I want the man down on his knees, licking the toes of my shoes and begging for forgiveness. In the end, I won’t give it to him, but I’ll offer a different sort of mercy by releasing him from the misery that I’ll put him through.
