Page 21 of Reckless At Raleigh High
Zeth doesn’t look too stoked about this. “Where’s the gun?”
“Police lock-up. They confiscated it.”
“How the fuck did that happen?”
“What do you think? I shot someone with it. They took it away from me.” Zeth lets out a surprising bark of laughter that catches me off guard. “That’sfunny?” I ask.
He nods, just once, a curt, efficient movement. “Sure. Why the fuck not. I can picture you shooting someone and getting away with it. You’re a hellraiser, huh, kid?”
I don’t know if I’m supposed to take this as a compliment; it’s hard enough trying to figure out if he’s fucking with me. Bitterly, I agree with him. “Looks like I’m turning out to be my father’s son. Giacomo Moretti would be proud, if only he knew how.”
Like a slowly deflating balloon, Zeth’s amused expression wilts. “You’re Jack Moretti’s boy?”
Oh.
Fucking.
Great.
Juuuuuuust fucking great. Why am I not surprised that a stone-cold killer like this guy knows my father? “Not voluntarily,” I tell him.
Zeth grunts, hoisting the straps of the duffel bag over his shoulder. “Looks like you just lost your job at that shit hole Cohen runs. You got money?”
I still have close to seventy grand in a pillowcase under the floorboards in the bedroom, courtesy of all the runs I did for Monty. Not that it’s any of this fucker’s business. What, am I supposed to believe that he feels sorry for me? He hurled a hunting knife at my head thirty-five minutes ago. “Plenty,” I tell him.
Zeth nods, sticking his hand into his pocket, taking out his iPhone. In a matter of seconds, he’s produced a paperclip from somewhere, popped out the SIM card, and then he’s tossing the device up in the air.
I catch it before it can hit the floor, frowning as the strange bastard turns and walks down the hallway, toward the door. “I know all about shitty fathers, too,” he rumbles over his shoulder. “You seem like you might be smart, Alex. Keep it that way. Stay away from guys like Montgomery Cohen and Giacomo Moretti.”
“Hey! Don’t you want your phone back?”
“Keep it. It was a burner.”
11
ALEX
Idon’t go to Silver’s. After Zeth leaves with Monty still kicking and screaming in the trunk of his Camaro, I sit in the car, turning the keys over in my hand, trying to pull my shit together. I can’t make head nor tails of what’s been going on lately. It’s all just too fucking much, and I don’t think I can trust myself to be the person I need to be. How am I supposed to be good for Silver, help her recover from her ordeal with Jake, when I’m too fucking broken to hold myself together? How can she comfort me, when she wakes up clawing at her throat every morning, trying to free herself from a noose that isn’t there?
We’re both so bruised and battered that it feels as though we’re both going to try and support the other, only to break and unintentionally let them fall. I don’t want to do that to her. I love her so fucking much. The last thing I want to do is let her down. I need her more than I need the air in my lungs, but I also need her to be okay…which leaves me in a complicated, confusing situation. She won’t be okay with me around. Currently, she’s sacrificing her own sanity for the sake of mine, and that’s not healthy. For herorfor me.
In the end, because I’m a weak piece of shit, I do drive over to the Parisi’s place. I don’t go inside, though. I sit on the curb, at the end of their driveway with the engine idling, watching the lights go on and off in the house as Silver and her father move from room to room. The snow that paused earlier returns with a vengeance, and for a little while I feel cocooned inside the car. With the air vents blowing hot air on full blast and the steady, throaty purr of the engine vibrating the entire vehicle, the world falls away and nothing exists apart from me, the Camaro, and the promise of Silver, safely tucked away in the house at the top of the driveway.
She texts me eventually.
SILVER: You thinking about coming inside?
She must have spotted me out of a window. Slowly, I type out a response and hit send.
ME: Will you still love me if I say I can’t?
SILVER: No matter what.
Cursing myself for being such a weak fuck, I start the Camaro’s engine and I drive off into the night.
MESSAGE RECEIVED
Message received from…Maeve Rogers…on Sunday, January second at eight twenty-two pm.
