BadApple: ???
MrD: Did he seem like he was high? On drugs? Angry?
Weird questions, but okay. I remember Royal pulling my chin around, the smoke in my mouth, the way he kissed me…
My toes curl and I have to adjust myself in the chair just thinking about it.
BadApple: IDK him that well. He seemed normal
MrD: Did he catch you in the act?
BadApple: ???
MrD: How did he react to the fact that you were trespassing to watch his brothers engage in a sexual act in the privacy of their own home?
BadApple: he was pissed I guess
MrD: You said he was acting normal.
BadApple: he’s always pissed.
MrD: Are you going to go back?
BadApple: I prefer not to get raped.
MrD: So, you will watch them at school and try to get in with them there again.
BadApple: ok
MrD: Good. Report back next Friday.
I have a week until I have to report to Mr. D, but I’m not waiting until the last minute this time. I’ll just have to figure out a way to follow them without using Blue’s car, since Royal thinks that’s what I drive. Since I can’t afford to skip another fight, I decide to go do my thing tonight while they’re at the football game and then track them down after.
I usually stick around for the rest of the night, watching other fights to learn all I can about technique and the fighters themselves in case our paths cross in the ring. Tonight, though, I duck into the back room and quickly pull on a cropped hoodie over my bloody tank and cut-off jean shorts, pull my hair up, and rinse my face and knees. Then I head out.
I track down Dynamo to ask him to unlock the gate. Once the fights start, there’s no entrance—or exit. Yeah, totally a hazard, but it’s not like they’re doing this legally and are worried about losing their license.
“Where you off to?” Dynamo asks as we cross the asphalt outside the building.
“A party,” I say. “You know where it is tonight?”
He cracks a smile. “You’re going to a party, but you don’t know where it is?”
“Yep,” I say. “Any ideas?”
“Are you talking about the postgame party?”
“That’s the one.”
He’s quiet for a few steps, until we reach the gate. “So, that’s why you stopped coming to the bleachers to smoke out with me.”
It’s not a question, but I feel defensive, like I need to justify myself to him. I mean, he’s the closest thing to a friend I have at Willow Heights. But even if I could tell him why I’m stalking them, it wouldn’t be the whole truth. I’m not just interested in the Dolce boys because it’s a job, because I need information. Not anymore. I could lie to him, but I can’t lie to myself.
The allure of their power drew me in, the mystery and tragedy surrounding them hooked me, and the elusiveness of their attention has me pushing the button like a fucking gambling monkey. They’re pros at what they do. They give just enough to make you think you’ve got a shot, and then they take it away and make you chase after them until you’re ready to give up, and then they give just a little more.
“It’s not like that,” I mutter, even though maybe it’s exactly like that. Maybe that’s why I feel so ashamed of myself—I’m just like every other Dolce girl, running after the hot, dangerous, powerful guys that every girl wants and every guy wants to be. Colt didn’t sound accusatory or even pissed. He just sounded disappointed. He thought I was different, that I was better than that, but I’m not. I’m no better than any other girl.
The Dolces have created something powerful and—almost—unattainable, like a luxury brand that only celebrities can get their hands on, a product that costs a fortune, goes on sale to the public once a year, and sells out in three seconds flat. Everyone wants it, even those who can’t get it, those who have to take out a new mortgage to afford it.