“You’re… awake,” Basher says in a strangled voice.

“Yes. What are you doing here?”

Basher doesn’t answer, just stares at her like her pussy invented cold fusion.

I clap my hands. “We’re losing traction here. Tits, your precious algebra tutor shouldn’t have been teaching you math any more than I should have been taking your confession. Basher, she’s been awake the whole time, sucks to be you.”

January looks like she’s going to pass out. Surely, she can’t be far from it. How many rugs can someone get pulled out from under them in one day?

“Bobby…” she whispers.

“It was his idea to tutor you,” I say, because I’m a prick.

Basher shoves me, but he can’t deny it. It was his idea. We needed someone in her school, and he had the master’s in computer science, so he bought some slacks and registered with the New York Board of Education. We laughed about it at the time. Then he actually started teaching Miss Priss quadratic equations and everything got a lot less funny.

Bobby presses a hand to his heart like he’s Romeo or something. “January, I mean it. I’m so sorry.”

I elbow his side. “Hey Basher, remember what she said about you in the confession box?”

January claps her hands to her mouth. She’s already learned it’s pointless to try and stop me. She braces herself for impact instead. Maybe she’s not so stupid after all. “You should have heard her go on about you, Bash. ‘He’s so nice, I hang around the library asking him about axels and shit just to see if he’ll talk to me.’”

Basher’s face is scarlet and he’s looking anywhere but at January.

“I wanted to know if she was rubbing her virgin kitty thinking about you. But they don’t let you ask questions when you’re the priest.”

Tears splash down January’s cheeks and into her tits. I could rub my dick through those tears. Make her taste them.

“How long have you been watching me?” she whispers.

“Years,” I say. “How do you think I know what your Zia Teresa looks like?”

Heavy footsteps pound down the stairs behind me. Adriano in a green Henley, heavy canvas pants, and boots. Looking, as always, like he shops exclusively at the military surplus store. I raise a hand. “Evening, brother.”

He ignores me, looking at Basher. “Tarp?”

“Here.” Basher bends and collects the plastic sheet.

There’s a strangled sound from January but Adriano doesn’t seem to notice. “Where’s Eli?”

“Still on his way,” I say. “You ready?”

He doesn’t reply. Adriano’s never been one for talking. At school, he was everyone’s pick for ‘most likely to shave his head, climb a cell tower and start gunning down strangers.’

January is looking at him like he’s Frankenstein come back to life. Which isn’t far from the truth. Adri’s not bad-looking, but he got cut in Bolivia. Now there’s a silvery scar from his right eye down his cheek. It doesn’t do his ‘serial killer’ vibe any favors. But even before the scar, he scared the shit out of girls. I used to have to give them an ounce of weed before they’d agree to fuck us both.