"Let me get this straight, Romeo." Dallas snorts into his coffee cup; he drinks it black, like a cowboy. "Y'all just finished the deed. She's got her head on your shoulder, all cute and sweaty. She says she loves you. And you don't even say nothin' back? You lay there gapin' at her?"

"Well, when you say it like that, yeah, no shit it sounds bad."

"Christ almighty, are you dumb." He rips open a sugar packet and dumps it out on the table, probably just to make the waitress's life harder. "You drop that line before you get into a broad's panties, not after, anyway. It's called lying. I gotta explain everything to you now, give you step-by-step instructions?"

I swirl my fork around this diner's answer to scrambled eggs, which taste like soap and have a similar consistency. "I guess some of us have morals— that how you always keep Sylvia comin' back for more?"

Last time Dallas was in the pen, that little fast thing was apparently trying to screw his best friend— this dark-haired kid whose name I'm always forgetting, he's so quiet. That still wasn't enough to make him quit her, which should tell you everything you need to know about the quality of his advice.

Dallas gives me his patented 'who do you think you're bullshitting' look. "Gabi's probably worried you're gonna pull your usual pump-and-dump routine now, so I wouldn't be gettin' too high up on no horse, if I were you." Then he sniffs. "I can talk decent to nice girls like her, anyway, I did when Stevie's cousin Faye was in town last summer."

"It's not like that!" He smiles at me, showing some of his sharp little lynx teeth. I can't believe this, of all places, is where I went with my tale of woe— I rest my forehead in my palm. "I just wasn't expecting it. Think maybe I moved on too fast with her, led her on, I don't know."

I try to analyze this situation logically, which is the only way I've ever managed to get a handle on my feelings— by pretending I don't have any. It's not like I grew up in the most sentimental family, hell, the less said about my family the better. And that's putting aside the fact that I'm supposed to be a stone-cold hood, a menace to society, on top of that. Taking all of those factors into account, it's really no surprise that I choked. If anything, she should've known better than to drop a bombshell like that on me without a little advanced warning.

Am I even convincing myself right now? I told Bonnie I loved her, which is disproving my hypothesis a little. We were together for a long time. But did I say it because I really loved her, or because we were together for a long time?

... God, am I still hung up on her? Even after all the bullshit she put me through? Is that what this is all about?

What breaks up my pathetic attempt at self-psychoanalysis is the loud jingle of the chime above the door— I look up for half a second, see it's Jasmine Curtis with some broad I don't recognize, and go right back to shredding my paper napkin. Too bad that little fierabrás has other plans. "Just get us a booth, Carolyn, I'll be there in a sec," she says to the other girl. Then she stalks over to us and snatches a Kool from right between Dallas's two fingers. "Is it possible for you to keep your dick in your pants for longer than ten minutes? God forbid the two weeks it took Sylvia to get over the flu?"

Nobody even turns around to look at her. Jay's is kind of a rough hangout, the owners don't care what goes down as long as everyone's knives stay in their pockets. Dally just leans back in his chair and grins, as she raises it to her own lips. "You better not let Mom catch you smokin' no cigarettes, she's gonna break that wooden spoon with the frowny face over your ass," he says. "And I ain't got the first clue what you're on about, neither."

She coughs on it, turns red, stomps it out under her shoe, and glowers back at him in the span of time it takes for me to shovel another forkful into my mouth. "Mom smokes like a chimney, just not in front of you— and you expect me to believe the name Roberta Dittmeyer doesn't ring any bells?"

"Bobbi and I were just talkin' about our physics project—"

"You haven't been to physics all semester, first of all, and is that what you call shovin' your tongue down her throat in the back of the library? Should've said anatomy, would've been more convincing."

"Anyone ever tell you that you're real pretty when you get mad? Almost makes listenin' to you talk worth it."

If she were a shade wilder, she might've hauled off and slapped him, but instead she gets up in his face. She's lucky she's a girl, because I've seen him get into fistfights with much less provocation. "You'd better stay the fuck away from her this time, I mean it," she says, and she almost manages to sound menacing, except her wool hat is too big and falls into her eyes as she tilts forward. "I'm tired of watchin' her cry over your sorry ass, you know how many guys would kill to be with—"

"Unfortunately, I do." He shrugs and turns back to his almost-depleted coffee cup, announcing the conversation as good as over. "Tell Sylvia to call me tonight, yeah?"

She flips him the bird and walks off towards the booth where Carolyn is sitting with a menu fanned out in her hands— and I don't miss the way his eyes catch on her ass in her miniskirt as she does, a lingering gaze that couldn't be any less fraternal. "Knock it off," I say. "How old is she, fourteen?"

"Fifteen next month," he says like that's any better, "and I'm just messin' around with her." That last bit, he adds a little too quickly to be believed. "She'd bite my dick off if I ever put it in her mouth, that little chick's downright scary. She hates me."

I shove his shoulder with one hand, hard. "You got a good thing goin' with those people, dipshit, you won't if you start sniffin' after your foster daddy's baby girl. Go buy Sylvia a bouquet of 'get well soon' flowers."

At least I'm back in my comfort zone now— telling other people what they're screwing up. God knows I've always found that easier than fixing my own problems.

I swirl the ice cubes around in my whiskey glass. "Just one more birthday 'til that fake ID can get retired, huh? Let's all drink to that."

"Shut up," Darry says, "the day Buck starts checkin' ID's is the day he starts meetin' health and sanitation standards with that bootleg liquor of his." He's nursing a beer that still has froth bubbling at the top; I'm not surprised, that he's not much of a drinker, probably a relic from his old athletic days. "I can't stay out too late, I'm workin' tomorrow morning. Remind me why I let you drag me over here?"

He's not being as much of a priss as he comes off— Buck's is a pretty rough joint, if you're grabbing a weeknight beer and don't want a side of meth the way other bars provide a dish of peanuts. What the guy next to us is smoking sure doesn't smell like grass.

"Sounds terrible," Two-Bit Mathews says as he leans towards us, already knocking back his third drink, "listen, Darry, you gotta cut all this worker bee shit out already, you're makin' me look awful to my mama. Every other day it's that Frannie Curtis is so lucky, her boy's workin' a good job now, even repaired that hole in her kitchen ceiling— if I fail junior year, she's gonna make me drop out and apply at the hardware store again. You want that on your sorry conscience?"

I don't know Two-Bit's ass from a hole in the ground, but I understand now why Darry invited me along when he swung by to pick him up from work, already loaded, promising to get him laid after what I've learned has been a lengthy dry spell— even if it was with the world's most unwelcoming jerk of his chin. It's because the two of us immediately side-eye each other after he finishes speaking, and I can tell we're both thinking the exact same thing— a grown man's really gotta be told to quit moochin' off his old lady? Like the past five years never happened, the corner of his mouth twitches up before he looks away, and we fall right back into that easy intimacy.

There's something really, really wrong with this picture, in other words. And I'm at least spared the indignity of becoming Darry Curtis's wingman when of all people, Rafa swings by our segment of the bar and sloshes half his drink down his sleeve. "Tim? What the hell are you doin' with them?"

I get up from my swivel chair, throw "I'll be back in a minute" over my shoulder at Darry and Two-Bit as he leads me into a dark corner of the room— adds a real piquant touch of melodrama to this whole situation, like it needed any more. "I work with Darry and his old man, we're just getting some drinks," I say coolly. I don't need to explain myself to him, don't love his presumption right now. "What's your problem?"

Part of the reason I've been avoiding them is because I've been trying to figure out which one of these assholes is trying to get me sent back to prison, and I hate to say it, but Rafa's nearing the top of the list. He was running the outfit while I was gone, for a pretty long stretch of time, it's not exactly inconceivable that he'd develop a taste for power in my absence— and then there's Alex, who's been pushing his limits for months now, though his nose healed up fine. I can't really imagine any of the rest of them being culprits in this sorry crime drama— Nate's brain has the consistency of saltwater taffy from all the pot he smokes, Joel, Miguel, and Tony never give me much shit, and none of the kids around Curly's age who orbit the outfit would have the nerve in a million years.

"When's the last time we had drinks, a month ago?" Rafa has big, liquid eyes like a cow's, rimmed with long lashes, a little pathetic but still capable of making me feel guilty. "Or drag raced? Or went to go bet on fights at the Dingo? Or hell, did anything?"

"You want our date to have a happy ending, too?" He swipes at my upper arm without a lot of force. "I'm busy, man, I need to keep this job and not get arrested if I don't want to see the inside of Big Mac—" I watch his face, but his expression doesn't shift, not even a fraction. "And Gabi and I have been gettin' pretty serious lately, when I have time off, I've been with her. It ain't personal." I used to bitch to him about everything that was going wrong with Bonnie, then about my carousel of conquests, and I'm surprised to realize that I'm not even sure if he knew Gabi and I were serious.

"This is all over some hyna?"

"Don't call her that."

"Look, this isn't about my fucking feelings, it's about the guys too..." He throws his hands up, drops them back onto his thighs, then takes a gulp from his drink. "I'm just sayin', you've been actin' a lot different since you got out of jail, compa. Worse temper than you already had on you, then you got this new job with the Curtises, now you're barely ever around and makin' excuses for why you ain't... you got people wondering the hell's goin' on with you. People who ain't that happy about it."

"So now you want to question my loyalty." I lace my fingers together to keep from decking him, squeeze them until my knuckles turn white. "Because I got better things to do with my time than get fallin' down drunk with y'all every night, I guess. What the hell are you beatin' around here? This ain't just about my social life."

"What do you want me to do, say it out loud?" He gives Darry a furtive glance, then lowers his voice like he's telling me some big secret. "Looks like you got Tiger affiliations all of a sudden. And that's not exactly a great look when we're supposed to be buddying up to the River Kings."

"Tigers blew off Santi's head, you think I'm affiliated now?" I want to hit my hand with a paperweight right now to stop it from trembling. "He don't got any ties to them either, him or the old man, just 'cause they're Indian. When'd you you grow big enough balls to start questioning my decisions, huh?"

Since love and fear can hardly exist together, if we must choose between them, it is far safer to be feared than loved. Rafa knocks back his whiskey until the ice from the glass clinks against his teeth, wipes his mouth off with the back of his hand. "You'd really rather hang out with that presumido than us?"

And I don't know why the hell I say, "yeah, maybe," like I wasn't trying to bash that fool's skull in with a hammer just a few weeks ago. I don't know why at all.

"You always was the most fucked-up guy I ever knew," Rafa says before he turns away, and I can't tell if it's with anger or confusion or even admiration, or if it even matters.

"Are you sure everything's all right?" Gabi's brow is furrowed a little, over the bridge of her nose, as she turns to look at me from the passenger seat. "You're not even pretending to pay attention."

"There's nothin' to pay attention to." My legs press against the steering wheel as I force myself to stare up at the screen and remember what's happening. Help! is even worse than the kind of movie they usually play at the Nightly Double, which has a bunch of girls bouncing around in bikinis to fill time between the musical numbers. This one's got the musical numbers but none of Bikini Beach's visual appeal, not to mention that my loyalty's always going to be to Elvis over these British fruits. "I wanted to see Dr. Strangelove again."

"I've sat through Dr. Strangelove so many times I could quote it," she says, "you'll live." She leans up out of her seat to kiss the tip of my nose, though, softens the blow. "D'you really hate it? I think there's only half an hour left."

Christ, I can sit through some chick movie without pulling a face like my mama just dragged me to church. She's real good to me, not that I've done much to earn it— can't even force the words 'I love you' out of my mouth for her sake. "Nah, baby, don't worry about it. Which one's George and which one's Paul again? They all got the exact same haircut."

She tries to explain it to me for the millionth time, but finally I beg off long enough to head out to the concession stand, say I'll bring her back a coke. And that's when the real trouble starts.

Hurricane Bonnie is the reason I know why they name them after people. When she approaches me, I can already smell trouble like ozone in the air before a thunderstorm— in the dim glow from other people's headlights, her purple eyeshadow makes her look like she has a black eye. It's too cold to be walking around with no jacket, even in Oklahoma, but I guess she manages to heat herself with the force of her own indignation these days. And maybe a few months ago, I would've twitched at the sight of her, but now I just want to put a sweater on her. She's fixing to catch pneumonia carrying on like this.

"Long time no see," she says unsteadily— she tries to smirk at me, but the expression looks all wrong on her face, like it was drawn on crooked by a child. I struggle to balance the two cokes and three bags of caramel corn I have in my arms, and I don't even have the excuse of being plastered as I almost drop them onto the pavement. As drunk as she is, though, swaying in place as she crosses her arms under her tits, she notices that can't all be for me. "Are you with someone?"

"Imagine that," is all the explanation I feel like I owe her. Like when I'm talking to the fuzz, I keep unnecessary words to a minimum. "Now, if you don't fuckin' mind—"

And of course Gabi gets out of the car to see what the hold-up is, before I can manage to shake her off. Snatches a coke from my hands and one of the popcorns too, at least, which makes me look a little less ridiculous. "Who's this?" She scans Bonnie with blatant pity, which I know, more than anything, is going to make her hate her. "Does she need help gettin' home?"

Bonnie's the queen of looking other girls up and down and assessing them in an instant, and I can just tell what points she's ticking off with her eyes right now— the cross necklace she has on, the length of her skirt, how high her blouse is buttoned up. "Even you can't be enough of a—" she lets an impressive stream of cuss words loose— "to start fucking around with some Immaculate Heart girl now. Are you fucking kidding me? That's who you traded me in for?"

"Excuse me?" Gabi arches an eyebrow, and I can tell now that when she gets mad, she's the type of person who gets real, real calm. "You're Tim's ex-girlfriend? The one who cheated on him? You'd think he could only move on up after that."

Two chicks fighting over me in a parking lot. Dallas won't even believe me when I tell him this one.

"Who exactly do you think you scored here, Paul Newman? You're just another rebound to him," she sniffs at Gabi, "you know how many other broads there were before you? There's gonna be another one the night after he drops you, too. Ain't no woman who could ever live up to his standards. Second he feels like he's gettin' too close to one, he drops her like a hot coal."

"I'm sorry my standard of 'don't fuck other guys behind my back' was too much for you to live up to," I say, just to shut her up before she exposes my entire psyche to the drive-in.

"Maybe you just weren't that interesting," Gabi says, and I almost choke on my own spit. "Maybe you don't know him as well as you think you do."

"No, but I know you, I know your type, that's the sad part." She lets out a loud, high-pitched shriek of laughter— I want to clap my hand over her mouth, just to make it stop. People are leaning out their car windows to tell us to quit ruining the end credits, a few others gathering around to enjoy a more entertaining show than the one on screen. "You think you're gonna fix him, huh? You're gonna dig your way into that ice-cold heart and heal all his hurts? Trust me, honey, I tried, poor Maria Teresa tried... I spent years on that shit, you'd be better off bleedin' a stone. You'll never even manage to get past the mommy issues, much less reach his cousin."

I've never smacked a woman before, not even my mother, even when she slapped me around with a million rabbit's paw blows when she was drunk. My hand twitches now. Gabi turns back to me. "Your cousin? Which one, what happened?"

I think even Bonnie, drunk and high and madder than an entire nest of hornets, didn't want to go there. Her mouth falls open a little, making her look younger than she is, and I remember the gap-toothed tomboy she used to be, spitting in Nate's face when he said girls weren't any good at soccer, her elbows and knees permanent scrapes. What happened to us? "Just go the fuck home, Bonnie," I say tiredly, all the fire and fury gone right out of me. I used to call her Bee sometimes and hate that the old nickname springs into my mouth, unbidden. "Before you embarrass yourself even more."

"Fine," she says, and even now I have to admire the way she manages to adjust her dignity like a crown. "You know what, I'm done. Just hope you like it in the missionary position," she shoots over her shoulder, as she storms back to her car, "you're sure gonna be seein' a lot of it."

That bitch. She always did have to get the last word in.

"There's nothin' wrong with missionary," Gabi says determinedly, gathering herself, "I don't even know what she's talking about. She's a real refined lady, all right. Nice manners."

I mean, I can at least cross 'latent feelings for Bonnie' off my list of issues now. That's something.

My plan when I take her back to my place is to really talk to her, about everything. There's no chance in the world of Ma and Ed being home, or at least conscious, on a weekend. Too bad we have company I wasn't counting on.

"Hey, Joe," Gabi says as she unbuttons her coat, "what are you doin' here?" She seems completely unsurprised to find him in the middle of my kitchen, smoothing down his ruffled hair as he checks out his reflection in a tablespoon, which makes one of us.

"Just wanted to talk to Tim for a minute, guapa," he says. "You can go wait in the living room, can't you? Don't think I should be mentioning this junk in front of ladies."

I bristle a little at how forward he is with her, not to mention how he can't pronounce it right, but I don't say anything. At least he's friendlier than Luis. "You remember that cop who gave you static, the other night?"

"I don't get stopped near often enough to have already forgotten." I had to fess up to Luis, tell him what happened to all his pot and a decent amount of his money too. I didn't expect he'd pass the information on, though, and I have the feeling he's going to regret it.

"My boys and I took care of it," he says, then helps himself to a glass of our orange juice and drains it, "don't worry. He won't be botherin' you again."

"By take care of it, uh, you don't mean..."

"Don't worry, he ain't dead," he says in what he maybe thinks is a reassuring tone of voice. "We'll drop him back off in a couple days, no worse for wear... most of his teeth still in his mouth, probably. Dead men don't talk about what makes them go into no-no zones. Or who's paying them better than us to look the other way."