I wondered if he ever regretted that decision—and then realized I already knew the
answer. “What were Cameron and my brother like when they were together?”
“I guess they were a lot like Cameron and Rocco, except that your brother was like the kid
brother, even if he was older than Cameron. It was funny to watch sometimes. Your brother coming
up with the quick moneymakers, as he called them, and Cameron the voice of reason, the one who
brought him back to reality. I guess Cameron hasn’t changed much in that way. I think if it
wasn’t for Cameron, your brother would have gotten arrested a thousand times.”
“What about Spider and Bill? What were they like together?”
“Exact opposites. Fire and water. Bill was charming and outgoing. Spider is, well, much more
quiet. They fought constantly, sometimes in front of customers. It was embarrassing.”
“Spider hated my brother for what he did to you,” I mused.
“Spider did hate Bill for cheating on me, but he had his own reasons for hating Bill too,” she
agreed, eyeing me. “You know, no matter how cool some guys think they are, when it comes to
some girls, it’s like they lose their mind. They start saying and doing really stupid stuff.”
I knew that this observation was directed at me. “I don’t like to be ordered around, and I
definitely don’t like to be told who I can and can’t talk to. What if Spider told you that you
couldn’t talk to someone, for no good reason?” I demanded.
“He did … so I started dating Bill just out of spite,” she said smiling. “Anyway, you
shouldn’t be so hard on Cameron. He’s got a lot on his shoulders right now. This life isn’t
easy for any of us. Some days it feels like it sucks all the life out of you—whatever’s left
feels inhuman sometimes.”
“Was my brother ever happy?”
Carly wasn’t smiling anymore and hesitated before answering. “Yes, at some point, he was
really happy. We all were in the beginning. It was hard not to be.”
“Was Bill ever suicidal? Do you think he wanted to overdose?”
“I don’t know. Like I said, he wasn’t the same person in the end.” Carly looked at me
searchingly, and then exhaled and chuckled. “Cameron was right. You are exhausting.”
My heart leapt, a large smile split my face, and a few red blotches popped up. “What else does
he say about me?”
Carly smiled, put a hand on my shoulder, and suggested we go downstairs before the food was all
gone. We picked up our guard dog on the way down, but we were already too late—not a morsel was
left from the spread I had prepared. Two of the night guards were sugar-crashed on the couch,
vacantly staring at the ceiling with their hands on their full bellies, stuck in a gluttonous
daze. The scary guard wasn’t there.
“Animals,” Carly grumbled as we strolled past them. She motioned for me to follow her into the
small pool house.
Inside, Carly’s hideaway was cozy, distinctly feminine—and very festive. Bright red and orange
and yellow and deep blue colors were splashed everywhere from the walls to the curtains to the
assorted furniture. Wooden dividers of painted purple and yellow flowers separated the small
apartment into three rooms: the bedroom, the living room, and the kitchenette. It all hurt my
eyes a little bit.
While Carly fixed us some food, I asked her about her bold choice in décor.
“It reminds me of home,” she explained warmly.
She told me about her mother, who had emigrated from Mexico as a young girl. She told me about
her five sisters and about the house that she grew up in—a house that had been decorated in a
similar bright fashion, and had been almost as small as Carly’s cottage. She laughed and told
me about some of the trials of living in a one-bedroom house, and sharing one tiny bathroom with
six other women. She told me about all of these things with a constant smile on her lips and a
tear in her eye. She never mentioned her father. I didn’t bring it up.
“Do you see them very much?” I wondered.
“Not anymore,” she answered, a tear almost breaking surface. “It’s just too dangerous. I don
’t want them to get caught up in all of this. My sisters have kids. I don’t know what I would
do if one of them ever got hurt because of me.”
She looked at me, and her eyes lit up, a bit. She dashed into her bedroom. After searching
through the dresser drawers, she rushed back.
“Spider had to go steal this from my mom’s house for me last Christmas,” she told me, handing
me a picture of her family. They were standing in front of a bright and ornate Christmas tree—a
cluster of happy, smiling faces, young and old. “It’s all of them—my family. The holidays are
always the hardest for me.”
“Do you ever regret choosing this life?”