My Lolita, Cassandra [RFK/Bobby Kennedy] (Alternate Universe)

Part Thirteen

"Chekov's Gun"

It's Judd's second day at Bellevue Hospital, and you're supposed to be there for him, but your grandpa just died. Of course, your father didn't tell you—he probably thought you'd be upset—but you already know from eavesdropping on his call with his sister. Were you sad? Not really. Grandpa and you didn't get along too well, mainly because he was a lame man who had nothing to say except "Bush should've won!" over and over again, at every, single, family gathering. No, really, he never showed interest in you. It was Judd and your male cousins who got all of his attention. Not that you cared; Grandma never let you down; she taught you that love is worthless if it didn't come with money.

Somehow, someway, you end up in your father's car, he's driving you to your aunt's house to watch over your cousins while they deal with their father's deadly business. Because he is boring you to death with his mourning, you find something to play with—a gun from the glove box, just girly things. Well, it's a revolver with safety on, and your old man is driving next to you—not particularly dangerous... right? You continue flipping the cylinder open and closed with a flick of the wrist, perfectly getting on your father's nerves each time.

"Will you stop that?" He sternly asks. You avert your eyes from your toy gun to him. "Not until you tell me where we're going," you reply, cattier than a cat, but receive no answer except a disgruntled grunt. You're not purposely punishing him, you just need him to tell you the truth and stop treating you like a kid.

Once silence grows from the man's reticence, your mind wanders to what happened yesterday. Robert didn't bother to call you nor text you—in fact, he dropped you in a blink of an eye; no closure, no nothing. What does that make him? An asshole? Maybe. But you'd probably do the same if you were in his shoes.

Without realizing it, you've been fiddling with the Colt's trigger and the metallic sound begins again, drawing your father's focus off the road. "Give it to me." He reaches for the gun, but your quick thinking gets in the way of his plan—you crudely put it underneath your butt. "I worry about you," he cynically says. "Well, I didn't ask for your concern. I should be at the hospital with Judd, not with your boring ass!" You retort like the teenager that you are.

It's been a while since a heated argument between you two occurred—mostly because neither of you have time for each other; your father with his business affairs, and you with your... illicit affair.

"You already saw him yesterday," he explains. You bring out the empty gun, wishing it wasn't the case. "I wanna see him today, you dope," you scoff with contempt while digging your fingernails into the etching of Colt Anaconda on the barrel.

"We're going to your aunt's." The man relents. "I need you to watch your cousins while we're away. And before you say anything...!" He puts a finger up, hushing your loquacious mouth. "I'll compensate you," he says. You weren't going to say anything anyway, but the compensation intrigues you.

"Cash? Shouldn't you give that to Aunt Claire so she can hire a babysitter?" You play hard to get because the money will increase the more you protest. "Well, you have nothing better to do. And she doesn't trust strangers with her kids," he replies.

When tensions begin to rise through the air, your father makes you an offer you can't refuse. "If you take care of your cousins, I'll give you my Amex card." Oh, that name. Amex. It's your first love, your first priority, your first American experience, your first everything.

"Not the one with the limit!" You insist, traumatized by the time a Givenchy cashier told you you're too broke for the dress Karen Mulder wore on the runway. "Take the black one." Your father surrenders his leather wallet for you to go to town with. "And stop with that nonsense!" He snatches the gun from your lap, throws it into the glove box, and slams it shut. You could not care less about the damn gun, or your dead grandfather, because you know that you can rule the world with the black card in your hand—just like grandma used to say.