Eternal Adoration [ON PAUSE]

9. Checkmate

ARISTIDE

What the hell am I doing?

A car passes by, its speed 25 miles per hour as mandated by law, windows down and music blaring. While I don't have any strong feelings toward the hard rock genre, when the guy behind the wheel stares at me like I don't belong, I think that hard rock is the worst shit I've ever heard.

"Nosey motherfucker," I mutter, rolling up my window just in case another friendly neighborhood hard rock lover decides to ask any questions as they drive by.

"What was that you said?" Giorgio questions on the other side of the line, huffing slightly between each word as he runs.

"Just someone driving by."

The line crackles, the wind blowing in the speaker. "Fuck. A drive-by?"

"No, someone drove by. Just driving, no weapons."

"Oh, good." He breathes heavily all over the line and I narrow my eyes, guessing that one earphone must have fallen and he's holding it close to his mouth. "For a second I thought . . . I thought those fuckers had gotten to you or some-shit! Where the fuck did that big ass boulder come from?!"

I rub a hand down the front of my shirt, stretching my legs and leaning back on the headrest once Giorgio descends into a flurry of curses and questions I have no answers for. Instead, I eye the school that spreads on my right behind the dramatic gates, observing as a team of gardeners takes care of the front of the building.

I went to private Catholic schools my whole life, and if I know anything aside from never leaving my gun at home, it is wealthy shitheads. And these prep school kids are wealthy little fuckers. I'm parked far enough from the school not to be noticed, but despite the gates and parking lot of cars, I can still smell the wealth oozing out of the place.

A few uniformed students, all guys, are milling around the front while the gardeners work around them. I'd pin the boys as upperclassmen given the fact that they spin car keys with their fingers and have the shoulders and heights to indicate adulthood.

"Probably athletes," I say to myself, and I know that I'm right. I'd say it takes one to know one, but in high school, I was the silent weirdo with my head always tucked in a book. Still, a high school athlete is one of the most recognizable phenomena in the world.

"What?" Giorgio yells into the line, the sound resounding through the entire car.

"Lower your damn voice. You're on Bluetooth in my car so I can hear you well enough."

He laughs, mostly in disbelief. "Yo, what the fuck, Aristide? Please tell me you're not still seated in front of that damn school. Please tell me you left since I texted you this morning."

"I'm not in front of the school."

"Oh yeah? Then where are you?"

"Not that it falls under any of the shit that's your business, but I'm parked at a curb." Which is not technically in front of the school. It's more in front of the gate if anything.

He laughs. "Would that curb happen to be in front of a school?"

"No."

"Mm, maybe in front of a parking lot?"

Close, but not quite. "What happened to that boulder? Did it fall off a cliff and hit you on the head as you were running?"

He ignores me. "Or maybe a gate?" I hear him walking, I guess his run got cut short.

"You know, maybe we need to get you to the hospital. Concussions can be a real motherfucker."

"Ah, so a gate it is." I hear him shuffling, then a loud snort. "Your location says you're at Hilltop Preparatory School. A little too old to be in high school, don't you think? Or are you enrolling a child of yours I don't know about?"