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Royale tonight,” Warren announced a few Fridays later. I had to give it to him. He was a persistent bastard. Whether I wanted to be by myself or not, he wasn’t having it. He wouldn’t leave me alone with my thoughts.
    “Royale?”
    “Royale. Roxy. Matrix.” He waved a hand. “Same club. Same shit. New name. Where have you been? Oh, right.” He grinned at me and ignored the video game we were playing. “You’ve been home acting like a hermit.”
    He made it so easy to ignore him sometimes.
    “Anyway, I guess one of the resident DJs had to …” He tapped his knee with the controller and looked up at the ceiling. Warren’s classic thinking pose.
    His distraction afforded me the chance to, literally, murder him. He didn’t react to his character lying helpless on the ground. His lack of rage pretty much killed my thunder. I scowled at the TV.
    “Never mind. I can’t remember the story. Anyway, it’s a big deal he got this gig tonight. I told him I’d come out. Are you down to go?”
    “Works for me.” I shrugged. I hadn’t attempted to go out since my breakthrough and near breakdown at Faneuil Hall. I needed this—the interaction, attention, female distraction. I needed it all.
    “Really? Are you sure? Because last time—”
    “Yes, I already told you. I’m fine. I’m back in the game. Time heals all wounds. All that shit.”
    “All that shit, huh?” He snickered. Meanwhile, I could tell he didn’t find it that funny.
    “You get what I mean.”
    “Yeah, I do.” He cleared his throat. “Listen, if you—”
    “Right, so call your boy.” I had no more energy for sentimental conversations.
    Warren went across the hall to his condo to get dressed. Meanwhile, my focus was on pre-gaming. My drink of choice for the night was Cognac. A few shots in, and I was buzzed and tempted to stay in. Warren’s threats of violence got me off my ass.
    “You’ll have to drive,” I said, feeling the need to state the obvious when I almost tripped on the way to the car. Warren was all for driving until I made it clear I meant his car.
    “But—”
    “You’re not driving it.”
    I don’t know where his visions of driving my car came from, but I was more than happy to shut them down.
    I would sooner sit my ass at home than let Warren behind the wheel of my car. He seemed to forget he was the same way when he first got his whip.
    “I can’t believe you’re really gonna make me drive the Beemer,” he said, complaining like a BMW was a hoopty. 
    “Fucking spoiled ass.” I spat the words, struggling to buckle the stupid seat belt.
    “You’re talking shit?” Laughing, he started the car. “You, who just got that new Jaguar for his birthday?”
    “Yeah. I bought my Jag, though.”
    “Still,” he said, grumbling.
    I grinned. We thrived on pissing the other one off. Truth was we both grew up as spoiled shits. But my pops made sure I had a job the minute I was old enough to get a work permit. As the most naïve fourteen-year-old alive, I thought I’d be going to work with him, learning about finance and making more bread than I knew what to do with. Nope. I was asking people at the local Stop and Shop whether they wanted paper or plastic . It was good for me, though. I never once took shit for granted. I cherished everything and everyone I had—including Warren’s dumb ass.
    “I think I’m drunk.” I nodded and instantly felt dizzy. “Yup, definitely drunk.”
    “Thanks for stating the fucking obvious.”
    “Fuck you! Wait, how is it obvious?”
    “Because …” He side-eyed me then glanced at the road. “You mumbled some shit about not taking me for granted.”
    “Oh.” I didn’t say anything else. Didn’t want him to get used to me being all nice and shit. Likewise, he didn’t add anything and the rest of the downtown drive was quiet. Warren drove like a fucking maniac, so it took us less than fifteen minutes to get there. I made the sign of the cross, thankful to have made it to the