Curveball(10)

Before winter break, I had a sweet gig with Luca and Hunter, but we had to shut it down because of Luca’s Mafia connections and the fact that the FBI was breathing down his girlfriend’s back for information.

Luca and I had grown up together in South Philly and had gone to the same school of hard knocks while Hunter had been sitting pretty, up in Connecticut, with his rich NFL superstar daddy and a silver spoon in his mouth.

But none of us are what some might consider the normal pencil-dick, cardigan-wearing frat boys. Nope, we’re criminals and not the least bit sorry about it.

Luca somehow managed to rope Hunter into our illegal gambling rackets our sophomore year at Strick U, and we have been together ever since. Luca and I’d hustled our way through most of grade school and all of high school, eventually turning our small-time games into a much larger operation in college.

Luca wanted out, and Hunter followed suit, but I had grown up dirt-poor and on welfare. No fucking way was I about to give up turning a quick profit. It had taken years of busting my ass to earn enough money to feed and clothe my little sister. Because Lord knows my mother could not stay sober long enough to take care of Sammy.



On my way down the stairs, Hunter comes out from his room in our fraternity house, closing the door behind him, and stops me in the hallway, cornering me so that I can’t move any further.

He clamps his hand down on my shoulder. “Be careful. You could get yourself killed one of these nights.”

“I’ll be fine, bro.” I feign a smile and shrug his hand off. “It’s me you’re talking to, not some teenager driving a slushbox.”

I take a step back, so the drunken girls wobbling past us can get to the bathroom. The sound of rap music thumps through the house, vibrating against my hand as the wall shakes beneath my fingers. Saturday nights at the Delta Sig house are insane, never a dull moment.

For tonight’s theme, someone decided on Risky Business, a popular ’80s movie with Tom Cruise where he dances around his house in a button-down shirt and white socks. Luckily, most of the guys in the house opted for boxers beneath their shirts because no one wants to see their shit on display.

The girls look hot as fuck in the same shirts and socks, making me think of what Teach would look like in my shirt and nothing else.

“You’re not invincible, Mark.”

Hunter has his concerned father face on again, which I deal with every week when I try to walk out of the house alone and to the only place I know of where I can make money without Luca getting involved. But it’s not just the money; it’s also the thrill.

Hunter shakes his head, frustrated. He will never win this fight, not when he came from money and never had to work a day in his life or wonder where his next meal would come from. Nope, he doesn’t have a say when it comes to my livelihood.

“Don’t get distracted again, like last time.”

I pat him on the back, somewhat irritated by the thought of my first and only loss. “I will be fine. Don’t wait up.” Then, I descend the long staircase.

Once I reach the living room, I’m thrown into complete chaos in a sea of college students packed to the brim. Girls are grinding on each other, some of them with their tongues shoved down each other’s throats. Izzie’s legs are wrapped around Luca’s back as he practically humps her on the dance floor. And to think, his girlfriend runs a successful company, yet she doesn’t look like the face of Rinaldi Holdings when she’s at our house, getting shitfaced on the weekends.

A few of my brothers and girls I hooked up with over the years attempt to stop me on my way out of the house. Shaking them off, I push through the crowd, my eyes trained on the door. I don’t stop until my feet hit the front porch, which is littered with red Solo cups, empty beer cans, cigarette butts, and more drunk idiots. I sprint down the steps and across the front lawn.

Missing one of our better parties kind of sucks, but I have to make as much money as I can before school ends. Fumbling with my key ring, I find the key fob, and the lights of my mint-condition Mustang Shelby GT350 illuminate the dark.

The first thing I bought myself with all the money I was making with Luca and Hunter on sports betting was this car. With the help of Luca’s father, I walked away with this black beauty for only half of the price in cash. Even though his father had found out we were running an illegal gambling operation behind his back and was pissed, he still helped me since I was a full-time student with no job on the books. And, when you had the power of Luciano Marchese, people would overlook things like credit checks and proof of income.

Once I make it past the students gathered along the sidewalk, I get into my car and run my hands down the steering wheel. I stick the key into the ignition, hold down the clutch with my left foot, and shift into neutral, the engine purring as I turn the key. My baby hums to life, and I give her some gas, attracting the attention of everyone within a one-mile radius.

One of my favorite things about street racing is that it gives me a reason to open up Lucille—my car and the only woman who doesn’t talk back or drive me crazy. I love this car more than anything I have ever owned. Not that I have had many things of value.

The streets of South Philly are crowded with the Flyers playing at home tonight and the Wells Fargo Center letting out. Taking a left down Pattison Avenue, I shift gears and work my way through the masses of cars and people crossing the street, wearing orange-white-and-black hockey jerseys and gear.