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“The girl that just came in here?” I gave my head a shake. “Wrong girl, David.” Gas splashed a shelf of postcards.

“I’m calling the cops.” The clerk’s voice shook. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed he didn’t reach for the phone. I glanced at the man to see he was focused on my forearm—on the ace of spades tattooed on the inside.

An amused breath escaped me. “I swear, this lack of anonymity ruins all my fucking fun. Should’ve never gotten the tat.”

“I didn’t know,” the clerk blurted. “I didn’t fucking know who she was!”

“I wanted your hand,” I said, walking down aisles, sloshing gasoline on shelves, cooler doors, the rack of porn mags. “But that’s a fucking mess, really. Don’t have the right knife on me to do a good job.”

The clerk stood, frozen and sweating.

“You got insurance, David?”

He swallowed. “Of course.”

The smell of gasoline fumes consumed the gas station. I tossed the now-empty can on the floor and grabbed a Zippo lighter off a shelf. Ironically enough, one with the ace of spades on the sides. I thought for a moment about the location and class of the joint. “Hartford?”

“Y-yeah.”

I placed a cigarette between my lips, a dark smile pulling on the corners. “The correct answer is you had insurance.”

“Wait,” he pleaded. “Fuck, I’m sorry. Let me apologize—”

His words became white noise in my head, a gurgling, annoying sound. Standing in front of the glass doors, I lit the cigarette between my lips. A cherry glowed at the end, and nicotine flowed through my blood.

With the lazy, autocratic stare I was known for, I told the wild-eyed, frozen clerk, “If you got a back door, you better find it.”

A breath of smoke from my lips and the clerk was gone, slipping on gasoline all the way to the back room. Before he reached it, I flicked my cigarette to the laminate, silently hoping David wasn’t quicker than he looked.

The bell dinged above my head as the old glass doors shut behind me. I slipped my hands into my pockets. Cool mist hit my face while the heat of a fire brushed my back.

The old Pronto lit up like a fucking Christmas tree.

“Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter.”

—John Keats

“PAPÀ, I’D APPRECIATE IT IF next time you would send anyone—anyone at all—but Nicolas to pick me up.”

I stood in my papà’s office doorway, my duffel bag hanging from my shoulder. As soon as Nicolas had pulled into the driveway and I’d seen my father was home, I’d hopped out of the car and came straight here.

I had already been humiliated enough by the incident. I wasn’t a girl who wanted to be saved or avenged. I just wanted to forget about it and put it behind me. But I couldn’t do that because Nicolas had burned the entire gas station down. There would always be charred remains—and possibly a body—reminding me. I’d never seen the cashier come out. Sure, he was a disgusting creep, but did he deserve to burn to death? My throat tightened.

Papà set his pen down and gave me his “I’m listening” expression for the first time in a long time. “And why is that?”

I crossed my arms, saying simply, “He’s psychotic, Papà.”

At that moment, my back tingled in awareness, and my father’s gaze coasted above my head. Apparently, Nicolas now came in and out of my house like he owned it.

I hadn’t said a word to him the rest of the drive home, though he’d hardly tried to instigate a conversation. Between him threatening me about Tyler, kind of kissing him, and watching the gas station light up in my side-view mirror as we drove away, I was more frustrated than I’d ever been.

That kiss had made me hotter for more than I’d ever felt before, and he hadn’t even touched me. I hated how it made me feel. How it made me realize that the man whose life I’d ruined was based on a meaningless, even passionless, motivation.

Papà’s brows rose when he took in my words, and then, surprisingly, he laughed. “Well, Ace, I’ve never heard such an accusation from my daughter. What do you have to say about it?”

Nicolas stood so close my ponytail brushed his chest. He had no boundaries, I noticed with annoyance, while at the same time I tried to ignore the heady pull to step backward until my back touched his front.

“The cashier groped her,” he said indifferently. “So I burned down his place of business . . . and maybe him.”