Page 45 of His Playground

“Boys are gross and have germs anyway,” I add.

“I don’t think that’s true. Does your boyfriend have germs?” Jazzy asks Georgia.

“Good question. I should probably ask him, huh?” Georgia laughs.

“I have no doubt he has more germs than any human should have,” I mutter under my breath.

I walk the girls to the elevator and wait for the doors to close them inside before turning back around.

“Hey, Jazz, how about you go get out of that dress, and I’ll pop it straight in the wash to try to save it from the dirt?” I suggest.

She runs off to her room.

“What happened?” I ask Carlo as soon as we’re alone.

“We need to lock down. You and Jasmine cannot leave this apartment,” he says, without answering my question.

“Why?”

He seems to consider his words for a moment. “We were attacked outside the Royal.”

“Attacked how?”

“Does it matter? We’re fine. I don’t want you to worry, Antonia. I just need you to stay here. Don’t leave unless it’s with me,” he says.

“Attacked how, Carlo?” I follow him into the bedroom.

“We were shot at.” He sighs.

My heart skips a beat, my stomach drops, and my body goes cold. “You were shot at…” I repeat.He was shot at. Jazzy was shot at. What the actual hell?

“Babe, we are fine. I’m going to find the bastard and show the whole fucking city what happens when they endanger the life of my daughter.”

“Jazzy, oh my god, Carlo! How is she acting like nothing happened?” I whisper to him.

“I don’t know.” He takes off his shirt and throws it on the floor. “She didn’t scream. Didn’t make a single sound.”

“What? How?” I remember the first time someone shot at my father’s car when I was inside. I screamed. It was bulletproof.Nothing got through. But I still thought I was going to die. I was thirteen.

“I don’t know,” he says. “She seems fine, though, right?”

No.

“I’m sure she will be,” I say instead of what I really think. Right now, he doesn’t need the added stress. “I think maybe she should talk to someone, a specialist. Just to make sure she’s okay?”

“Yeah, probably,” he says. But in our world, we don’t see therapists. We don’t trust outsiders with our deepest, darkest thoughts.

“What do you need me to do?” I ask him. “How can I help?”

“I’m going to get Lailani to come and sit with Jazzy. I need to go out,” he says.

He’s going after the shooter. I get it. It’s what he has to do. I don’t like it, though.

“I can watch her, you know,” I offer.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I tell him. “We’ll have a girls’ day in.” I smile, even though I’m an anxious ball of energy inside. I walk over to him, reach up, and cup his cheeks. My lips press against his. I know the gesture takes us both by surprise. “Make sure you come home. Preferably without any holes in you.”