Don Winslow - The Kings Of Cool

Not, like, wanting him to.

Like, wanting him not to.

Quarterback offered her an alternative. “At least blow me.”

He started to push her down to her knees.

Your nuts can’t lift weights.

Okay, maybe they can, maybe you’re that guru who nut-lifts five-pound stones from the Ganges, or you’re that guy who wins the Darwin Award on YouTube and becomes an eRoom legend, but as a rule there are no reps you can do to strengthen your junk against a well-placed knee delivered with bad intent.

Which O had.

Which O did.

She just cocked that knee back and let fly and then Quarterback was on the sand on his knees and O should have walked away right there, but she paused to admire her handiwork and Quarterback lunged and cracked her one in the side of the face.

O was stunned.

He grabbed her by the front of her shirt, took her down, and fell on top of her. His junk was hurting way too much for him to focus on his original intent, but now he was in a rage-all he wanted to do was hurt her, and he pressed her down into the sand and pummeled her ribs. She could hardly breathe, her head was still whirling, and she knew she was in big trouble.

Except not.

Because suddenly she felt the weight literally being lifted off her and this one guy had QB by the neck and another was pulling her to her feet.

Ben asked, “Are you okay?”

“Do I look okay?” O answered.

Ben said that she didn’t.

“Did this guy hit you?” Chon asked.

They didn’t recognize each other. It had been years since the school in the canyon. O just vaguely recognized them as seniors.

“Yeah.”

Chon shook his head at QB and said, “Not cool.”

QB was jacked up and a little overconfident from the gym and the fact that five of his boys rolled in just now to back him up so he actually said, “Mind your own fucking business, asshole.”

Then he grabbed O by the front of her shirt like he was going to haul his property away.

Chon’s kick came up and snapped QB’s elbow like a Popsicle stick.

QB went down screaming.

None of his boys wanted any piece of Chon after that, so they picked QB up and carried him down the beach.

Chon stood there, breathing, coming down from the adrenaline.

“Do you have a name?” Ben asked the girl.

“O.”

“O.”

“It’s really Ophelia,” O admitted.

“I’m Ben. This is Chon.”

Yes, O thought.

Yes it is.

My magic boy.

Yeah, except the magic boy was fucked.

Not enough voodoo in the world to pull him out of this shit.

The starting quarterback wasn’t gonna start-not next season, maybe not ever with that broken wing-and his family had considerable swag in Orange County. You put that up against the son of a dope dealer with a bad track record of his own and Chon was going to jail.

Maybe prison, because he’d just turned eighteen.

O wanted to stick up for him. Said she’d press charges against QB-for sexual assault, battery, her mom knew lawyers who would help him, but Chon told her not to.

A survivor of the high school experience, he knew what she couldn’t-as a freshman, her high school life was already going to be miserable. If she took his side in this thing the whole school was going to make her into the slut, the cocktease who got the star QB injured, who ruined the season. It was going to be bad enough as it was; there was no sense in making it worse.

He told her to let it go as just a fight on the beach.

Ben talked him into going to see his dad.

Here’s why this was maybe not Ben’s best idea.

Here’s a story about Chon and his dad:

Chon’s mom took off the day John came home from prison, but she came back a few days later on the pretext of picking up her juicer but really just to bust balls.

Bad timing, because John was coked up and pissed off and the two of them got into a fight. Not an argument-a fight — and John pushed her up against the wall and raised his hand.

Fourteen-year-old Chon stepped in.

Shoved his dad aside and yelled, “Leave my mom alone!”

John smirked. “What? You a man now? You the man?”

Chon stood his ground.

Which was a mistake because John hit him with a closed fist, right in the face. Chon’s head snapped back with the impact. Chon put his hands up and rushed forward, but, as Taylor screamed, John beat the uncouth piss out of his kid. Pushed him backward over the arm of the sofa and punched him in the face, the head, and the body. Rolled him onto the floor and kicked him a few times. And when Taylor tried to pull him off he turned on her.

Chon tried to get up off the floor but couldn’t, and finally his mom ran out the door. John came back, loomed over Chon, and said, “Don’t you ever raise your hand to me again. You give me respect.”

Chon didn’t call the cops or Child Protective Services. What he did was, he waited for his old man to pass out that night, then quietly opened his father’s bureau drawer, found his. 38, and pressed the barrel into John’s temple.

Big John’s eyes opened.

“You touch me again,” Chon said, “I’ll wait until you’re asleep and splatter your brains all over the wall.”

Big John blinked.

Chon pulled back the hammer.

“Unless you want me to do it right now,” he offered.

Big John slowly shook his head.

Chon eased the hammer down, put the gun back in the drawer, and went to his room.

His father never laid a hand on him again.

So John smirked when he heard Chon’s story about snapping the quarterback’s arm.

“Still defending damsels in distress,” he said. “So what do you want from me?”

“You have lawyers.”

“I do?” John asked, smiling. “Why would you think I have lawyers?”

Chon looked him straight in the eyes. “Because you’re a drug dealer.”

“Was,” John corrected. “I was a drug dealer. I paid my debt to society, as they say. Now I put roofs on people’s houses.”

“Right.”

John got himself a beer and offered one to Chon, who refused. John shrugged and said, “If you’re man enough to get yourself in this kind of trouble, Chon, you’re man enough to get yourself out. You want some advice about how to get by in the joint, I can give you that: never accept a favor or a gift because you’ll end up paying with your ass.”

“Personal experience?” Chon asked.

John said, “Here’s what you do, kid-you go join the navy, get your ass out of town. There, I helped you.”

Chon left and found Ben.

Ben drove him down to San Diego.

Now, in bed, O tells Chon all about her plan to find her father.

Chon listens to the whole thing, then asks, “What good will it do?”

“What do you mean?”

Chon shrugs. “I know my father, and I wish I didn’t.”

The call comes in the morning.

Ben detaches his arm from beneath Kari’s brown shoulder and picks up the phone.

Hears.

“You reading the New York Times?”

Ben, sleepy: “Not yet.”

“Well, try the Orange County Register instead, Mr. Untouchable.”

Ben doesn’t get the Register

(too Republican).

Runs down the street to a news rack, inserts his quarters, and pulls out a paper.

Front page, above the fold:

TWO FOUND DEAD IN MISSION VIEJO

There’s a photo of a blood-stained car.

A Volvo.

Frantically, Ben reads-“Names are being withheld pending notification…”

But he thinks he recognizes the car.

He gets his phone out and hits Scott Munson’s number. It rings six times, then Scott’s voice comes on. “You know the drill. Leave a message. Later. Scott.”