The kind of chills you get when something that you can’t pinpoint inside of you knows intuitively that something bad is about to happen. Johnny is bad news. That much I know for certain. But this? This feels . . . more sinister. “Leave, Johnny.” “Oh, don’t be like that, Lola. I thought we were friends.” His voice is sickly sweet, his thick North Jersey accent making a mockery of the kind words. “I don’t even know you. All I know is that, once again, my father fucked up, and once again, I’m being forced to make it better.” “I’d like you to make it better.” Acid burns in my throat.
