COMPLEMENTARY [GxG]

Chapter 6 | Directly Involved

Riding home in Axel Lugo's car is not how I envisioned I'd spend my afternoon.

My heart's still beating fast. There are bodyguards on our tail, and I don't want to think about how now they'll know exactly where I live. I've more than stepped into Eris' territory—I've faced her father, and now I know he officially disapproves of me.

Axel's car is even flashier than Eris'. It's a sleek black, sitting low to the ground, and neither of us say anything as he drives. I'm sure any girl at my school would love to be driven home by Axel Lugo—in his four years of high school, he earned the reputation of being quite the player. I still don't understand why so many people are attracted to him. I suppose that on an objective level he has some kind of appeal, with his high cheek bones and dark eyes, but what I always paid attention to was his intellect. The way he juggled AP classes while being the president of the chess club and playing on the boys' basketball team.

And I have to admit—it's not my first time in Axel's car.

"What was that all about?" he asks, breaking the silence. "What's this about a loan Iker gave your father?"

"You don't know?" I ask.

"Why would I know? What's going on?"

I don't know why I never told him. I suppose I didn't want to dwell on our fathers' history while I was with him, even though I always find a chance to hold it against Eris. Eris only knows the full story because I've told her. Because my dad told me everything. Otherwise, Iker probably would've kept it secret from her, too.

Maybe I do owe Axel an explanation. So I tell him. I tell him that it started out fine. Iker Lugo was going to be my father's fine art agent and help him sell his paintings. But Iker came up with a scheme. He would use his art connections to build up hype around my father, who was an unknown artist at that time. He inflated the value of his paintings and had these elaborate art shows where they were bought for absurdly high prices. But little did we know at that time, all of Iker's rich friends who were buying the paintings were actually drug lords looking for ways to invest their dirty money. They started using the paintings as collateral in major cocaine and meth trafficking deals from Tijuana to San Diego to Los Angeles, and those same paintings started turning up in drug busts by the Drug Enforcement Association.

That's when things went downhill fast. By that time, my father had built a reputation in the art world as a talented new artist, whose work showcased historical scenes with a surrealistic touch. And the rumors about where he really made his name began. Somehow, throughout it all, Iker's name stayed clean. From what I know, the man is waist deep in illegal gambling and nightclub businesses that serve as cover for laundering drug profits, but he has enough of a legitimate reputation as an art dealer to insulate him. My dad had nothing—only a few connections back in Canada.

And then came the accusations we were working with the cartels. For a few years we were living comfortably with the earnings from the art sales, but then the authorities started investigating us, and the legal fees for a decent lawyer ate away at most of our money.

Thankfully, we didn't get charged with any crimes, but we ended up having to pay a $50,000 fine—a fine that at that time, we could only pay by taking a loan from the devil himself. A loan I'm now working to pay off because my dad no longer paints.

Axel pulls over on the road, gets out of the car, and lights up a cigarette. I don't know what to do, so I step out and stand next to him.

"Why didn't you tell me that before?" he asks.

"Before when?"

"When we were together."

"We were never together, Axel."