Friday Night Alibi

  Now that I’ve barfed all those feelings out, I can look Alex in the face and see a client. Not a friend, not a boyfriend, just a business transaction.

  And I am again, Kelli Pinkins: unattached and making beaucoup bucks. You won’t see me crying over being ignored anymore. Nope.

  I take the bills and tuck them in my skirt pocket. Alex turns his attention back to the bookshelf he’s pretending to look at while we do our transaction process.

  “Will you need me this weekend too?” I ask, grazing the books with my nail. “It’ll be cheaper if you tell me now.”

  He lets out a tiny chuckle. “Unfortunately, no. Brianne is having a girl’s night with her friends. So, no plans.”

  His face falls, and I notice mine totally mirrors his. Uh . . . okay. That is weird. I have a Friday night free. I should be stoked. But, what will I do with myself? Will Chase still want to hang out if I’m not working? Or will he think I’ll have something better to do than spend the night with him? No way am I asking!

  Not that I care about what he thinks or anything. I should have something better to do. Like actually hang out with my BFF.

  But that makes my face fall even more.

  “You don’t need the money, do you?” Alex asks, eyeing me.

  I shake my head and force a laugh. “No.”

  “You look disappointed, that’s all.”

  Better settle for as honest as possible, while leaving Chase out of it. “I’m just thinking about what I can do with my Friday night. It’s not often I get to decide.” I nudge his arm and smile, making sure he knows I’m not blaming him for my loserism.

  “Well, we could hang out.” He puts the book he was holding back on the shelf. “If you want.”

  Glancing at him through my eyelashes, I try to decide if he’s being serious or not. He’s not looking at me though. His eyes are glued to the superinteresting Christian books.

  I go for humor, in case he’s joking. “I don’t know. People will start talking. Almost every Friday night together for the past two months? They’ll assume we’re up to no good.”

  He laughs and nods to my boss, Tammy, behind the register, who quickly shoots her gaze from us to something suddenly interesting on the desk. “I’m pretty sure they already are.”

  Instead of laughing, which was my auto response for whatever he said, my insides curl up into a jumbled ball. “Wait . . . people think we’re, you know, doing things?” I don’t mean for my voice to go all high-pitched and scary, but it does.

  He busts out, nearly keeling over in chuckles. I kick him in the shin. “It’s not funny! No wonder I haven’t been getting any business outside of you.”

  “No, no, Kel, it’s not that.” He straightens and leans against the shelf, moving close and dropping his voice. “No one thinks that. We’re the ‘good kids’ after all. And after you easing my mom’s mind about it, they’re willing to let me hang out with you anytime. Even sent my tuition money after they met you.” His lips tug up at the corners. “So, you’re well worth the money.”

  “She told you about that?” Okay, now I’m laughing.

  “Yeah. We talk about everything. Which is why it’s so hard to keep Brianne a secret.”

  If I was still googly over this guy, I probably would’ve given him a tight hug, and maybe a kiss on the cheek. Something to try to show him I care. Which I suppose I do, since I consider doing those things anyway, but I internally yell at myself for letting him get to me. It’s obvious he’s only a client, and Sades is right. I’m here till he gets the cajones to tell his parents the truth.

  “So,” he says after what seems like forever of awkward silence, “do you want to do something?”

  I smile, still in “boss” mode. “Thanks, but I should really spend time with Sadie. I haven’t hung out with her on a Friday since . . .” Well, since I lost all my hair, ruined my jeans, and met this superannoying guy who said I had a nice butt. And I’m grinning like a fool about it. Holy crap, what is wrong with me?

  “Since . . . ?”

  I shake my head. “Sorry. Spaced out for a second. It’s just been a while.”

  He throws me his All-American-Good-Boy smile. “Well, if you change your mind . . .”

  “You’ll be the first to know.”

  Um, yup, that’s a big fat L-I-E.

  * * *

  After my shift, I have family dinner in silence with the ’rents, who got back from Paris yesterday. We ordered out from Daddy’s restaurant because despite Mom’s efforts, Carrie still caught my cold. Turns out when you change germ riddled sheets, you can still get sick. Who knew?

  So we’ve got Tiffany here, who’s getting paid a buttload to serve us, then clean afterward. Because us rich people can’t do it ourselves.

  I’m not being sarcastic here. Really, I have no idea where anything goes in my kitchen. Except cold stuff equals fridge.

  So, after no chitchat with Mom and Dad—not even to see if I’m feeling better or what I did while they were gone—I crawl upstairs and check my phone for the millionth time.

  Zilch. No missed calls or waiting messages. It’s only Wednesday, so I shouldn’t be pissed, but I am. Didn’t Chase say he’d call? Or was that just my muddy mind at work? I haven’t heard a peep from him since he got showered in lobster bisque and swung over my balcony.

  Oy. I can’t believe I’m Moron obsessed. Must start thinking about all his bad qualities to take my body out of its weird responses to the boy.

  I pull out my laptop and settle on the middle of my bed. It doesn’t even smell like oranges, so wahoo! I’ll be able to concentrate on this Chase-is-a-douchewad list.

  There’s zip on my online stuff too. No Facebook notifications or new emails. Gah, I’m such a loser. But at least I won’t get all depressed about that. Because Kelli Pinkins is happy with being who she is.

  Don’t argue with me.

  I pull up Word and title the doc. Then let my fingers fly.

  Why I, Kelli Pinkins, do not have a thing for Chase (AKA, Moron) Moroney.

  1. His lame moves. Seriously, from space pants to calling Sades to get me to talk to him. This guy thinks he’s the shiz, and he’s so not.

  2. His hairy butt. Yes, I saw it, and dude, nasty. Though, it’s probably not hairy anymore. Mwhahaha!

  3. His age. I don’t know how old he is and he thought I was older than I am. What if our age differences are like SUPER far apart? How do I even bring that up?

  4. He said he’d call and HE HASN’T! What is wrong with him? Is he just messing with me? Making me all hot and bothered by taking care of me when I was sick, giving me a piggyback ride, getting up in my face and squirting pheromones in the form of citrus? I mean, what is he trying to pull . . .

  Ding!

  I jump, nearly knocking the computer off my bed. I toggle over to my open browser, and lookie at that! I have a friend request. Clicking the little icon thing-a-ma-bob, my heart decides to sprout wings and fly around my chest. “Chase Moroney has sent you a friend request. Accept/Decline”

  Does this mean he’s online like, now? Right now, right now? Tucking my bottom lip between my teeth, I hover over the “Accept” button, flicking my eyes to the Word doc I’ve got minimized. This isn’t a phone call. It’s not even a text. It’s about as far away from actually talking to me as possible. This is not “trying hard” behavior. Where’s the guy who brought me goodies and let me sleep on him?

  Not here on Facebook, that’s for sure. Nope! He isn’t getting an “Accept” until he grows the nuts to call me and prove he’s not this pervy college guy who’s after me for who knows why.

  Then why am I still hovering over the darn button?

  I slam the lid on my laptop shut and fall back on my pillows. Maybe I need to make a new list. I can already see the title forming behind my eyelids as I close them.

  Why I, Kelli Pinkins, am in total denial.

  Chapter 18

  Friday morning, and still nothing from Moron. And you know how pathetic I am? I’m loo
king for clients. I’m asking my oldies, my newbies, anyone who’s needed me at one point or another to see if they need me tonight. I’m having a special: half off!

  Because I’m completely messed in the head.

  Here’s my theory though, and I think it’ll work. Chase is just hanging out with me for that kiss he thinks he’s gonna get. So, maybe, if I give in and smack one on him, he’ll leave me alone and I can move right along with my good old life. No more of these mushy gushy feelings.

  See, I’m not stupid or going all boy crazy over this guy. I’m being logical.

  And I’ll blow raspberries at anyone who’s going to argue with me on this.

  “Half off?” Layla says as she puts the new shipment of books on the shelf. “So, like fifty bucks for the entire night?”

  I nod, smiling wide. “That’s right. The whole night if you want. Slumber party packet, which is usually two hundred, by the way. So I’m actually giving you seventy-five percent off.”

  Layla’s eyes get all excited as she pulls out her phone. “Give me two seconds!”

  Oh I so have this. And yes, I’m taking a major dive in profit, but just think what it’ll do for me and her. Like, she’ll keep coming back once she finds out how awesome spending a night with her boy is. Addictive too.

  Not that I’m saying I’m addicted to that sort of thing. That’s not what this is about.

  I watch her yapping on her cell, getting more and more fidgety and giddy by the second. When she comes back, her wallet is already out.

  “Deal! Thanks, Kel!”

  I hand her the packet, she hands me the money. You can say it, I’m a genius.

  She squeezes my shoulders and sprints off to Tammy’s office, probably telling her she wants to leave early. I can’t help but chuckle after her. Ah, the sweet beginning of dovey love. Nothing but dollar signs for me, and bliss for them.

  Oh! And a night in my room. I’ve got to call Sades and let her know I’m working. And since Moron refuses to call me, he’ll hear it from her, I’m sure.

  As soon as I lock the bookstore up, my phone is against my ear.

  “Hey, girl!” Sadie answers.

  “Sup, my Sades?”

  “Just getting ready to have my best girlfriend over for a normal Friday.”

  “About that . . .”

  “Kelli . . .” Her voice drops an octave. “You’re cancelling on me tonight, aren’t you?”

  “Sorry. Layla needed me. Can I please get a raincheck? Like, tomorrow will be perfect.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” She sighs. “Are you just hanging in your room? I’ll come over and we can watch a movie or something.”

  “No!” The two people in the parking lot jump from my outburst. Whoops! “Sorry, I mean, no thanks. I know how boring that is for you.”

  “Yes . . . but I miss being with my best friend, you know.”

  Grr. She’s going to make me say it. “I miss you too, but I just, want to be alone tonight.”

  “Why?”

  “No reason.”

  “Liar.”

  “Sades . . .”

  “Come on, you can do it.”

  “What?”

  “Admit you’re looking forward to some Chase time.”

  Not looking forward to it, no. I’m going to fix the problem. I do not get attached to anyone. It leaves me wallowing in bed when I’m sick. I’m just fine with the way things are . . . were . . . before Moron popped in. Still being needed enough, but not too much, so it doesn’t suck complete cannonballs when they don’t need me anymore. And there’s no way she’ll understand that one.

  “Ew, no.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Knock it off, or I’ll barf on you.” I laugh. “And I won’t even offer you my shirt to drive home in.”

  “Okay, okay,” she says. “I’ll stop bugging you about it.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  We both laugh and she gives me a quick, “Gotta run, driving now, talk to ya later.” And we hang up.

  Love that girl, but sometimes I wish I could smack her one.

  Mom and Dad are at least dependable in one way. Gone on the weekends, even if they did just get back from a major trip. This weekend, they went south to try out some new menu items for the restaurant. They left a wad of cash for me as a goodbye. I stuffed it into one of those save a penny things at the first WalMart I found. It was either that or flush it down the can. I figure someone should benefit from crap-pappy parents.

  Carrie is still sniffly when I open the door and catch her vacuuming the drapes. At least she’s on her feet.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Kelli.”

  “Hey.”

  She turns the vacuum off and wraps up the cord. “I’m about done with all the chores, and dinner is made. Would you mind if I leave early to get some rest?”

  “You know I don’t mind.”

  She smiles. “Thank you, dear. Dinner is on the third shelf in the fridge. Chicken salad, so just take it out and dig in.”

  “Thanks.”

  My feet go on autopilot straight to the kitchen, then up to my room. There could be a complete remodel going on somewhere, and I’d never know. Probably won’t notice the change either. Just go into a room I haven’t been in forever and say, “Uh . . . is there something different?” And Carrie would say, “Yes. This bathroom used to be a closet.”

  I know it’s pointless, but I check my phone anyway. No calls, no messages . . . wait. I do have a Facebook message, but I hate checking that stuff on my cell. Autocorrect has put my foot in my mouth way more than a keyboard.

  Before settling in, I strip off my work uniform, take a shower, and get into my sports bra, cami, and lounger bottoms. Friday night attire . . . well, I added the bra. Usually let the boobies hang loose, but with a possibility of Moron making another balcony appearance, better make sure they’re strapped in.

  Still no calls. But I’ve got my dinner, Twizzlers, and I’ve peeled a few of those oranges and put the slices in a bowl. Not too shabby!

  I pull out the laptop and click on the little one by the message bubble thingy. It’s from Chase, and that popcorn starts brewing in my stomach. I shut it up by dousing it with a swallow of salad.

  Still wondering if you want to be my friend?

  I roll my eyes, and open up the friend requests page. Before I can overthink it, I click “Accept” and go straight to his timeline.

  Picture time!

  Don’t judge me. Everyone does this.

  His profile pic is so cocky. He’s wearing black—no surprise there—and wearing sunglasses and doing that annoying smirk at the camera and giving some sort of weird peace sign with his hand. Like he’s a wannabe, überwhite gangsta. I let out a huge laugh, until I see the comments.

  40 people like this

  MaryAnne Jenkins: HOT STUFFFFFF!!!!

  Jenny Weckler: *wipes drool off keyboard*

  Nicole Hausman: Wow, Chase! When did you grow the goatee? Sexy!

  Traci Hart: Aw, u should have used the one w/o ur shirt on.

  Callie Kartneck: get over here NOW! I mean it! I miss my Chasey.

  I stop there, but trust me, there’s a lot more. And doesn’t look like from any guys either. I knew he was a total player, but it’s different seeing all the evidence. Traci . . . I wonder if that’s the same girl he was with when I called him.

  Suddenly, I feel like puking popcorn and chucking the orange slices out the window. Like, rule number one for any girl should be not to fall for the guy who will go for any girl.

  Not that I’m falling for him. Just a weird infatuation crush type thing.

  I blow out a breath and click the next picture.

  Ugh. Now they are in the pics with him. Four Barbie girls all swarmed up against his legs, his arms, his chest . . . yeah, I can’t look at it.

  The next picture is him and a little boy, which I assume is his brother. It’s in black and white, professionally taken, probably. The boy is like, five, and Chase is younger, no stubble. Maybe my age, but
I’m horrible at guessing ages. The boy is snuggled in Chase’s lap, hitting him over the head with a stuffed penguin. Chase is laughing, and he’s way hotter in this pic than the other one. I want to comment on it, but when I check out what’s there already, my fingers go on strike over the keyboard.

  32 people like this

  Kurt Harris: Nice pic, man. Sorry about your loss.

  Rami Moroney: Love this one of you two. You were so patient with him.

  Steph Leon:
  Traci Hart: Beautiful. Call me if u need n e thing.

  James Bensen: Sorry about your loss. Robbie was a great kid. He’ll be missed.

  All fifty-seven comments are like that, full of sympathy and good wishes. And I find myself gazing at the picture, trying not to cry. I hover over the face of the little boy, to see if his name is tagged. It’s not. But I’m not an idiot. He must be Robbie, and Chase is obviously close to him.

  Was close to him.

  My finger goes to the screen, and I stroke the little boy’s brown locks as if I can feel them through the computer.

  “Stinky, what am I going to do with you?”

  Chapter 19

  I jolt back, slamming the lid to my laptop and sending my Twizzlers to the floor. Chase shrugs out of his black jacket and parks himself on the plush couch across the room. He crosses his legs, and puts his hands behind his head like he didn’t just barge in on me online stalking him.

  “Uh, what?” My tone goes innocent, and I pray to the high heavens he didn’t see what I was looking at.

  “Security system,” he says, pointing to the keypad on the wall. “You ever going to listen to me?”