“Thanks, Kelli.”
Huh, maybe this is so much more to him than just saving his trust fund. Or the majority of it I guess, since he’s still paying me. Poor sucker is in lovey dove love. And he just wants to spend time with his babe without seeing her get hurt and judged by his snooty pa-tooty parents.
Yikes, I’m getting all rhymey and stuff over it, and he’s just hugging me.
Stupid emotions. Alex and I aren’t friends. Not really. He’s a client. I shrug from his hold and try to clear my face from whatever the crap just happened. Does he have to hug me every time we make a . . . deal?
“Seriously, Alex. I’m just doing my job.”
“Well, I appreciate it. One of these days I’ll get the balls to tell my parents about Brianne, but I doubt it’ll be anytime soon. You’re a lifesaver, Kelli Pinkins. Really.”
His mouth quirks up at the side and for the first time, I actually think he’s kind of, sort of . . . yummy looking. Which is totally stupid! First off, he’s got a girlfriend. Second, he doesn’t actually want to spend time with me at all. The only times we meet are when he needs me, and then we fake it the rest of the time.
So, yummy or not, this is a dangerous thought pattern and I take a fly swatter to all those butterflies that just flew around my stomach.
“Uh, better get going home.” I attempt a smile. “I’ll bring the packet to the club tomorrow, if you’ll be there.”
“Yeah, I’ll be around.”
He looks like he’s going in for another hug, so I bolt toward my car, calling back at him.
“See you then!”
Oy. All this unwanted attention. What’s a girl to do?
* * *
“No way!” Sades jumps to her feet on my bed and tackles me. “You are not getting out of this one.” Her arms lock around my shoulders, pinning me down on the pillows. She waves her hair on my face, tickling my nostrils. I’m laughing and trying to tell her to get off, but she’s cutting off my airway.
“Okay . . . you . . . have . . . to . . . get . . . off!” I manage to gasp through giggles.
“Fine.” She hops off with a smile and an expectant waggle of her eyebrows. “Tell me what happened.”
I lick my lips and adjust myself on the bed to sit cross-legged and comfy. Let’s hope I can get through this without laughing my face off, or gagging till I puke. Since those are the mix of emotions I have when I think about what happened at the spa.
After I relay the waxing story, and the resulting crap that spewed from Moron’s mouth afterward, Sadie’s wiping her eyes free from the tears of laughter and shaking her head.
“Oh, Kel. It’s started.”
“What’s started?”
Hugging a pillow to her chest and sighing, she says, “Your epic romance!”
Okay, made it through the story without puking, but I may not make it through this conversation. I swallow back the rising bile in my throat.
“You did not just say that.”
Her head bobs up and down and she sighs again. “I betcha it’ll happen before the end of the month.” She flops down on the bed and grins at the ceiling. Her baby doll eyes have that gagworthy lovey sparkle. “Chase and Kelli. Hmm . . . Challi.” She giggles and flips over on her stomach, catching the look of disgust on my face.
“Ew.”
She rolls her eyes at the same time as me. I’m so not arguing with her on this one. I may lose my dinner if she keeps throwing me those dreamy eyes and sighing every second. Moron is not a fawn-over-and-drool love interest. Oh, barf . . . he’s not a love interest. He’s a freaking pervert who’s probably got another girl in his bed right now. Someone who fell for that awful “space pants” pick-up line.
A chill creeps up my spine and I get off the bed to hide the fact I’m thinking about that idiot. He doesn’t deserve to be the center of my thoughts right now. I blame Sades. She started this whole stupid thing.
“Have you figured out how old he is?” she asks, taking her lip gloss out and slabbing some on.
“I don’t know, and I don’t care.”
“Good for you. Age shouldn’t stand in the way of true love.”
It’s my turn to tackle her, and I wish I had my long locks so I could tickle her nostrils too, but a good elbow in the boob gets her back. She grunts, laughs, and holds her chest and pleads, “Stop! Stop! I’ll be nice!”
I get off the bed and victory dance. She shakes her head at me, still rubbing her boob. And as promised, we avoid all Moron topics, and go through my massive closet, trying on dresses and swim suits and all other really girly things. She leaves with a bag of my clothes, which she promises she’ll return, but I know that’s just something she says to ease the guilt of her taking them permanently. She still has my Barbie backpack from second grade.
I walk her to her car, give her a hug and a butt smack, which she does at the same time to me, and say, “See you tomorrow.”
“Yup.” She climbs behind the wheel and starts the car. Then her face turns into that evil one she gives me when something embarrassing is about to come out her mouth. “When you and Chase kiss, you owe me ice cream.”
Before I can smack her, she squeals out of my driveway, out my front gate, and zooms down the street.
Chapter 7
THE ICE CREAM CONTRACT
Your best friend in the whole world is the first person you tell when you get your first kiss from a new guy. And you do not say a word! You buy ice cream that describes the kiss for your best bud. Was it French Vanilla? S’more Please? Starlight Mint?
You must dish out the ice cream, then dish about the kiss. You may then spread the gossip if you want. But the best friend is bound to secrecy about the details.
-I mean it, Sades! You can’t be a big mouth!
-Lips are totally sealed!
The ice cream must be exchanged the day after the event occurred. If this rule is not followed, the best friend is allowed to say you kissed Bobby Morgan. And you liked it!
-That means you, Kelli! THE DAY AFTER!
-You play dirty. Okay, okay.
This contract goes into effect as soon as the signees kiss the back of their hands and cross them over their hearts.
Kelli Pinkins (Kissed and crossed!)
Sadie Poulsen (Crossed and kissed!)
I finger our signatures, laughing a bit. We were twelve when we wrote this. Bobby Morgan was the world’s snottiest preteen. Always wiping his nose with the back of his hand and talking with a bunch of spit in his mouth. He’s outgrown that, and he has a supercute girlfriend he met in Paris last year. She came to see him over the summer and Bobby has never been more desirable to the girls of Sundale.
I tuck the contract back into my journal and laugh again. Sades and I have known each other since babyhood, but weren’t BFFs till we were forced to sit next to each other in grade school because it was alphabetical. I thank the heavens every day that Sades’ last name starts with P.
Since the contract was started, Sades has owed me ice cream twelve times, and I’ve owed her three. She was quite the lip whore two years ago, but then she met Kaleb.
Kaleb was number twelve, and his ice cream was Cinnamon Buns. The ice cream was really nasty, but the story Sades told . . . yeah, even me, the girl who doesn’t get mushy over this stuff, was swooning in my chair. And I give the guy major props for having the balls to go for a butt grab on the first kiss.
That was the year I was Sadie’s alibi for almost every Friday night. Up until Kaleb moved, breaking my girl’s heart. I know she’s still feeling the effects of it because that was an epic romance.
The sun dips behind the mountains out my window, plunging my room into a grayish dark. Instead of turning on my overhead lights, I click on the TV and Xbox. The second I see ChazTazXX4 online, my headset slides over my ear.
I send him an invite to get his butt crushed and I don’t have to wait long at all before his voice comes through the earpiece and Call of Duty flashes on the screen.
“Happy Fr
iday Night,” he says, and I know I’ve never seen this guy, still don’t even know his real name, but I can totally tell he’s smiling. Which puts a dorky smile on my face, because he saves my sanity every weekend.
“Ready for another round?” I take a sip of my Coke and then settle my fingers on the controller.
“Why don’t we play co-op this week?”
I laugh. “Scared?”
He chuckles through his own beverage of choice. Some stupid part of me wonders what he’s drinking. I never ask. I thought I was pretty open when I told him why I was home most Fridays, and he said he’s just a loser with no friends. Other than that, we don’t really talk about our lives. We play Xbox together to escape them.
And because I don’t like feeling all by myself in my loserism, it’s only made me like him more. Even if he is some old fat dude in disguise, at least we have something in common.
Friday nights alone.
“All right. But I’ll warn you, I’ve been practicing.”
I roll my eyes and start playing. He dies five seconds later.
“You’ve been what now?” The smirk is totally in my voice, and he knows it. He laughs and once his character reincarnates, he runs out of range.
We play a good fifteen minutes with little conversation. Just a few frustrated growls from me when I can’t find him, and laughter from him.
“So,” he says, dodging a grenade I launched, “why’d you have to run off last week?”
“Oh.” That’s right, I did bail pretty fast. “One of my buds came over, dragged me out of the house.”
“Weren’t you . . . you know . . . working?”
“Yeah. But that didn’t stop her from kidnapping me. And I almost got caught.” I shake my head and throw another grenade. “Don’t worry. I won’t disappear like that again. Not. Worth. It.”
“No biggie. I went out too when you went offline. It was . . . interesting.”
My smile spreads as I see his character go behind some crates. Maybe he’s losing concentration. Keep distracting him, Kelli!
“What happened?”
He lets out a small laugh. “Went to a bowling alley. Tried flirting with this girl. Blew up in my face.”
Ha, sounds familiar.
Wait . . .
“You were at a bowling alley last week?”
“Yeah . . .”
My fingers freeze over the controls. No. There’s no way. ChazTaz is too cool. And he’s not a complete lame-a-zoid. There has to be a million different bowling alleys, and who’s to say this guy even lives near the one I went to. Coincidence. My character starts running again and I say, “Small world.”
“What do you mean?”
I push Y to get my gun out—M9—sneaking around the crates I know he’s ducking under.
“Went to a bowling alley, too.”
He chuckles, and I go to shoot, but he’s not there anymore. “Did you end up feeling like a complete jackhole like me?”
“No, but I met one. Does that count?”
“Some guy hit on you?”
Do I detect a hint of jealousy? I smile and run my character back to my original position, hoping I’ll find where he went off to. “Yes. Threw some ridiculous line at me. Then hit on my friend.”
“Dick.”
“Yeah.”
It’s quiet again, and I finally spot him. He’s toast! I pull out the sniper rifle and start crawling across the roof I’m on.
“Hmm,” he says, breaking my concentration.
“What?”
“What was it?”
Huh? “What was what?”
“The line. You said that guy fed you a line. What was it?”
I line up my shot, ready to peg him in the back. “Oh, something really lame about my butt being in space pants or something.”
My finger goes to RT, but I drop the controller at the next word that comes through the headset.
“Stinky?”
My whole chest tightens and my stomach goes right out my toes. As if my life needed this right now. The person who knows what I really do on Friday nights is the person who pisses me off more than anyone else in the whole world.
I don’t even see the grenade landing next to my character until it blows up. The screen asks me if I want to join back in.
Being the churchgoer I am, the profanity that slips from my mouth even surprises me.
He laughs. And that’s when I hear it. That slimy, disgusting, arrogant, I-just-want-to-smack-you laugh coming through a big irritating smirk, I’m sure. How the heck did I not notice it?
Burying back the tears creeping behind my eyes, I snap the Xbox off, TV too, and sit in the dark, trying to get rid of all the anger and embarrassment swirling around in my chest.
He knows. Chase the freaking manwhore—Moron! He knows how pathetic my life really is. How I spend every Friday night playing video games and pretending to be out on dates with other people. Getting his body hair waxed off will be nothing compared to what’s coming to me, I’m sure of it. He could ruin it all. Tell the whole world what I do, and poof! There goes Kelli Pinkin’s business. There goes the only interaction she has with anybody besides Sadie.
And there goes my money.
I slam my head into my pillow and leave it there, hoping against all hope this is just one big nasty nightmare.
* * *
Thunk!
Yikes! What the heck was that? My sleepy eyes won’t adjust fast enough, but I catch the shadowy figure cross the center of my room.
Grabbing the first thing I can—my hairbrush—I scream bloody murder and chuck it with all my might.
“Ay!”
I know that sound of pain. I heard it a hundred and fifty times on Monday.
“Moron?” I click on the light and both of us block our faces with our hands. “Holy crap, what are you doing in my room?”
Now that our eyes have adjusted to the light, his eyebrow cocks upward and his dang smirk smacks on his face. There’s a big red mark across his forehead from the brush I threw, and he’s breathing hard, like he ran the whole way here. He shoves his hands in his black jeans and says, “So you’re the Friday Night Girl.”
My lips press in a thin line and I cover my braless top half with one of my many pillows. He’s not getting a look at the nippies through my cami.
“Answer me, Moron.”
“You got offline so fast. I wasn’t done talking to you.”
“And you thought it was okay to just hop into my room?” Wait . . . “How did you know this was my room? Are you one of those nasty stalkers on top of being an idiotic pervert?”
He smiles. Does this guy get off on insults?
“I followed the stink lines coming from the balcony.”
“Oh ha ha. Your wit astounds me.”
He shifts, and for the first time ever, he looks uncomfortable. Good. He should be uncomfortable. Barging in my bedroom and scaring the crap out me. Adjusting his black hoodie, he settles on the plushy chair by my mini fridge.
“Nah. I knocked and no one answered, so I found an open window.”
“That’s illegal, you know.”
Stupid grin is back on. Ooh. I’d like to knock his teeth into his throat!
“Call the cops.”
I almost stick my tongue out, but he’d probably take that as an invitation. “What do you want?”
He shrugs. “A truce.”
“A truce?”
“Yup.” He looks at the ceiling like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. “You let the whole mooning thing at the club go, and I’ll keep my trap shut about what you do on Friday nights for all those . . . ” He puts his fingers in quotes. “ . . . ‘good’ friends of yours.”
“They’re not friends,” I spit. “They’re clients. And they are good people.”
His hands slide into his hoodie pocket. “Well, then, you wouldn’t want the truth to get out, yeah?”
Even though he’s totally blackmailing me, it’s not a bad deal. I don’t want to de
al with the club anyway. Probably all these forms and crap. Blah. And it wasn’t exactly like he started it. I was the one who aced that tennis ball right in the hole. No pun intended.
But he should think this is killing me. If I’m all happy pappy about it, he’ll take back this whole thing and probably use my alibi status to get back at me for having his butt waxed. Better put on the acting hat.
My eyes lock with his. He sits there waiting for me to answer him, his smile fading and his butt moving to the edge of the couch. He really does look like Joseph Gordon Levitt. Especially with this puppy dog look he’s got right now. I still haven’t decided what color eyes he has. Right now, they are more gray and green, less blue. But at the club last week, I could’ve sworn they were more blue than gray.
I shake my head and close my eyes. What the crap? I probably look like a giant idiot. But Moron doesn’t say anything. It’s like he didn’t even notice me analyzing his face.
“No, I don’t want that.” Running my hand through my boyish hair, I let out a frustrated breath. “I guess you have a deal.”
Chapter 8
I’m having an I-miss-my-hair day. Staring at my hairband hanging on the hook inside the locker at the club, my bottom lip juts out and I let out a tiny whine. Normally on tennis days, I run a brush through the strands and pull them up in a high ponytail. Totally easy, right?
Now I have to freaking style my hair every day if I want it to look good. Whoever says short hair is easier is in denial. I bet they say it so all their long-haired friends go and chop theirs off. Misery loves company and all that.
I blow out a breath and slam my locker door shut. I will not let my hair ruin my tennis practice.
Mrs. Twilliger, the club owner, pulled me aside right before I went to change. Conversation pretty much went like, “Are you okay? Can you tell us who it was who harassed you?” I say, “I’m fine, and it’s not a big deal. Just a joke that got out of hand.” She says, “Are you sure?” I say, “Yup. Won’t happen again.”
All of this was full of fake smiles and oozing faux sincerity. But at least I didn’t get yanked in a room to talk about the event in detail.