And don’t try to butt in and tell me it was fake. I know that. Let me live in a fantasy world right now.
“Okay, what are you—” Whoops! She’s on the phone.
Sades smiles, covers the receiver and whispers, “Take Chase downstairs to the theater. I’ll be there in a sec.”
I give her a face, but she points a disciplining finger which says she’ll pull out the “Kelli” name and the church stuff if I don’t just do it. Blowing raspberries, I spin around and go get Moron. At least we’ll be watching a movie in Sades’ home theater room. I won’t have to sit right next to him.
“Hey, get up,” I say, kicking his black no-name-brand shoes. “Sades wants us to meet her downstairs.”
He stands and I have to take a step back ’cause he’s way close. His chest aligns with my nose, and he smells like his car. All citrusy and orange, like he’s wearing that surfboard air freshener around his neck. My eyes close and I breathe in. Whoa, I just did that. Yikes!
“TWIST.” He smiles.
“Huh?”
His arm circles my shoulders. “My body spray. AXE TWIST.”
Oh gag. I smack his hand off and walk out of the room, booking it downstairs. What a full-of-himself piece of man ego. A good guy would’ve ignored the fact I was involuntarily breathing him in like a drug. Like Alex. Yeah. Alex wouldn’t have made me feel like an idiot.
I know I shouldn’t sit first, but I’m too upset about dealing with Chase right now to care. So I plop down in the middle of the room, in the comfy, reclining theater seat, and kick my feet up. I turn the chair as far as I can away from where he sits next to me.
“Wow,” he says, and I catch out of my periph his gaze around the room. I suppose this is out of the norm for him. Even in the nicest theaters, you don’t get seats like this. The cooled cup holders, the popcorn maker in the corner, candy stocked in the compartment to the left of each seat. But this is the standard for the Sundale home. Sades’ screen is actually smaller than most.
I decide to show off a bit by reaching down between our seats, pulling open the cooler and grabbing a Coke. “You want something?” I ask, though it’s not really out of politeness. Just to see his reaction and his drink of choice. Not that I really care.
“Dr. Pepper?”
The glass clinks against the other bottles in the ice before I toss it to him. After I pop mine open, I hand him the bottle opener so he can get his. He takes a swig, puts it in his cup holder and shrugs off his black jacket. And surprise! He’s wearing black underneath too.
“Are you going for a goth type of thing? Or do you not own any other color?” I blurt.
He raises his eyebrows, tucking his jacket by the small of his back. “Why so curious?”
“I’m not.”
He laughs, and it comes out all cocky and stupid. “It’s slimming.”
I shake my head and roll my eyes around. He just doesn’t want to confess how moronic he looks.
“What about you?” he asks, taking another swig. “Why all the button-ups and skirts?”
“I wear other stuff,” I spit.
“Yeah. I’ve seen you in a pair of jeans you ruined, your tennis uniform . . . I especially like that one wet . . .” He dodges the smack I swing. “And your pajamas—”
“Oh, yeah. Because you’re a perv who snuck into my room while I was sleeping.”
He ignores me. “But other than that . . . always dressed up. Like you’re going somewhere.”
“Maybe I am.”
“Or maybe that’s what people expect of you.”
Normally I’d be mad because he stakes a claim on that like he knows me when he doesn’t. But the way he says it sounds like he’s answering my question more than answering his own.
Something starts pinging around my throat, making it close up. Chase doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who does stuff to keep up an image, but maybe that’s all this whole thing is. His douchebaggery down to the way he dresses . . . is all about what people expect.
Okay, so maybe we have that one thing in common. I know, I know, it’s a pretty big thing, but it’s still only one thing. Hardly epic romance worthy.
“Hey, Kel?” He shoots a glance over his shoulder at the door before dropping his voice. “I know we tease each other a lot, but can I be serious for a second?”
“I don’t know. Can you?”
He ignores my sarcasm again. “How are you doing with . . . everything? You know, from yesterday.” He rubs his stubble and looks into my face, concerned. Wow, I had no idea he was even capable of that emotion.
And his eyes are gray today. I like them gray.
Not saying I like him. Don’t get the wrong idea here.
Wait a second! What’s he trying to pull? Get inside my head or something and use it against me in the future. Yes, I see right through him.
“Why do you care? It’s not like you know me.”
He shrugs, those warm eyes locked on my hands curled in my lap. “Sure I do. You’re my Friday Night Girl.”
There goes that popcorn in my belly again. Only this time, it doesn’t stay there. It zooms around my insides making my face get hot, but sends chills down my arms. I shiver and he doesn’t even ask, just pulls his jacket out from behind him and drapes it over my lap.
“So . . . ?” he asks, keeping his face close to mine, “are you okay?”
Concern is a good look for Moron. Maybe it’s a good look for everybody and I wish I was more familiar with it. Whenever Sades is concerned about me, she gets all bossy. And Carrie’s looks of concern are all about the pity party. Mom and Dad . . . well, if I find out what their look of concern is without money being thrown at me, I’ll let you know.
But of all people, it’s Moron who gives me the look I just realized I’ve been waiting to see from someone—apparently anyone—that says they give a crap about me.
Ooh, if he’s faking this, he’s going to get the payback of his life. And if he’s not . . . well, I guess I don’t know what to do with that.
You know what really blows? I think, maybe, Sadie’s right. Like, with the whole Moron thing. Does he think this whole relationship we have is about flirting and foreplay? Is that why he’s waiting for a kiss? Is that why he’s around so much?
Maybe I should stop the whole thing. It’s my turn anyway, so if I just stop he’ll get the hint to leave me alone.
Thing is, as I’m watching that concern in his face, the way his brows are nit together, and I’m breathing in the faint scent of oranges from the jacket he wrapped on my legs, I don’t want to stop. I kind of like what we do. Plotting revenge and teasing each other. Even though he’s annoying, I . . . holy crap! I like it! Takes my mind off all the other boring stuff I do. Maybe I could find another target, but Moron is just so much fun.
But she’s dead wrong about one thing. I’m not flirting or whatever. I don’t like him. I don’t like seeing him ever. And he definitely doesn’t make me go gooey in the joints like Alex does.
Nope. No googly feelings on my end about Chase.
And even as I think about it to myself, feeling the popcorn fill up my entire body, I know I’m lying my butt off.
I clear my throat, trying not to breathe in that Twister cologne or whatever it was he called it.
“Um—”
“Sorry about that, guys.” Sades slides into the room and over to the popcorn maker. The actual popcorn maker, not me. She plugs it in, then turns to face us. Chase has already leaned as far away from me as he can, but I’m sure my face is beet red. “What movie do you want to watch?”
Both Chase and I say at the same time, “No chick flicks.”
Chapter 14
I have a new client! Layla Townsend, wonderful coworker at the bookstore, has a boyfriend, and he’s not Sundale stamped. And she is nose over toes for the boy, since she couldn’t stop swooning when she talked to me on our last shift together.
Apparently, he’s like “sexy poetic” and “superbrilliant.” But her trust fund will go bye
-bye if she continues to date him. So this Friday, Layla and I will be having a dinner/game night. Packet number four. Hundred bucks. Score!
Friday morning rolls around though, and I feel like I’ve been hit with a truck right in the face. My head is stuffed with cooked cauliflower and my nose is running a river. I blame the guy who sneezed on me yesterday. Didn’t even use a tissue. Just sprayed and bailed. And the scrubbing shower I took had no effect, obviously.
I call my mom, even though they are still in Paris, hoping she and Dad will hop on a red eye to take care of me. Instead, she gives Carrie the day off because heaven forbid her housekeeper gets sick right when they are scheduled to come home in a few days.
I stay home from work, because if I go, I think it may kill me. Just crawling down the stairs and getting the OJ about does me in. My phone goes off at exactly 4:30 when my shift was supposedly over. I expect Sades’ name to pop up on the screen since we had plans for lunch and I had to bail, but it’s Layla.
“Hello?” I moan.
“Oh, Kelli, are you sick?”
“Uh-huh.” Talking feels like someone raking leaves in my throat. I take a sip of water, but it only makes it worse.
“Well, is everything . . . I mean, we can still . . . for tonight, I mean . . .”
“Yes, it’s fine. I didn’t tell work I was sick, just that I had other stuff to do, so your alibi is still good.”
A breath of relieved air fuzzes up my phone, and I lean away to hack something nasty.
“Thank you! And I, uh, hope you feel better.”
“Uh-huh.”
We hang up, and I jam my face back in my pillow. The first phone call I’ve gotten from someone and it’s just to confirm I’m still doing my job. Guess there are no sick days for me.
And what the heck, Sades? Where’s the love?
Because my throat is beyond repair, I text her instead of calling.
Hey. Don’t u care abt me? :(
My phone rings, like, four seconds later. So much for the text attempt.
“Hey,” I croak.
“Oh sweetie! You sound awful.”
“I know. I sound like a freaking man.”
She laughs. “No, you just sound real miserable.”
As if proclamation to her observation, I go into a coughing fit.
“Is Carrie there?” she asks, once I’m done clearing my body of gook.
“No. I’m all alone.” Yes, I know I’m whining, but I just want someone to baby me. I’m a needy sick person.
“I’m sorry, babe. Wish there was something I could do.”
“Come over. Wear a gas mask. I don’t care. Just take care of me.” I don’t normally beg, but I’m dying. Seriously, on my deathbed ready to give up the ghost.
“You know I would, but . . . it’s Friday.”
I sigh, but it gets caught and I start hacking again. “And . . .” cough, snort, sniffle, gag . . . ugh! “. . .you have plans.”
“Yeah. And I’d hate to bail on everybody, since they’re coming over here.”
“Everybody?”
“Missy, Ty, Brandon, Jess—”
“Okay.” I get it. She has more friends than just me. Wish I could say the same, but, uh, nope!
“I would’ve invited you but . . .”
“Yeah, alibi night.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s okay. Have fun.”
“Feel better, girl.”
“I’ll try.”
Bam. Just like that, my BFF hangs up, leaving me to wallow and moan into my comforter.
* * *
Seven o’clock, and I’ve heard nothing, nada, zip from anyone anywhere. Just like every Friday night, I guess, but still. I was hoping to at least get a call from Carrie, or a text from Sades, even Alex or Moron. But nothing. Because I’m that popular.
I blow my nose into the roll of tp I have on my nightstand. I probably should take some medicine, but I have, like zero drug tolerance. Maybe less than that. I’d either zonk out or do something completely stupid.
Sitting up, I click on the TV and Xbox, but the light alone kills my eyes and head. There’s no way I’ll be able to handle all the crazy graphics. And I hate to admit it, but my stomach sinks to my feet when I don’t see ChazTazXX4.
Everybody to-ta-lly sucks.
I close my eyes, praying I either fall asleep, or someone . . . anyone . . . will come and save me. Just as I say, “Amen” my phone rings.
Hallelujah!
“Hey, Kel. How are you?”
Oh I wish Sades was here to witness this. The literal answer to my prayer is Alex. Ha ha! I win.
“Dying,” I say with a tiny laugh.
He chuckles. “I’m sure you’ll be fine. Just take some NyQuil and hit the hay.”
“I can’t take that stuff unsupervised. I’ll end up naked in the backyard or something.”
He laughs again. “That’s not a bad thing, from what I remember.”
I gasp, but end up going into another gross hacking fit. “Alex Finnigan! Will I have to tell your mother?”
“Nah. You’d be out of a client if you did that, since she wouldn’t let me see you anymore. Fake or not.”
My smile fades. The only smile I’ve had on me all day and boom, it’s gone. Because I’ve just been doused with reality. Client . . . not friend.
“Hey, speaking of . . .” he says, making my smile not only fade but turn into a major pout. “Layla said you were still being her alibi tonight.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I called her and she said it was cool if I was . . . uh, with you guys. I know it’s short notice, but I’ve got the two hundred.”
My eyes prickle and I shove those stupid tears away. Rule number one: don’t get emotionally involved. And this is why. Sadie called it, and the man upstairs is playing a mean trick on me for real.
“That’s fine. Have fun with Brianne,” I say, clearly ending the convo.
“Thanks. You’re the best. Feel better.”
I hang up before I shoot off another meaningless “uh-huh.” Then because I can afford it and the stupid thing is pissing me off today, I chuck my phone across the room and it lands with a soft thud against my thick, padded carpet.
I’m not the friend or girlfriend or priority tonight. Because it’s Friday. I’m only one thing. An alibi.
Rolling over, I throw my comforter over my head and try not to cry. It’ll just make my face hurt even more than it already does. I don’t even want to think anymore. I just want to fall asleep and pretend my life isn’t my life. That my mom’s downstairs making me soup. My dad has come in with a big glass of OJ—extra pulp—and gives me a kiss on the forehead and asks if I need anything else. Sades has dropped off some movies and tissues, which my mom brings up with soup and nightly meds, which I can take because they’re home to watch me.
Seriously, how much is it to ask for a girl who just needs a mommy and daddy to take care of her when she’s sick? Isn’t that how normal families function? I still live here you know!
Tap, tap, tap.
What the . . . ?
I peek over my comforter, to the source of the noise—my balcony. Moron stands there with a grocery bag crooked over each arm and a brown paper sack in his teeth. He taps the glass with his knuckle again.
Adjusting my sports bra and top, I crawl out of bed and open the balcony door, but block his way from entering.
“I come in peace,” he says through the paper sack.
“Go away now, or you’ll leave in pieces,” I choke out. I know I don’t want to be alone, but after the whole thing with Alex, Sadie, and Layla . . . not to mention my parents . . . I’m not in the mood for any more crap.
He pulls the bag from his mouth, being supercareful with it. “Ah, even sick as a dog, you still have your wit.”
“What are you doing here?” I sigh, rubbing my arms. Being out of my bed makes the temperature outside feel like below zero, even though I’m pretty sure it’s like maybe seventy. Moron isn’t even wearing h
is normal jacket.
“I hop a fence, scale a tree, and climb over that railing, all with my hands full of stuff for you. And you won’t let me in.”
“For me?” My eyes flick to all the bags.
He laughs. “Yeah. My Friday Night Girl is sick, and her parents are out of town. I’ve brought you things to cure it.”
Is he . . . for real?
“It’s not a joke, Stinky. It’s your turn anyway, right?”
I nod and the motion makes me dizzy. Gotta lay down, stat.
He follows me into the room, closing the balcony door as I crawl back in bed, letting out a whine.
He sets down the bags next to my bed and rolls my desk chair over so he can sit. He looks at me and lets out a puff of air I imagine smells like fruit because he smells like fruit. But I can’t smell a thing. As he starts pulling things from the bags, I can’t help but watch his face. The one person who doesn’t need something from me tonight, or have something better to do, is Moron. I can’t even believe it.
“I hope you like pulp,” he says, holding up the box of orange juice.
Chapter 15
“So, extra pulp orange juice,” he says, setting it on my nightstand. “Then I got you oranges too, ’cause I didn’t know if you’d rather eat them or drink them.” He pulls those out to show me, but they go back in the bag. There’s paper rustling for a second before he takes out a big cup of soup. He does that cocky grin, but it’s not bugging me.
“About six weeks ago, you whooped my butt playing HALO.”
“I always kick your butt.”
“Yeah, but this one really got to me, ’cause I knew you were eating something. When I asked you what it was—”
“I said lobster bisque.” A smile goes across my face and I sit up straight to lean against my pillows.
He air quotes me, “One of the best soups known to man.” He shakes his head. “What I couldn’t figure out was how you played video games and ate soup at the same time.”
“I’m talented.”
“I’ll say.” He sets the soup next to the OJ, plastic spoon on top, napkin underneath. “I’d ask to see it, but I’m sure those graphics won’t help the stuffy head.”