“Archibald?” He snorts. “That’s not my middle name.”
“I know. But since you won’t tell me what it is I’m going to keep guessing until I score.” I get a whole bunch of tension-fraught silence in return, and the realization that I might’ve misspoken creeps up on me.
“You wanna score, Alice?” he murmurs, pitch low, whispering in my ear as if he were tucked up against me in bed. It’s the sexiest sound I’ve ever heard, kick-starting a slow-moving heat that works up my neck, slides down through my limbs, and pools between my legs. I’m throbbing. “I may be able to help with that.”
I’m sure he could. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him to come over and do that. Except…only friends.
The skin from my toes to my hairline is on fire, feverish and sweaty. This taunt will not go unpunished, however. We’ve been dancing around this, whatever this is, for far too long and I’m tired of it. My patience with all the mixed signals he keeps sending is wearing real thin. I have goals and responsibilities just like he does. Unlike him, however, I’m willing to make room, to carve out a space for him because he’s that important. That’s the difference between us.
“Oh really? You’ll set me up with one of your friends? How nice of you,” I volley back because two can play this game.
“Uhhh, no, Bailey. Not even if it was on your Make-A-Wish list.”
“Aww, that’s okay, BD. Don’t sweat it. I can find my own dates.”
A deep slow chuckle filters through the phone. “Did you just call me big dick?”
“What? No. No, I called you BD as in Big Deal. Remember when we met and you said you were ‘kind of a big deal’?”
“No.”
“Forget it. Forget I said anything.”
He laughs. “And when you say dates you mean the pasty, emo dude I caught you making big eyes at?”
In truth, Simon is exactly my type. At least he was before an annoying water polo player almost ran me over. “I do not make ‘big eyes.’”
“He wears skinny jeans, Bailey,” he continues right over me. “That’s your type? A guy that models himself after a vampire book? Is he going to want a blood oath at some point in your relationship?”
I tap the phone to interrupt his rant. “First of all, Simon’s a nice guy and we have a lot in common––” Like capital letters and sunscreen. “And yes, he is my type. Second of all, I like those vampire books and who cares what he wears. Why am I even arguing with you?” My patience is so gone. “Oh yeah, because I thought you were calling to apologize for being riiddiicuulous,” I annunciate clearly with my mouth attached to the bottom of the phone. “I’m hanging up now.”
“I thought I was your type.”
“Negative. I like guys that are nice to me.”
“Bailey––”
“Don’t call again unless you have an apology ready.”
“Al––”
Click. Whatever else he was about to say falls away as I power off my phone, punch the pillow, and pray sleep finds me quickly.
Chapter 18
Alice
My bedroom door opens and Dora steps inside. She’s wearing a smile so big and bold it could shatter a Guinness record. Meanwhile, I’m not smiling. I’m sprawled out on my bed, an open textbook before me, busy studying for a History of Television exam that is imperative I ace and not making much progress.
“Guess what?” She does a strange little dance and a wiggle of her curvy hips. Then, hand on a Bible, she attempts to moonwalk. I am so bummed I did not catch this on video.
I am, however, getting the feeling that whatever she’s smiling about deserves my undivided attention so I close it.
“You’re a really bad dancer?” I say, biting down on my quivering lips.
She stops and pouts. “That’s not nice.”
I admire her one piece at a time. Her pin-straight auburn hair is in a slick ponytail. Peach lip gloss that complements her coloring. Cropped faded boyfriend jeans, a tight white t-shirt, and bright red flip-flops with black toenail polish.
In other words, the Mayfield factor in full effect. She’s come a long way since the pleated khakis and oversized polos she was wearing when I met her.
“What is it, Dora? What’s the news that has you dancing like a spaz and keeping me from studying for this godforsaken exam.” I sit up, cross-legged.
A smile explodes across her face, full of white perfectly even teeth. “My dads got me a car for my twenty-first birthday! It’s not for another week, but they couldn’t wait to give it to me so they drove up from Del Mar to deliver it today!” There’s no pause. Not even for a breath. She shimmies her shoulders. Does a little finger point to the sky.
On replay, my brain picks up a major plot point. “Dads?”
Her amusement drops. “Oh…yeah. Didn’t I say?” She chews on her bottom lip.
I’m actually not that surprised. Dora’s pretty reserved about her personal life, less likely to put it all out there than Zoe. Although Zoe, I suspect, has her own well of secrets too.
“Mnnno. I’m pretty sure I would’ve remembered that detail. You’ve called them ‘the parents,’ or sometimes ‘the rents.’ You’ve mentioned that your dad is a DEA agent. But that’s about it.”
She sighs. “My other dad’s a high school art teacher.” She stuffs her hands into the back pockets of her jeans to stop from fidgeting.
“Hey, I think that’s really cool. It’s not a big deal.”
She shifts on her feet, her shoulders soften. “It was when I was g-growing up.”
She’s not exactly comfortable discussing it so I drop the subject. “And what about this birthday that you also never mentioned.”
Her mood immediately brightens. “Yeah, well, ’cause, c’mon, can you imagine what’ll happen when Zoe finds out? I’m going on the record now, Alice. No male strippers. I mean it. Please, please, please.” She presses her palms together, a supplicating look on her face.
That elicits another grin. “Can’t make any promises, but I’ll do my best.”
My door swings open. Zoe sticks her head in. “Coffee run. You hookers coming?”
“Oh, oh, oh!” Dora jumps up and down screaming. “I’m driving!”
Ten minutes later the four of us are standing in the parking lot, staring at Dora’s brand-new mint green Fiat 500. I’m smiling. Dora’s beaming, petting the hood. Blake is hiding her chuckles behind her hand, her gold medical bracelet glimmering in the sunlight. And Zoe just looks…bewildered.
“It’s not a car, it’s a Skittle on wheels,” she mutters out of the side of her mouth.
“Isn’t it effing awesome?!” Dora shouts.
Zoe rolls her eyes. “Effing? Oh, Lord.”
“Shotgun,” Blake calls out.
“I guess I’ll ride on the hood,” Zoe grumbles.
“You’ll make a beautiful hood ornament,” I tease.
Smirking, Zoe walks to the head of the car and sits on the end of the hood. Her hands go to her waist. She tucks her bent arms so the elbows point backwards and arches her back. “Let’s go.”
“Stop being so dramatic,” Dora tells her.
“Some of us aren’t the size of a garden gnome, Dora,” Zoe fires back.
“I’m five feet three inches, thank you very much. Hardly a g-garden gnome. And size doesn’t matter. Bernadette is beautiful.”
Zoe’s eyes snap open wide. “You did not name the car.” She turns to Blake and whines, “Blakey, she named the car.”
“I heard.”
Zoe’s attention returns to Dora and a stare-down happens, which Dora loses when her lips begin to twitch into a smile.
“Get in the car, Zoe,” Blake orders, putting an end to all the shenanigans.
We stuff Zoe in the back seat and laugh our asses off when her knees touch her forehead.
“Judging by your sad coma, I take it he hasn’t apologized?” As usual, the Slow Drip is packed––a minor miracle we managed to snag the corner table by the window. Zoe’s voice still manages to rise above the din of the crowd.
My gaze climbs up and runs into Zoe’s hard, unblinking hazel stare. One perfectly groomed brow hitches up.
“Well?”
I take a sip of my steaming hot mocha and my tongue smarts. Okay, fine, I’m stalling, deciding how much to spill and not because I don’t trust them. I absolutely do. It’s because Zoe’s basically a loaded handgun. You have to be extremely careful where you aim her or you could unleash havoc.
I was so worked up over Reagan’s failed attempt to patch the rift between us that I told the girls everything. And they couldn’t have been any more awesome––ordered pizza, listened to me bitch about it for hours. All the earmarks of true friendship. I’ve never been a sharer before. Hence, I’m only beginning to understand how effortless it can be with the right people. How it all boils down to trust.
Something I assumed I shared with Reagan.
“Nope,” I take no pleasure in admitting. The p pops out of my mouth hard.
Am I still mad? You betcha. I’m more than mad––I’m done. I deserve someone who doesn’t belittle and embarrass me in public. But most of all, I deserve someone who wants me.
“Did he crawl on his cowardly belly till it bled?”
“That’s gross,” Blake comments. She’s only voicing what we’re all thinking.
“Nope.”
“Men are swamp garbage.” Zoe sits back, arms crossed, offended on my behalf. Go, girl power.
“Not all of them––” Dora quietly argues.
Tea cradled in her hands, Blake pulls her lips away from the edge of the cup to speak. “I’m with Dora on this one.”
“My dads aren’t,” Dora blurts out. The words peter out, as if she immediately regrets the admission. Doesn’t matter. She might as well have dropped a very loud mic.