Perfectly Clueless
(A Bayfield High Romance Book 3)
By
Madeleine Labitan
Copyright
Copyright © 2018 by Madeleine Labitan
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
The characters in this book are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
To Kiara Charisse Rodriguez
Table of Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Table of Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Sneak Peak: Kiss and Make Up
About the Author
Truth or Dare
One
“McCafferty, where are you?” I growl, kicking at the stray rocks on the ground, shivering as the cold seeps through my jacket.
Fifteen minutes. That’s how long I’ve been sitting on my porch steps, braving the chilly night air while impatiently waiting for Dylan to arrive. He’s supposed to be here already. Hell, we should be on our way to the party by now. It’s an open field party and our friends, Nick Wilson and Sloan Collins, are already there waiting for us.
If I knew he was going to keep me waiting, I would have hitched a ride with Nick or asked my twin brother to drive me there.
Only Adam isn’t home. He’s at his girlfriend Madison Cooper’s house right now. Ever since the two of them got back together they haven’t spent a single time apart. Like they’re attached to the hip or something.
Blowing out an annoyed breath, I stare ahead. Still no sign of Dylan’s red pickup truck.
Seriously, where is that boy?
The front door suddenly opens, making me look over my shoulder to see who stepped outside.
It’s Dad. He’s wearing a robe over his pajamas, a steaming mug of coffee in his hand. “Going somewhere, princess?”
Princess is Dad’s term of endearment for me, sport for Adam, and pumpkin for my little sister Peach. Whenever I complain about him calling me princess—because it seriously makes me feel like I’m five—he only smiles and tells me I’ll always be his princess no matter the age.
Corny, ugh. But also kinda sweet.
“Yes, Dad. I’m waiting for Dylan to pick me up. We’re going to meet a friend.”
He narrows his eyes. “Is that a code for party?”
Damn. The man knows me so well.
I flash him a sheepish smile. “I won’t stay up late. I promise.”
He shakes his head, fighting back a smile, then frowns when he stares out into the empty street. “You really need to have your own car.”
I bite back a groan. My dad has been itching to buy me a car ever since I got my license, but I say no every time. Because I find it completely unnecessary. All three of them—Mom, Dad and Adam—have cars that I can borrow whenever I need one, anyway. And that need rarely arises.
For one, Adam and I go to the same school so I can easily catch a ride with him if I want. Then there’s Dylan whose front passenger seat is always reserved for me. He’s my ride most days. And he’s usually never late.
Admonishing me to return before midnight, Dad goes back inside, leaving me alone in the porch again.
Come on, D. I’m already freezing here! I fire up the text, hoping it will make Dylan turn up in the next second.
Sorry, B. Look up.
I comply and sure enough, headlights assault my eyes. Finally. Pocketing my phone, I wait for him to pull over before I approach. “Did you really have to make me wait that long?”
I make sure to keep my expression stern, ignoring the familiar sucker-punch effect of his dark intense eyes and sheepish smile on me.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, B. I had to pick up Kristen first.”
Kristen who?
That’s when I see her. The girl sitting in the front passenger seat—my seat—beside Dylan.
“Hi, Bianca.” A shy smile grazes her lips as she lifts a hand to wave at me.
“Hey,” I blink and wordlessly climb into the backseat of the truck. Then stare hard at the back of her head.
I know this girl. She’s Kristen Stevenson, a senior like us. But what the ever-loving hell is she doing in Dylan’s truck? And in my seat? Why did he even pick her up?
It’s not like they run in the same circle. Kristen belongs to the popular crowd, although she’s not as popular as say, Madison or that backstabbing bitch Erin Taylor. But she’s one of them and she doesn’t socialize with other kids beneath her status.
Not that my friends and I are school outcasts. But we’re not exactly popular either. At best, we have notorious reputations. Dylan and Nick are known for being the resident “bad boys” while Sloan, in his desperate attempts to be like them, has earned the moniker “Sleazy Sloan.” Although I don’t think girls find him that repulsive. Not every girl, at least.
Me? I’m the “rocker chick” or the “goth bitch.” And, oh, “Adam’s emo twin.” Depends who you’re asking, really.
All because I decided to dye my blonde hair into dark brown, wear dark contacts to cover my baby blue eyes, and dress myself in dark clothes. Like right now, I’m rocking a black Nirvana shirt under my blazer and ripped blue jeans, paired with my favorite ankle boots.
People and their stupid stereotypes.
It’s not like I wear eyeliner or mascara. Or going around killing puppies and plotting mass murder.
Please. I scream like a little girl just at the sight of a flying cockroach. I mean, have you seen that thing up close? Nasty.
And newsflash: I’m not that different than the average teenage girls. I don’t do a lot of girly stuff anymore, but I’m just as obsessed with chick flicks and rom coms, fangirling over Ryan Reynolds even before he became Deadpool. I even took that stupid “Who’s your Hollywood Celebrity boyfriend?” quiz one time, hoping it would give me him.
I got Ryan Gosling. Close enough.
Girly giggles penetrate my wandering thoughts and I clear my head just enough to see Kristen kissing Dylan’s cheek.
My stomach churns. They’re hooking up. Of course. Why did I even think that he’s merely giving her a ride? How dumb.
Still, it begs the question: What’s a goody-goody girl like Kristen doing with Dylan?
What, is she suddenly tired of messing around with a fellow square and now looking to slum with a drape?
Well, spoiler alert. Dylan doesn’t own a motorcycle and he has a terrible singing voice. Plus he can’t shed a single tear.
I should know.
He tried.
The only similarity he has with Cry-Baby is that he sports black hair—not slicked back—and wears a jacket—not even leather. That’s it.
Besides, Kristen doesn’t do casual hookups. She’s a relationship kind of girl. And I know the type of guys she dates—jocks and preppy guys. Two weeks ago, I saw her making out with a guy from the baseball team in front of her locker. And a month before that, she was dating a soccer player.
Should I warn her? Because it’s not going to last long. I’ll give it a day or two before Dylan is done with her. She’ll be yesterday’s news then. That’s what a
lways happens. Different day, different girl.
As for me, I’ll just try to ignore the pain of seeing him with another girl. I’m used to it.
Kristen glances at me over her shoulder. “Um, aren’t we going to tell her?”
I give her a blank stare. “Tell me what?”
“Dylan and I”—She slants Dylan a shy smile, biting her lip as if that shit is sexy. It’s not. She actually looks a little constipated—“We’re together now.”
“You mean you’re hooking up?” I roll my eyes. “Yeah, I can see that clearly. You don’t have to spell it out, Kristen.” Did she feel the need to rub it in my face?
My snide comment makes her cheeks flush. It’s clear I’ve annoyed her. Good. Because the feeling is mutual.
She huffs out a breath. “No, Bianca. Dylan and I are not hooking up. We’re together.”
I just blink at her, like she’s speaking a foreign language.
“As in I’m his girlfriend?”
She’s Dylan’s girlfriend? Well, guess what, the earth is flat. Nice try.
If there’s one thing everybody knows about Dylan is that he doesn’t do girlfriends. He hooks up with a lot of girls, yes. But be an actual boyfriend? No way in hell. Dude is totally allergic to commitment. It’s literally one of his life rules: “Thou shall not commit to anyone.”
And now this chick is telling me she’s his girlfriend? She has to be out of her damn mind if she thinks I’d believe that for a second.
“Yeah, right,” I snort. “Keep dreaming.”
But Dylan shatters that with his next words. “Kristen’s telling the truth, B. We’re not just hooking up. She’s my girlfriend.” He punctuates that declaration by giving Kristen a quick kiss on the lips.
What? My mouth falls open, deafening silence ringing through my ears.
Dylan, the boy who’s never been a fan of dating and committed relationships, has a girlfriend.
Dylan, my best friend who has absolutely no idea that I’m completely, madly head-over-boots in love with him, is now someone else’s boyfriend.
Until now I’ve never known how it feels to have my heart ripped out of my chest and broken in pieces. I thought it was just a dramatic metaphor people use freely. Boy, was I wrong.
Swallowing the sudden bile in my throat, I force out a smile. “Cool.”
But inside? I’m dying.
Two
“Dude, I’m telling you it was goddamn epic. You should’ve seen it.” Sloan is drunkenly relaying a story to me and Nick while he downs his red cup.
What the story is all about exactly I can’t remember. Because my attention is elsewhere. It’s focused on the couple on the other side of the bonfire, who look and act like they are the only people in the party.
Dylan has a girlfriend.
I still can’t freaking wrap my head around it. How can a guy go from having a no-relationship rule to having a girlfriend in a matter of days?
Did Kristen trick him into drinking a love potion? Because that’s the only explanation I can think of.
“She wasn’t even on his radar,” I mutter.
“Who’s not on whose radar?” Sloan runs a hand through his unruly mop of dirty blonde hair and follows the direction of my gaze. “Are you talking about them? Dudette, that chick has been on D’s radar for weeks. He wanted to hook up with her in forever.”
“What?” I stare at him, stunned. How did I not know that?
I turn to Nick, but he’s earnestly avoiding my gaze. Oh he knows, too.
But how come they both know and I don’t? When it comes to Dylan, I’m always the first to know. We’re best friends, for God’s sake. Suddenly, I’m out of the loop?
And why didn’t Nick tell me anything? He’s well aware of my feelings for Dylan. I accidentally confessed to him about it one time at a party when I got pissed drunk and the words just came tumbling out of my mouth.
I glare at him.
“I thought you knew.”
“Well, obviously, I didn’t,” I scowl. Then whisper to myself, “He didn’t even mention her to me in passing.”
Dylan isn’t a kiss-and-tell kind of guy. But he’s always been open about every girl he’s hooking up with. It’s hard to keep it a secret when he’s often making out with those girls right in front of me.
Like right now.
Still, I can’t take my eyes off of them. I feel like a voyeur and a masochist at the same time. I also feel like puking my guts out right here and now, since I’m a little lightheaded. Even though I’m pretty sure I barely had two cups of booze.
“What did he even see in her?”
Sloan gives me a funny look. “Are you blind or something, dudette? Kristen’s hot.”
“Shut up, man,” Nick chides him, giving me a sideways glance.
“What? It’s true.” Sloan shrugs.
I can’t blame him for being casual about it. It’s not like he knows about my feelings for Dylan. He doesn’t and it’s going to stay that way. Sloan tends to have a loose tongue when drunk or stoned. And right now he’s three sheets to the wind. He’s literally one cup away from spilling every secret he ever knew.
Nick learned that lesson the hard way when he stupidly mentioned he’d hooked up with the Bennett twins on the same day without the two of them knowing. He blurted that out to a sober Sloan last year. Then a few months ago at a party, a drunk Sloan asked Carla point blank if she ever felt weird about it. Needless to say, Nick went home with a sore cheek that night.
But as much as I hate to admit it, Sloan’s right. Kristen is gorgeous. With her long, silky blonde hair, perfectly made-up face and pretty cotton dress, you’d think she’s hitting the mall instead of a lame-ass party outside Edward Jones’s family farm.
Yes, she’s hot—gag—but it doesn’t make her the right girl for my best friend. She’s too much of a...good girl for him.
No, Dylan needs someone who can match his overbearing personality. Someone who can go toe to toe with him. Someone who’s not afraid to put him in his place when he’s being an asshole.
Someone like me.
But he doesn’t want you.
And isn’t that the goddamn truth? If there’s a poster child for best friend unrequited love, it’s me. The girl who’s been secretly pining for her best friend since they were kids, hoping he’d eventually see her. Downright pathetic.
Although, in my defense, it’s technically not a secret. I did confess my feelings for him. Once, freshman year, while we were watching a movie in my family room. I can’t even remember the name of the movie anymore. For some crazy reason, I decided it was the best place and time to blurt out my feelings for him. I told him I’m in love with him and guess what he did? He literally laughed in my face. Like I just shared a very funny joke.
Long story short, that was the first and the last time I came clean about my feelings.
I mean, come on. What if I find another courage to confess and he doesn’t believe it and laughs at me again? I don’t think I’ll be able to handle it the second time around. The first time was already bad enough.
So I’ll just have to endure the fact that Dylan sees me as one of the guys. That he doesn’t return my feelings. That I’m very much trapped in the friendzone with no way out.
If I have to start putting on makeup and wearing girly skirts and cute dresses for him to notice me, then screw that. I won’t give up my personal style and change who I am just to get a guy to like me. Even if that guy is Dylan. He’ll just need to learn to want me for being myself.
My eyes flicker toward their direction again and the sight makes my stomach churn. Seriously? They’re making out again?
And, still, I can’t pry my eyes away. Hell, maybe I really am a masochist.
“Stop torturing yourself, B.”
I drag my gaze away from Dylan and Kristen to glare at Nick. “Can you say that a little louder?”
He chuckles. “Relax, it’s just the two of us. Sloan is already over there charming the ladies.”
&n
bsp; True enough, Sloan is out there dancing in the middle of Holly Montgomery and Amanda Hall.
“Why don’t you join him? You’re better off enjoying yourself than keeping me company. Don’t mind me. I’m all good with my bud here.” I raise my half-full red cup lamely.
“You know I don’t dance,” he scoffs.
No, he doesn’t. Nick just plays the guitar. But there’s nothing “just” about it. The boy is freaking good with the instrument that girls go crazy over him whenever he plays. Sometimes, we even jam together. I sing while he strums on his guitar.
It probably doesn’t hurt that he’s got the looks—curly brown hair, green eyes, muscled six-four frame—to match his wicked guitar skills. The countless stares he’s been getting just the past hour alone only prove that. The attention toward him even doubles, now that Dylan is officially “unavailable.”
Yeah, my sickeningly-smitten best friend is already introducing Kristen as his girl to everyone.
Scowling, I take a long pull of the booze until my cup turns empty. “I need a refill,” I announce, then pull myself up from the grass, almost stumbling in the process. Is the place spinning or what?
“Whoa, are you drunk?”
Nick moves to stand but I wave him off. “I’m cool. Be right back.”
I make my way through the dancing crowd, my eyes zeroing in on the keg. I lick my lips. The night is young and so am I.
Putting my cup under the tap, I thump my feet in time with the beat of the Maroon 5 song. Damn. Now, I feel like dancing.
Taking a swig of my drink, I’m about to join in on the crowd when someone steps in my path and steals the cup from me. “Hey—”
“You’ve had enough.”
Of course. I look up and meet the scowl of my best friend.
Dylan is just as tall as Nick. I stand at five-eight—five-nine on a good day—so I have to crane my neck to meet his gaze. His pissed off gaze.
I roll my eyes and reach for my cup, but he evades my hand. “Seriously?”
He tips my chin up and examine my face, disapproval lacing his tone. “You’re drunk.”
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