by Cassie Mae
BY CASSIE MAE
Friday Night Alibi
Switched
Switched is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A Flirt eBook Original
Copyright © 2013 by Cassie Mae
Excerpt from Friday Night Alibi by Cassie Mae copyright © 2013 by Cassie Mae
Excerpt from Isn’t She Lovely by Lauren Layne copyright © 2013 by Lauren Layne
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States of America by Flirt, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.
FLIRT and the FLIRT colophon are trademarks of Random House LLC.
eBook ISBN 978-0-345-54882-5
Cover photographs: Woman © Jessie Jean/Getty Images,
Man © Michael A. Keller/Masterfile
www.readflirt.com
v3.1
Dedicated to anyone who’s needed a little help to fall in love
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Step 1: Pick Your Target
Step 2: Get an Accomplice
Step 3: Dig Up Some Dirt
Step 4: Share Valuable Info
Step 5: Pick Up on the Silent Hints Your Accomplice Gives You
Step 6: Be Interesting!
Step 7: When Given Opportunities to Spend Time Alone, Don’t Talk About Something Stupid
Step 8: Cozy Up to His Family
Step 9: Have a Bit More Faith in Your Accomplice
Step 10: Impress with Your Skills
Step 11: Ignore the Guilt You Feel When You Touch Him
Step 12: Keep Your Accomplice Focused
Step 13: Sometimes It’s Not About You
Step 14: Don’t Read Too Much into Christmas Presents
Step 15: Find Comfort Food
Step 16: Sex Is Not the End of This!
Step 17: Kick Your Friends’ Butts When They Don’t Text You Back
Step 18: Don’t Feel Guilty
Step 19: Be Happy When Things Work Better than You Planned
Step 20: Find the Personality to Just Let Things Happen
Step 21: Be More Excited When the Love of Your Life Asks You Out
Step 22: Help Out Your Accomplice When He Suddenly Loses Confidence
Step 23: Be Aggressive
Step 24: When in the Middle of a Tragic Love Story, Remember You Have Your Best Friend
Step 25: Practice Makes Perfect
Step 26: Do Not Let Things Get Weird
Step 27: Never Play “I Never” Sober
Step 28: Find Out What You Want
Step 29: Best Friends Always Come Before You
Step 30: Don’t Cry in Public
Step 31: Make Things Right Before You Jump in the Sack
Step 32: Remember Your Friends Aren’t Exactly Idiots
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Excerpt from Friday Night Alibi
Excerpt from Isn’t She Lovely
Step 1:
Pick Your Target
(And that target is, like, sexy defined!)
I love my best friend’s boyfriend. But I swear, I saw him first.
Gravel was digging into my butt as I sat on the asphalt of the elementary school playground, my bike like five feet away in a big heap of twisted metal. I cursed that bike. And my pants because I’d been trying to yank them up as I was pedaling so I didn’t moon half our neighborhood. I’d squeezed the brake a little too hard and gone flying.
My knee was gushing rivers, but it didn’t really hurt. I think it was at that point when it was just numb. I sat in the gravel and stared at the swings, wishing I had the energy to get off my butt and ride home.
That’s when I was first introduced to that oh-so-cute boy who lived a few streets away. He sat down next to me, looked at my knee, and said, “Awesome!” Then he showed me his own scar from falling off his bike. I couldn’t keep my eyes off him. He was the cutest boy I’d ever seen, with his blue eyes, football jersey, and spiky black hair. He shook my hand and helped me back on my bike, and I watched him jog away.
It probably goes down as the best moment in the history of Kayla.
After Talon Gregory told me his name, I didn’t speak to him again until he smacked my best friend, Reagan, in the back of the head with a football our senior year. And yay for me, I’ve been a fumbling mess around him ever since they started dating a year ago.
I sort of lose my grip on my pen when he walks into our econ class. He gives a few of his college football buds fist bumps and high fives as he passes them. I love how big his hands are. And no, it’s not because of that stupid saying about the bigger the hands, the larger the package or penis or whatever. (Though, that does give him bonus points.) But because they’re strong and callused and oh so manly. I bet he could squish the life out of me if he wanted to, but he wouldn’t.
His gaze turns to me and I do a mental checklist of my facial expression. No drool, I don’t think … but my mouth is definitely open and that’s not good, so I snap it shut. I’m sure my cheeks are bright red, but there’s nothing I can do about that.
He waves, and I wiggle my shaking fingers back, internally sighing at this little tradition we have every day. He comes in, says hi to all his teammates, then chooses to wave to me, smile, and slide into the seat next to mine. This is college, so we’re not assigned desks. This is significant.
There’s only one small—I mean, seriously minuscule—problem in this routine, which is that before Talon sits down, he settles his hand on top of the desk behind him, moves his amazing smile, eyes, and lips away from me, and turns them on Reagan. When their lips meet, even for the smallest of seconds some days, I want to leap over my desk, shove Reagan out of the way, and fight to the death for the affection of this perfect, perfect specimen.
I had my eyes trained to Talon Vision ever since that day at the park. Then, of course, I was too chicken to actually talk to the piece of sexy till he became my best friend’s boyfriend. Since then, I’m sure I’m known as the space case idiot who’d be the third wheel if it wasn’t for—
“Hey, wipe the drool from your chin. You have an audience.” Wesley kicks my foot with his Vans, and I quickly wipe my mouth. Okay, he has a point. I was a little wet.
I still kick him back, knocking his shin harder than I meant to.
“Ouch! I was just trying to keep you from looking like a water fountain.”
I lean over and drop my voice so Talon—or Reagan—won’t hear. “You could’ve been quieter about it.”
He rolls his hazel eyes, then starts drumming his pencil on his book. Just like I’m part of the “dating Reagan” deal, Wesley came with Talon. The tag-along best friend who is hopelessly in love with someone who’s unavailable. He makes up the fourth side to this love triangle we’ve got going on here. I know that makes no sense, but it’s complicated. Let’s see if I can put it in one sentence.
Talon likes Reagan, Reagan likes Talon, I like Talon, Wesley likes Reagan. Notice how many Reagans and Talons are in that grammatically incorrect sentence? Because it’s complicated! We’re the two who are in love with our best friends’ significant others. But apparently he’s a lot less obvious about it, since he’s not wiping any drool from his lips when he sees Reagan walk in the classroom.
“Kayla?”
I zap my eyes from Wesley to Talon and his deep guttural voice, which screams I’m a good boy who wants to be bad. But I have to keep myself under control because Reagan is right there.
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“Yeah?” Okay, sighing is not “under control.” Wesley chuckles next to me, and I want to sock him one.
“Did you finish the last essay question? It’s the only one I didn’t get.”
I glance back at Reagan, who’s spinning her gum on her finger, listening to her iPod with one earphone in. Gross. I love the girl, she’s my best friend, but how does she have both guys in our triangle/square relationship wanting her?
“Weren’t you and Reagan doing homework last night?” I ask, trying to sound innocent, but really I’m wondering if Reagan lied to me when I called to see where my roomie was and she said she was with Talon finishing up a paper.
Talon flashes his muscle-melting smile and scratches under his semi-scruffy chin. “Well, we, uh, got distracted.”
Reagan smacks his buff arm like she’s mad he’s being too vocal about them making out or kissing or whatever, but her smile when she leans back and plays with her gum tells me she’s anything but mad.
“Oh, uh …” My face is totally red, I know it. I’m not going to verify any story when it comes to them ever again. “I finished it. Here.” I hand over my notebook and ignore the way my skin prickles when he touches it.
“Thanks.” He smiles, and I sigh. It’s totally involuntary.
Wesley starts hacking something nasty, and I shoot him an evil glance because he’s completely faking it just to make fun. Then Reagan leans over and says, “Hey, Wes, you okay there?”
I know she’s pouring the full force of her smile on him. It causes his Adam’s apple to move up and down with a large gulp, and he actually starts coughing. I give him one good smack on the back, and when he composes himself, I immediately start our note passing for the day.
Not so smooth yourself, huh?
He grunts when he reads it and scribbles over the already crumpled paper right as the professor walks in.
At least I’m not letting her copy my paper.
Since I can’t think of a witty response, I whisper, “You ass,” and shove the note in my bag. I won’t spend my only class with Talon arguing with Wesley. I’ll sit here and stare at perfection instead.
His fingers grasp the football, settling between the threads as the tendons in his wrist ripple. He’s saying something to me, but all I can think about are those sexy man hands. Delicious!
“You got it?”
“Um, what?”
He laughs, and it sets my body ablaze. Oh, his laugh. It’s like the second-best sound in the world, the first being when he says my name.
“You see the way I’ve got my hand positioned?”
Definitely.
“Pull back to right below your ear, and then when you let go, the football will spiral. Takes practice, but your fingers need to be right here.”
I nod again, and without any real warning he tosses the football into my shaky hands.
“Okay, show me what you got.”
He jogs a few feet out, and holy hot butt! He’s wearing these gym shorts that hang a little low on his hips, but not enough for me to see anything. His tight T-shirt hugs his back muscles, and I think it should be illegal for someone to be so freaking hot and nice. I should write him a ticket, or book him. In my room. Handcuff him to my bed and—
“Kayla?”
I shake my head and try to concentrate on getting the ball to him. But that’s hard. Especially since he’s so droolable.
Pulling my arm back, I take in a huge lungful of air. Maybe he’ll see my amazing throw and fall smack into the ground in love with me. He’ll drop the football at my feet and kneel in front of me, professing he knew all along he should’ve been with me and not my best friend. And Reagan won’t be mad. She’ll say she won’t stand in the way of soul mates. And love will conquer all!
I chuck the ball forward. It does this funky wobble-type thing and lands about five feet shy of Talon and about a million feet to the right.
I guess love will conquer another day.
A laugh echoes through the stadium. I’m about to yell at the yahoo to leave me the hell alone because I’m a freaking beginner, but it’s Reagan. And her laughter isn’t directed at me. It’s directed at Wesley. He’s got his guitar out and he’s tossing his head around like he’s in one of those scary hair bands—even though he doesn’t have the hair for it. His blond strands do nothing but stick straight up. Good strategy, Wesley. Looking like a huge dork and wiggling your head off will be oh so hot.
But then again, I’m trying to impress Talon with my nonexistent football skills.
Almost every time we hang out, just the four of us, I wonder if the two lovebirds catch on to the obvious flirt-fest going on with their best friends. But neither seems to have a dent. Talon’s actually laughing at Wesley’s performance as if it’s not a huge big sign that says, I’m in Love with Your Girlfriend! And Reagan still sends me waves and smiles like I’m not holding the same sign, only I’ve written Boyfriend, obviously.
That’s when the guilt sets in. They don’t worry about it because they trust their best buds not to go after their significants. I suppose when you’ve been friends since diaperhood and jumped on the same bus to Berkeley, you don’t think about it. And you know, as much as I want to rip that shirt off Talon’s sexy body and kiss anywhere and everywhere he’ll let me, I won’t. At least not until Reagan gives me the thumbs-up. And that may never happen.
“You want to throw some more? Or should we call it a night?”
Talon’s face is right there. His sweaty forehead is pretty much the best thing ever, even though that sounds super gross. To me, it means he’s active. And I like that.
Before I can answer, Reagan shouts from the stands, “Hey, babe! I have to run. Curfew in thirty!”
Translation: “Let’s get out of here and make out in the dorm before we’re caught.”
I have to stop my lip from jutting out.
Wesley doesn’t look too happy either. He’s putting his guitar away, his eyes focused on that and his lips pressed in a thin line. As much as the guy annoys the hell out of me, I so feel his pain.
“Till next time then, Kayla. Remember what I taught you about the grip.” Talon smiles. I nod and walk with him so he can wrap his arms around my best friend.
Wesley hops down next to me just as Reagan plows into Talon. We don’t touch, but we do lightly smile at each other, like, Yeah, I know this sucks.
“I’ll see you later, sweetie,” Reagan says, giving me a big hug, then dashes back into Talon’s arms. She doesn’t touch Wesley at all. And Talon doesn’t touch me.
Both of us let out a sigh as we watch them walk away.
“I don’t know how much longer I can take it,” Wesley says, adjusting the strap on his guitar case.
I nod, nudging his arm. “You and me both, buddy.”
“You ready to go home? Or you want to hang out some more?”
Shrugging, I start walking to his car. There isn’t really anybody in the stadium I feel like being around. “Doesn’t matter. What would we do?”
“See a movie, maybe. Cruise. I don’t care. I just don’t want to go home. Don’t want to be alone right now.”
Agreed. Anyway, he’d just drop me off at the dorm and I’d have to wait outside till Reagan and Talon unlock from each other. I go nuts thinking about the visual.
“I’m up for a distraction. Let’s just get in the car and see where we end up.”
He gives me a small smile. One that says he appreciates what I’m doing, but he’s still bummed. I return the gesture.
I guess that saying is true. Misery sure does love company.
Step 2:
Get an Accomplice
(Even if that accomplice drives you bonkers.)
We end up at Stoner Boner Hill—which is our nickname for the place where all these people go to make idiots of themselves. The ones who get kicked out of their dorms or still live at home—they come smoke pot, make out, or, you know … finger-fondle and all that, yadda yadda. Living the dream, I tell you. Until the cop
s get wise to it all.
Wesley and I use it as a good cover-up because we know no one will expect us to be here together. Perfect place for us to eat frozen yogurt from Yogurtland and wallow in the privacy of his minivan.
“Why do you always get mint?” I ask through my mouthful. I go for the suicide yogurt, getting every flavor possible (except mint), along with every topping. My wallet thanks Wesley’s employee discount, because it’d probably cost me about ten bucks a cup, but Wesley gets the standard two-dollar deal. “Isn’t that the equivalent of eating toothpaste?”
He shrugs. “I guess I like my breath to be prepared for anything.” He winks at me, and I force the gummy bear toppings down instead of letting them come back up like they want to.
I shiver and run a hand over my stomach. “Can’t you see I’m trying to eat?”
His laughter is like this big huge bark. Seriously, it could make a person go deaf if they’re too close. “Just sayin’, Mickey, we are in make-out city.”
I shake my head and move my gaze to his teasing face. What an ass for calling me by the name I hate. There were so many McKaylas when I started kindergarten, the teacher started calling us by our last names. But mine is Bradley, and there was a Brad in the class too. So when she asked what she should call me, I said, “Mickey!” like Mickey Mouse because I was obsessed. I regret that name of choice because it became my own sort of elementary school torture. I dropped it when I got out of there, going by Kayla. But it took my parents a bit to kick the habit. Dad called me Mickey once in front of the guys and I nearly died.
I try not to growl at him for the nickname. Instead I say, “We both know I’m not the one you really want to be here with. So stop being such a dork.”
“Someone’s moody. Time of the month?”
“I’m serious, Wesley. Knock it off.”
He sighs and dunks his spoon back in his frozen yogurt. “Sorry. I know it sucks. I’m just trying to forget about it.”
And pissing me off makes him feel better, I guess. My shoulders relax, and I scoot over a little on the seat so that I’m close enough to pat his knee. We’re in the same boat, so I suppose I can let the teasing slide, since that’s how he handles it. I mean, he puts up with me stuffing my face with junk food to handle everything.