Switched: Flirt New Adult Romance

by Cassie Mae

  I pull out the bright red envelope with the words “Alibi Number 7: Movie Marathon.” Good thing I spent last night prepping all the emergency packets. They’re my moneymakers, so I run out all the time since most of my clients don’t know how to plan ahead. The blue envelopes are for my clients who pay me weeks in advance. Yeah … those packets are pretty much covered in dust.

  “This should cover you, Cinderella.”

  He rolls his eyes and yanks the packet from my hand. “You’ve got it memorized?”

  “Yup. And my own copy as well. We watched funny yet tasteful comedies, and you were a perfect gentleman. And since you’ve ‘been with me’ for the last three Fridays, before you left, you gave me a very platonic kiss on the cheek. It rocked my world.”

  He chuckles, standing and tucking the envelope in his back pocket. The epitome of “good guy,” he’s got on a button-down shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and of course it’s tucked into his khakis. His hair is combed over, but it’ll be messed up in a few hours, and that shirt will be crumpled in the middle of Brianne’s floor. Ah, the price some people pay for love. Cliché as it sounds, I mean it literally.

  “Thank you, Kelli.” He gives me that “rockin’ ” kiss on the cheek.

  “Ahem …” I put my hand on his chest and push him back. “Don’t thank me. Just pay me.” I wave my fingers to emphasize my point. No getting emotionally involved. If I actually start caring about the people I’m helping, I may lower my prices. Or start helping them for free. Yeah, that’s not happening.

  He laughs again. “All right.” As he takes his wallet out of his back pocket, I take the opportunity to make sure my towel is still covering all of me. He got one look. He’s not getting another.

  “You said double?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  The two bills—from a stack of about fifteen—crinkle in my open hand, and my smile widens.

  “Pleasure doing business with you.” I nudge him in the arm before I tuck the bills in my purse. Now that the money part is over, I can joke around. “Now go have fun. Tell Brianne I say, ‘What’s up?’ ”

  “Will do.” Then without warning, he wraps me in a hug. Awkward … “Thanks again, Kel.”

  He must have it bad. It really is a shame Brianne isn’t Mom and Dad approved. She should be. She’s way nice and super cute, but she’s also a “hippie” child. Her parents are the ones who go around stark naked while they mow the lawn and get the mail. The ones who believe sexuality is something to be experimented with. And Alex, being part of the tightwad Christian community that is Sundale, has better luck telling his parents he decided to date a fish. Poor guy.

  Crap. Must not get emotionally invested here. I wiggle out from his hold and shrug. “Just doing my job.”

  Friday nights are usually spent locked in my room playing online videogames, headset and all. Don’t call me a nerd or a loser or anything, because while I’m exploding fictional heads off and trash talking to strangers, keep in mind I got paid two hundred bucks tonight to do exactly this. So I’m blowing raspberries at anyone who judges me.

  Since I can’t be seen anywhere—I’m supposedly having a movie night with Alex—I stock up every weekend. (Protocol for the successful alibi.) I’ve got a mini fridge in my room, ’cause yes, I’m rich. Not just me, but the fam. Everyone who lives in Sundale is on the verge of ga-zillionairism. Another thing that plays in my favor as an alibi. I’m not sure if anyone who lives here knows how not to live off their parents’ money. Even after they’ve started at the university. Anyway, I’ve got a fridge stocked full of all the stuff I’ll need, and I’ve got my own bathroom so I don’t have to pee in a jug or anything, and I’ve got enough books to fill a library, enough videogames to stock up a GameStop, and enough movies to … Well, you get my point.

  Also, it’s lucky I work at the local Christian bookstore, which closes early on Fridays, so I don’t ever have to worry about taking time off.

  Why do I work when I obviously don’t need the cash? Well, it’s nice to do something other than go to church, play tennis, and hang out in my room. That, and I’m a bit of a bookworm, and I won’t say no to a discount, even if I don’t need it. And—probably the most important factor—in order for my “business” to be successful, I have to be the good girl. Parent approved. So the prim and perfect Kelli Pinkins who works at the Christian bookstore, plays tennis at the country club, and goes to church every Sunday, has “perfect influence” written all over her.

  I do it all ’cause I totally give my clients what they pay for. And it’s really not a big deal. I mean … I do go to church because I believe in it, not just ’cause I have to. I love tennis. And I do like working at the bookstore. Nice way to pad the pocketbook for college. Not talking tuition since good ole Mom and Dad will take care of that as long as I don’t become a hooker or something. Don’t have to worry about housing because where am I gonna find a place sweeter than the room I’ve got? No, I’m talking for when I travel the world. Set off and see all the places I want to and Mom and Dad never take me to. I’m hoping alibi money and bookstore money (aka, my own well-earned cash) will have me in Europe by Christmas—and then until I get my own trust fund.

  I just found a way to be myself and make money off of it. Win-win.

  “Okay, you think you’re going to creep up on me? I’m standing right behind you.”

  This guy I’m playing against really doesn’t know what he’s doing, but still, he’s the only one on Xbox Live close to my age—or at least he says he’s close to my age—so I may as well teach him a lesson or two.

  Plus, he’s not bad company, considering I’ve never officially met him. I guess it’s easier to talk to people you don’t know about life’s crap. He knows all about my alibi stuff, since I started logging on three years ago, and while I’m kicking his butt in HALO, we talk about why we’re the only people alive who don’t do things on Friday nights.

  His army man turns around, and I point the rifle right in his face. “Any last words?”

  “How about … Don’t shoot?”

  I laugh and push RT, blowing his character’s head apart. “Whoops, finger slipped.”

  He chuckles; it’s kind of like this guttural thing, like he was drinking at the same time. “All right, another round?”

  “Sure, but I need a pee break.”

  “ ’Kay. Back in ten.”

  I pull off the headset and stretch out on the bed before hopping into the bathroom. I’ve had three Cokes already tonight. Way over my limit. This guy probably thinks I have the world’s smallest bladder. It’s like I drink a can, then empty it almost immediately.

  I’m doing gunfire sound effects as I wash my hands, then pounce back into my room, ready for round two. But someone is sitting on my bed. Her long brown hair covers her shoulders and her back where her shirt doesn’t, and her big baby-doll eyes blink as a smile tugs at her mouth.

  “Whatcha doin’?”

  I run at my best friend full speed. She screams as I hit the bed and swing my legs up on her lap. “What’s up, my Sades? Use the window again to get in here?”

  She nods and picks up the bag of Twizzler Bites I have on the bed. “Girl, it’s Spring Break. What the heck are you doing here at home?”

  I hold up a finger and grab the Xbox headset. “Hey, ChazTaz, round two will have to wait till next weekend.”

  “You’re just worried I’ll beat you this time.” He laughs and I roll my eyes, even though he can’t see it. “But it’s cool. Talk to you next week.”

  “Bye.”

  I hold the off button, shut down the console, and wait for the screen to turn blue, then snap the TV off. “It’s not like it’s Spring Break for me since I graduated last semester.”

  Sadie dangles her head off the edge of my bed, talking to my floor. “Yeah, yeah, genius woman. But not all of us graduated early. Come onnn, Spring Break is our last hurrah before we head off to be adults.”

  I snort. Yes, it’s very adult-like to go to frat p
arties and sorority car washes. I can’t wait. “I can’t leave the house. Working tonight.”

  Sadie shakes her head, leaning up to pop a Twizzler Bite in her mouth. “Who is it this time?”

  “Alex.”

  “Again?”

  “Yep.”

  “You know, he’s going to empty out his bank account. He may as well just tell the ’rents because either way, he’s losing all his money.”

  I shrug. “I don’t tell them what to do, just give them another option.”

  “Uh-huh.” Another bite goes into her mouth as she lies flat on my California king. Sadie’s never been a fan of my “job,” but she’s my best friend, so she doesn’t rat me out. Plus, she’s had to use me for her own alibi a few times, so when she gives me crap I throw that in her face. And it’s not like I can risk my years of keeping up my perfect rep for one night of partying.

  “We can hang out here, though. Want to watch a movie?”

  She shakes her head.

  “I can paint your toes.”

  She sighs.

  “Fine, what do you want to do then?”

  Her lips pull up as she leans on her elbows. “Something that normal people do on Spring Break.”

  “Which is?”

  The bag of Twizzlers goes flying at my face and I catch it before it smashes into my nose.

  “Go out.”

  “Sadie …”

  “Seriously, Kel,” she says as she sits up. “I get the whole ‘good girl’ thing, but live a little bit!”

  I shake my head. “I can’t get caught.”

  For some reason, Sadie takes my answer as an “Oh please take me outside and let me risk Alex’s two-hundred-dollar purchase!” and drags me to my closet with a big smile on her face. “Then put something cute on, and leave the stealth to me.”

  Read on for an excerpt from Lauren Layne’s

  Isn’t She Lovely

  Chapter One

  Stephanie

  So, it’s like this … in movies, there’s this thing called the meet-cute.

  The meet-cute is that moment when the romantic couple meets for the first time, and it’s supposed to be amusing or ironic or charming, or some shit like that.

  You know, like that scene where the sarcastic, ball-busting female character mistakes her handsome new lawyer for the janitor? Or where the impossibly cute secretary rear-ends the BMW of the guy who turns out to be her new boss?

  Then, of course, true love abounds, and everyone conveniently forgets that the entire thing is completely contrived.

  And here’s what you don’t learn in Film 101: in real life, the meet-cute isn’t the least bit cute. It’s more like a meet-awkward. Sometimes even a meet-shoot-me-now.

  And another thing they don’t tell you in film class?

  It takes a hell of a lot longer than that brief moment to know that this other person is something other than a ginormous wart on your soul.

  Basically, the meet-cute is this big, fat delusion created in the fantasyland of Hollywood.

  Except sometimes … sometimes it’s real.

  My mom always used to tell me that I wouldn’t really know myself until I turned thirty. I’m pretty sure that’s crap.

  I’m twenty-one, and I already have a pretty good list of things I know about myself. The smell of roses makes me nauseous, I look sallow in green, small talk makes me queasy, and I’ve got a thing for old movies.

  Oh, and I hate being late.

  But it must be some sort of cosmic requirement that on the first day of a new semester you’ll sleep through your alarm, you’ll misplace your backpack, and naturally the subway will be running way behind schedule.

  Not that being late to my Classic Film Narratives class is something to get worked up about, since it’s just an elective, but it’s like I said: I hate being late.

  On the plus side, I’ve been at NYU for three years now and know my way around campus. At least I’m not lost, on top of having to do that awkward boob-jiggling half-run/half-walk thing as I make my way toward the classroom.

  I’m digging around in my ancient black backpack for a granola bar since I skipped breakfast when I run smack into a wall of, well … beefcake, for a lack of a better word.

  I’ve never done the whole ’round-the-corner-run-into-someone thing, but I always imagined it happening kind of slo-mo.

  It doesn’t.

  It’s more of a split-second flash of surprise and teeth-jolting discomfort followed by stinging humiliation.

  I don’t know what’s worse, the fact that my shit’s now all over the ground or the fact that I’m gaping at the guy I just slammed into. He’s obnoxiously good-looking in a clean-cut, star-quarterback kind of way. Dark blond hair, strong chin, golden brown eyes, and yummy shoulders …

  Totally not my type. I prefer the wiry artist type with soulful eyes. But still, he’s pretty if you like ’em tall, muscly, and hair-gelled.

  Instead of apologizing like a good little plastic doll, he lets out the smallest of sighs, like he’s the one inconvenienced, even though he’s not the one who has tampons and notebooks scattered all over the floor.

  “Awesome,” I mutter, bending down to pick up the mess.

  He leans down at the same moment and I jerk my head back to avoid bumping skulls like in a B-movie scene. Unfortunately, my movement causes my chest to thrust up toward his face, and we both leap back just in time to avoid him face-planting into my boobs. Basically I just replaced a slightly awkward moment with the mother lode of awkwardness. Could this day get any better?

  “Sorry ’bout that,” Pretty Boy says with a crooked grin. I don’t know whether he’s apologizing for our initial collision or for the humiliating near-miss of an inadvertent motorboat situation. Since he looks like he’s ready to bust out laughing, I’m pretty sure it’s the latter.

  Asshole.

  I keep my eyes locked on the mess of books and papers, because my face feels like it’s on fire. Of course I had to go with a skimpy tank top today. I’m not usually one to show a lot of skin, but it’s blazing hot, with the humidity at like 400 percent, and my usual collection of dark T-shirts seemed oppressive.

  This is what I get for being practical.

  The guy starts to help me gather my stuff, and I discreetly study him. His crisp white polo shirt and wrinkle-free plaid shorts are majorly out of place in the Tisch School of the Arts. Most of the students in my program look more like me: dark hair, dark clothes, three more swipes of eyeliner than necessary.

  My eyes lock on his espresso-colored messenger bag, where there’s a discreet Prada logo.

  “Are you lost or something?” I blurt out.

  The guy gives a little laugh. “Just because I don’t come barreling around corners doesn’t mean I’m lost.”

  “I wasn’t barreling,” I snap. “I’m just in a hurry.”

  He picks up a tampon and hands it to me with an innocent smile. I try to look unfazed as I grab it and stuff it into the bottom of my bag. Really, of all the things to pick up, he goes for that one?

  I snatch up the rest of my things and jam them into the bag, standing as I yank the zipper closed. “Whatever. I just thought I could point you in the right direction.”

  “I’ll be a senior starting in September. I know my way around the campus,” he says, standing to tower over me.

  “A senior here?” I gape. “Because you look like you walked off a Harvard admissions brochure.”

  He raises an eyebrow that’s a couple of shades darker than his blond hair. “Stereotype much?”

  I don’t even know why I’m engaging in an argument with the guy, but there’s something smug about him, and all that tidy perfection bugs the crap out of me. I prefer my dudes real, and this one isn’t.

  I sort of wave my hand up and down in his direction. “It’s just that I think you forgot to change out of your country-club uniform.”

  He takes a tiny step closer to me, and I try to ignore the fact that he’s about a foot taller than me and
has a perfect view down my shirt.

  “Does the surly mood come with the goth outfit?” he asks, giving me a once-over. “Or do you have to buy it separately?”

  I hold up a hand to shield my eyes. “Could you please watch where you’re pointing your teeth? The glare from your caps is hurting my eyes.”

  He runs a tongue over his ridiculously white teeth, looking thoughtful. “You know, sometimes if I don’t have enough light to study by, I just smile and use the reflection from these pearly whites.”

  It’s a lame comeback, but I roll my eyes and let him win the sparring contest. I’m over this ridiculous conversation, and I head toward my classroom, well aware that I’m now a full twenty minutes late.

  “You’re not even going to say good-bye?” he calls after me. “I picked up your tampon!”

  I give a dismissive flick of my hand over my head, not bothering to turn around.

  I quickly find my classroom and brace myself for that awkward late-girl moment. The room is overly full considering that this is a summer elective course, but then I guess that’s to be expected when the professor has two Golden Globes and an Oscar under his belt.

  And actually, the professor isn’t a professor at all, but the current darling of Hollywood screenwriting. Martin Holbrook graduated from NYU’s Tisch School like a hundred years ago, and he guest-lectures at his alma mater every now and then to throw some wisdom at the undergraduates.

  Of course, this class isn’t my only reason for sticking around New York this summer. Hell, it’s not even my primary reason.

  But it’s still pretty freaking cool to work with a guy who’s done the red carpet and all that. Most of my professors’ experience is limited to behind-the-camera indie stuff.

  “Ms. Kendrick, I presume?” Martin Holbrook says as I try to slink unobtrusively along the side.