Get Dirty (Don't Get Mad Book 2)

by Gretchen McNeil

  A minute later, John’s pale arm popped over the windowsill, and with a deep groan, he hauled himself onto Bree’s bedroom floor.

  Bree stood dumbstruck as John scrambled to his feet and brushed dirt from his jeans and black button-down shirt. He smiled at her sheepishly, and all the awkwardness of a thousand unsaid emotions descended upon them. Bree wasn’t sure if she wanted to joke with John as they usually did, or throw her arms around his neck and kiss him.

  “I . . . I can’t believe you’re here,” she said at last.

  John approached her slowly, calmly, as if she were a skittish kitten, and reached out his hand to cup her face. He brushed away a lingering tear with his thumb, which was rough and calloused from years of playing bass. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, noting the spicy mix of aftershave and perspiration from scaling the outside of her house.

  Then she felt the heat of his breath close to her face and her heart stopped. She remembered the first time he’d almost kissed her. She hadn’t realized how much she’d wanted him to, but now, after all they’d been through, after the L word had been spoken, she wanted to feel his lips against her own more than ever.

  Bree raised her chin, angling her face toward him. “Please,” she whispered, unaware the word had escaped her mouth until she heard it.

  She felt his fingers creep around to the back of her head, and then his lips were pressed against hers. She kissed him back hungrily, her hands firmly planted on his chest, and then she felt his arm around her back, pulling her closer to him.

  John moaned and gripped the back of her dress with both hands, twisting the fabric into bunches. Before Bree even knew what she was doing, she had unbuttoned John’s shirt, peeled it off him, and was kissing the muscular lines of his chest.

  “Bree,” John said, his voice thick and throaty.

  She heard it through a haze, her mind far away. “Yeah?”

  He placed his hands on either side of her face and looked directly into her eyes. “Are you okay with this? I mean, you’ve been through a lot and I don’t want you to think I came here just to . . .” His voice trailed off and she watched a flush of pink wash over him.

  Could he be any more adorable? “John, I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  Her heart pounded in her chest. “Then there’s your answer.”

  SIXTEEN

  FITZGERALD WAS SITTING IN THE FRONT ROW OF THE HOUSE reading an issue of American Theatre magazine when Olivia arrived after school.

  “Miss Hayes!” he exclaimed as she approached, tossing the magazine aside and leaping to his feet. “I’ll be delighted to have you at Aspen this summer.”

  Olivia tried to keep her mounting excitement under control. “Thank you, Mr. Conroy.”

  “It will be a grueling six weeks,” he said, tilting his head toward her, “full of laughter and tears and misery and elation. And you won’t get any special treatment as a high school student.”

  Olivia smiled. “I don’t expect any.”

  “And it will be lonely,” he said.

  “Lonely?”

  “Away from your friends.” Fitzgerald glanced at the floor. “And your mother.”

  “Lonely” wasn’t the word Olivia would have chosen. More like “vacation.” She opened her mouth to reassure him that she’d be fine, when he interrupted her.

  “How are things at home, if I may ask?”

  “Fine.” How are things at home? That sounded like something a guidance counselor would ask.

  “And your mother? How is she?”

  “She’s fine too.”

  “Such an odd coincidence. I once directed your mother onstage, and now I’ll direct you.” He laughed nervously, then glanced at his watch. “Shall I drive you home?”

  “Um, I thought we were going to discuss my internship?”

  Fitzgerald waved his hand dismissively. “Of course, of course. In the car, my dear.” Then he linked his arm through hers and hustled her out to the parking lot.

  They pulled onto DuMaine Drive in silence, Olivia’s address programmed into the GPS in Fitzgerald’s rental. After two blocks, Fitzgerald cleared his throat and glanced at Olivia sidelong. “Do you think your mother will be home?”

  Olivia tensed. Was he going to demand some kind of sexual payback for offering her the internship at Aspen? He knew she was only sixteen, right?

  She clutched her tote bag to her chest and slowly, silently, reached her hand into its depths until her fingers closed around her house keys. When they got to her building, she’d dash out of the car and sprint up the stairs to her apartment. She could be inside with the door locked before he even knew what was happening.

  “She’s always there when I get home from school,” Olivia bluffed. There was probably a fifty-fifty chance her mom hadn’t left for work yet.

  She eyed Fitzgerald, expecting his face to fall, but instead, his features lit up. “I’d love to see her again.” His eyes sparkled, and for an instant, Fitzgerald looked positively boyish. She’d seen that look on his face once before, in her dressing room before the opening curtain for Twelfth Precinct, when he ran into his former protégé June Hayes.

  A smile spread across Olivia’s face as they pulled up in front of her building. It wasn’t her Fitzgerald wanted to spend time with. It was her mother.

  “You should come up and say hello,” she said, noticing her mom’s car still in the carport. Cinderella-type fantasies of her mom rescued from poverty by the hottest director on Broadway played out before her eyes. “My mom talks about you all the time. The Twelfth Night you did together is still her favorite production ever.”

  Fitzgerald smiled broadly. “Is it?”

  “Totally.” Come on, take the bait. “And she was just saying yesterday that she hoped she’d see you again soon,” she lied.

  He pulled the parking brake and cut the engine. “In that case, I’d love to say hello.”

  Olivia hurried up the stairs ahead of Fitzgerald. She prayed her mom was actually up and ready for work as opposed to hibernating in the daybed after calling in “sick” for her shift. As she burst through the door, she heaved a sigh of relief. The sheets on the daybed were neat and tidy, her mom’s purse and leather jacket laid across the bedspread, all ready for work.

  Game on.

  “Mom?” she cried. “Mom, someone’s here to see you.”

  “What?” her mom called from the bathroom.

  Olivia turned back to Fitzgerald, who tentatively entered the living room.

  “She’ll be right out,” she said with a nervous laugh.

  Fitzgerald nodded. His eyes swept the small interior of their apartment, resting on the peeling paint near the kitchen ceiling, the stained carpet, and the cramped quarters of the living room where Olivia’s mom slept. There was no judgment on his face, only curiosity.

  Then curiosity turned to surprise, and Olivia noticed that his gaze lingered on the coffee table. There, amid a haphazard pile of magazines and remote controls, stood an assortment of prescription pill bottles.

  Olivia was shocked. She knew her mom was on antidepressants, and had been prescribed anti-anxiety meds to take as needed for the occasional panic attack, but there had to be at least a half-dozen different bottles on the table—three times the normal collection—all neatly labeled from the pharmacy.

  “We’re, um, not used to company,” Olivia said, fumbling for a way to draw Fitzgerald’s attention away from the pharmaceutical display.

  “Quite all right, my dear.” He smiled warmly. “It’s an artist’s life.”

  “Is someone with you?” her mom yelled. The bathroom door opened and her mom walked into the living room, fastening the belt on her skintight black jeans. “If it’s Anthony, tell him I’ll have the rest of the rent by—”

  “Hello, June.”

  Olivia’s mom froze at the sound of Fitzgerald’s voice, and Olivia was astonished to see the color drain out of her lovely face.

  “Fitz,” she said, her voice barely
above a whisper.

  “How are you?”

  “I’m well.” She swallowed slowly. “And you?”

  Fitzgerald smiled. “Also well.”

  They stood in silence, gazing at each other. Olivia barely knew Fitzgerald Conroy, but she recognized the look in his eyes—he had a crush on her mom.

  Olivia half-expected them to fly into each other’s arms and confess their decades-long love for each other. Then he’d carry Olivia’s mom out of the apartment and into his luxury rental car like Richard Gere at the end of almost every Richard Gere movie.

  So she was shocked when her mom snatched her purse and jacket from the daybed, and hurried past Fitzgerald to the door.

  “Yes,” her mom said, clearly flustered. “Well, I’m off to work and I’m sure you have other places to be. So nice of you to stop by.” She held the door open for him, steadfastly refusing to look Fitzgerald in the eyes.

  “Oh!” he said, looking as if she’d just slapped him across the face. “Yes, of course. So sorry to intrude.” He was out the door and down the stairs before Olivia could protest.

  “What was that all about?” Olivia said, as soon as her mom closed the door.

  Instead of apologizing, her mom whirled on her. “Don’t you ever bring that man to this house again. Do you hear me?”

  “Why?”

  “Do you hear me?” her mom repeated through clenched teeth.

  There was something wild in her mom’s eyes; it wasn’t anger or fear, but a mix of the two that seemed to ignite from nothing.

  “Are you okay?” Olivia asked.

  “Of course I am,” her mom snapped. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “It’s just . . .” Olivia glanced at the pill bottles on the table. “Are those new prescriptions from Dr. Kearns?”

  Her mom shrugged. “How am I supposed to know? She phones them in, I pick them up.” She took a step closer to her daughter and gripped Olivia by the arm. “You didn’t answer me. Promise me you’ll never bring Fitzgerald Conroy to this house again.”

  Olivia winced as her mom’s fingers dug into her flesh. “Fine. But why not?”

  Instead of offering an explanation, her mom spun around and stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door behind her.

  SEVENTEEN

  STILL SWEATY FROM VOLLEYBALL PRACTICE, KITTY HURRIED UP the steps to the private gym. She taught volleyball lessons there every summer, and in addition to a small stipend, she received an annual pass to use the facilities. Which was unnecessary most of the time, considering that Bishop DuMaine had state-of-the-art weight and cardio equipment on campus, but today it was going to come in particularly handy. Last summer, Kitty had noticed an old classmate working out every evening around five o’clock. It was someone Kitty knew only too well: DGM target number one, Wendy Marshall.

  If truth be told, Kitty had a soft spot for Wendy. Her label-shaming, queen-bee fiefdom at Bishop DuMaine had inspired Kitty to form DGM freshman year, and though the plan against Wendy wasn’t one of their finest, it still gave Kitty a special thrill when she thought about it. The first time is always the sweetest.

  It had been a simple mission, and kind of stupid when she thought about it, but DGM hadn’t fine-tuned their roles yet, and hacking into the camera feed from Wendy’s online LARPing group was the best they could do. But the image of Wendy dressed as a steampunk cowgirl for online sessions with her group was amazing. Again, Kitty admired the way Wendy dove into her role with 100 percent commitment, and under different circumstances, she felt as if she and Wendy could have been friends. After all, Kitty had done her fair share of dressing up in Hogwarts robes, running around straddling a broom as she pretended to be the Ravenclaw Seeker. But after terrorizing the female population of Bishop DuMaine for nondesigner clothing labels and questionable fashion choices, Kitty was seriously pissed off by Wendy’s hypocrisy.

  The printouts of Wendy in a homemade costume, posing in character, ended her tenure as queen bee once and for all.

  Kitty flashed her membership card and climbed the stairs to the cardio room. One sweep told her she was in luck: Wendy Marshall was going to town on an elliptical.

  Watching the petite brunette work out like she was training for a marathon, Kitty found it difficult to believe her capable of murder, arson, or the half-dozen other crimes associated with their suspect. Then again, maybe that was the key to her success—underestimation.

  Wendy eyed Kitty as she climbed onto an adjacent machine, but didn’t break stride. Kitty stood there for a moment—shoes planted in the footplates, fingers gripping handles—and stared at the console. She’d never actually worked out on a cardio machine other than a treadmill, which seemed so much more straightforward than this medieval torture device. Set speed, start running. But what were all these buttons? Freestyle, CardioBurn, FatBurn.

  “Push the green one,” Wendy said, panting.

  “Oh.” Kitty found the green button marked “QuickStart” and the console lit up. “Thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  Okay, conversation had been broached. Now what the hell was Kitty supposed to say?

  “Aren’t you Wendy Marshall?” she blurted out, as if she was a famous celebrity instead of a disgraced former mean girl.

  Wendy slowed her pace. “Yeah . . . ,” she said skeptically.

  “You went to Bishop DuMaine, right?” Wow, was that the best you could come up with, Kitty?

  Wendy abruptly stopped her elliptical. “I did,” she said sharply. “And before you crack a joke, yes, I still LARP with the Frontier League of Peculiar Individuals.”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “And I’m proud of it. In fact, I’ve been selling my Frontier League fanfic for the last year. Over one hundred thousand downloads. Do you know how much money I’ve made?”

  “Um . . .”

  “Ninety-nine cents each. You do the math.” Wendy whipped her towel off the console and threw it over her shoulder. “So before you and the rest of those assholes at Bishop DuMaine start tossing my name around as the butt of your jokes again, think about that and suck it.”

  And without another word, Wendy flounced out of the gym.

  An electronic bell sounded as soon as Olivia pushed open the door of Aquanautics, the surf and water-sports store where Maxwell and Maven Gertler had found gainful employment after their “rehabilitation.”

  The shop was small, but jam-packed with merchandise. Racks of shirts, shorts, and hoodies in both men’s and women’s varieties ran down the center of the room, while a large selection of shoes were displayed on the far wall. On the opposite side of the store, wet suits in sizes from toddler to adult hung from the ceiling like meat in a freezer, and TV monitors were set up throughout, displaying surf competitions at nearby Mavericks. Above her head, every inch of ceiling space was covered with surf and body boards suspended from the rafters, and a range of kayaks was tilted against the checkout desk.

  The effect was homey, the store was abnormally warm, and combined with the pungent aroma of coconut and beeswax, and the pumped-in sound track of ocean waves, it gave the impression that the beach was right outside the door.

  Olivia eyed the cash register at the back of the store. It was empty, which made her nervous. She would have been much more comfortable if there had been other customers around. What if the Gertlers were the killers? And here she was alone and outnumbered?

  Oh, hell no. Olivia had turned and was hurrying back toward the door when she heard someone’s voice nearby.

  “Can I help you?”

  Olivia recognized the deep, gravelly voice of one of the Gertler twins right away.

  Okay, fine. She could do this. She turned to the nearest rack of Hawaiian shirts.

  “I’m looking for a birthday gift for my boyfriend,” she said, making sure she had an unobstructed path to the exit, just in case. “And I’m not sure what to get him.”

  Maxwell or Maven, whichever one it was, sighed as if helping a customer was the last thing he wanted
to do, and ambled over. “Is he a surfer, a skater, or . . .” His voice trailed off. “Olivia?”

  She spun toward him, allowing her face to reflect confusion at first, then morph into recognition and surprise. “Maxwell?”

  Maxwell beamed at her. “You’re like the only one who can tell us apart.” He reached out and gave her a hug, squeezing her tightly and allowing his hands to roam up and down her back in an almost inappropriate kind of way. “It is so good to see you.”

  Olivia wiggled free, straightening her dress in the process. “So how are you?”

  “Good,” Maxwell said, gazing around the store. “You know. It was kinda rough after the arrest and all. But our cousin owns this place and he basically lets us run it. Pretty cool.”

  “It’s awesome,” Olivia said, trying to sound suitably impressed.

  “But we’re still in the game,” he said slowly, as if speaking in code.

  “The game?” What was he talking about: Murder? Arson? Assault and battery?

  “Yep. We’ve got our own studio now.” Maxwell stepped back and steadied his chin between his thumb and forefinger, appraising her body from head to toe. “How old are you?”

  Ew? “Sixteen.”

  A sly smile crept up the right side of Maxwell’s face as he slid closer to her and dropped his voice. “Have you ever thought about modeling?”

  Really? He was propositioning her? Desperate to change the subject, Olivia turned her attention back to the shirts. “I wonder if my boyfriend might like—”

  Maxwell traced Olivia’s bare arm with his finger, and whispered in her ear. “You know, there’s a huge market for sexy photos of a girl like you. Europe, Asia. No one would ever know. . . .”

  As much as she wanted to knee Maxwell in the crotch and make a run for it, Olivia was there for a reason. She needed to bring the conversation back to the school play.

  “Funny I should run into you here,” she began, fluttering her eyelashes. “I was just talking to Amber Stevens today, and she said she thought she saw you and your brother at the opening of the school play last week.”

  Maxwell snorted. “At Bishop DuMaine? I doubt it. We’re never setting foot back in that shithole.”