by Julie Cross
“This material is amazing. Durable, too.” Justice runs a hand over the shoulder strap. “But the cut is even better.”
Maybe the queen bee of Holden Prep has some humanity in her after all.
“She’s into designing,” Chantel says as if that’s the only reason anyone should comment on the durability of clothing. She also wrinkles her nose, indicating it’s not a hobby she approves of. She reaches for a glass of something light pink on the bar and holds it up for us to see. “These are amazing. Did you guys try one?”
“Careful with those,” Justice warns. She looks at me and sighs. “God, I miss my nanny.”
“Me, too.” Chantel downs half the glass in three seconds flat. “Mine did all my homework. It sucks having to do it myself now.”
“She did your homework?” Justice says. “You are so fucking lazy, Chantel.”
Chantel rolls her eyes. “Whatever.”
“So…” I say to Justice. “Are you thinking about design school?”
I never think about college, but everyone else at my school seems to, so it’s always a safe topic of conversation.
“I’d kill to go to New York School of Design. But my parents would never let me.” Human Justice fades away, and her nose literally lifts up a notch higher. “My dad went to Stanford, and my mom went to Princeton for undergrad and then Stanford for law school.”
I open my mouth to ask another question, but Justice decides to shout across the deck to Bret. “Thomas! Did we fucking make the team or what? We know you know.”
The grin from earlier slides across Bret’s face again. “You both made varsity! Congrats!”
“What?” Justice and I say together.
Bret laughs. “Kidding.” He points a finger at Justice. “You sucked ass.” Then he swings that finger over to me. “And you were scary as hell.”
“Thank God.” Justice clutches a hand to her chest. She turns to me and smiles. “He likes you.”
“Who?” I reach for a glass and hold it without taking a drink.
“You know who,” Justice says. “It was instant love the second you plowed over what’s-her-name with the apple ass during the scrimmage.”
“I thought you were into Bret,” Chantel hisses, her voice low like that was only for Justice to hear.
Justice seems to realize she’s screwed up something. Her gaze quickly flits across the deck to Chantel’s man, Jacob. “I think Jacob’s on his fifth vodka tonic… Better go keep him in check.”
Chantel huffs and slams down her glass on the bar counter, but she heads over to Jacob. When we’re alone, I give Justice a few seconds to ’fess up. She doesn’t. “I know you need Chantel to think you have a crush on Bret,” I say. Her mouth opens, but I continue before she gets a word in. “The question is why? Either you’ve got something on the side with Jacob behind your best friend’s back, or Jacob’s using you to test Chantel. See if she’s still into Bret. They dated last year, right?”
Her eyes widen, mouth still hanging open. “How— I mean no way, I’m not hooking up with Jacob!”
“Say that a little louder and Chantel might hear you,” I warn. “So Jock-boy Jacob has some insecurity issues, huh?”
The shock slowly dissolves from her face, and she grins. “Why is it we’ve never hung out until now?”
“Fate,” I lie. Fate is bullshit. “Now is our time, I think.”
She grabs a glass of pink whatever. “Cheers to that.”
“To a new school year, new friends.” I raise my glass, clink it against hers. “New crushes.”
“And new secrets.” She looks me over, silently asking the question.
“I’m not gonna tell Chantel you’re part of Jacob’s mind game.” I set the glass back down, not having taken a sip even though Justice had. “And now it’s time for me to stretch my boundaries a little.”
Bret is in my line of sight now. I look him over for a moment, trying to decide what tactic to use.
“Get it, girl.” Justice smacks me on the ass and gives me a shove. “Make him use a condom.”
I cross the deck slowly and feel a small sense of both satisfaction and relief, knowing my old confidence, my skills, it’s all here. Several pairs of eyes turn in my direction. My mother taught me how to do this. How to walk across a room and get people to look my way, any people. As corny as this sounds, it really is about the inside more than the external—the way you think about yourself affects the way you move yourself, my mom had said hundreds of times. She’d lifted one of my arms—if you move this arm, you do it with the attitude, the mind-set that this is my arm. I’m putting it exactly where I want it. This is my foot; it’s landing exactly where I want it to. Everything I do is exactly as I want it.
Sometimes I feel nervous and I can’t get into the right headspace, but when I do, I feel it all over. It’s powerful. An unforgettable high. That’s why I struggle so much with letting go of who I really am and where I came from, because it gives me power. Without it, what the hell do I have? The memory of the Dr. Ames con, that’s what.
The yacht railing comes into view, and I almost turn around and head back to the bar, but Bret has already caught on to the fact that I’ve come over here for him. He lifts an eyebrow—the guy is definitely into bold girls. This makes me hate him 2 percent less, which is useful when I have to pretend not to hate him. I force my vision to blur, not allowing the very near ocean to take over my thoughts, but my heart still picks up, fear slowing down my feet. I turn quickly, my back facing the water.
Bret watches me then slides over, closer to me, stopping when there are only a couple of inches between us. “Hey.”
“Hey.” I keep my eyes on his—avoiding the water—and pause for a beat before saying, “Justice says you’re into physically aggressive girls.”
He laughs. “Why? Are you selling your assets?”
“I’m always selling my assets. But I’m extremely picky when it comes to buyers.”
“Good to know.” His gaze drifts right to my cleavage, but unlike Miles, this guy doesn’t blush. “You don’t have a drink. Do you want something?”
“You already asked me that,” I remind him. “And no. My sister can smell a cocktail on me a mile away. I prefer to limit my substance use to the unscented.”
Both eyebrows shoot up. “So that’s why you came over here.”
I shrug, my stomach bubbling with nerves. Did I jump too soon? I stop breathing, my gaze still locked on Bret’s.
He reaches a hand toward the pocket of his shorts and removes a tiny white bottle. I sigh with relief; my timing was perfect. He glances around and then turns back to me. “What’s your damage?”
“What are my options?” I keep cool while he dumps a half dozen pills into his palm. Then he slips two pills back into the bottle. “What were those?”
“Nothing I’d give you.”
“Why? Are they roofies?” Jesus Christ, please say no. Otherwise I’ll be forced to twist his balls into a knot, and that really ruins my plan to get on the inside.
Bret shakes his head. “You know people take those as a sleep aid in other countries.”
“Which countries?” I press, and then I wave a hand. “Forget it. I don’t want to know. What are my options?”
“Molly, acid, PCP, Adderall,” he rattles off, his voice low, his palm carefully concealed.
“Adderall? In case I decide to plop down by the bar and study for a test?” I turn my gaze to the crowded deck. “It’s more of an ecstasy night for me, I think.”
Warm fingers lift my hand, turning it around. Two pills land in my palm, and then the same warm fingers curl my hand into a fist. When I glance back at Bret, the tiny white pill bottle is out of sight. Smooth. He’d make an excellent pickpocket.
“How much?” I ask because I’m not sure if he’s dealing right now or just being nice.
“It’s on me.” Bret leans in closer, his breath hitting my ear. I fight hard against the urge to retreat. “But you have to take them in front of me.”
My heart pounds, fear sweeping over me. I open my mouth to respond, but Bret laughs and says, “Kidding. Seriously, don’t take both of those at once. It’ll fuck up your heart, make it feel like it’s gonna explode.”
I think that’s already happening just from holding the pills in my hand. I drop them into my purse in one motion. But I can’t get my mind to hold still, my heart to slow.
Relax. Breathe, Ellie. Slow. Easy.
This is my body and I’m putting it exactly where I want it.
My shoulders sink with each lengthened breath I take. Here and now. Aidan calls these techniques coping mechanisms. I call them training drills. I may not be playing the games anymore, but I don’t plan on getting out of shape anytime soon.
Bret gives me a funny look. “You okay?”
“I have this thing about boats and…” I nod in the direction of the Potomac River behind me. “Railings and large bodies of water.”
“Huh.” He shrugs but looks less suspicious. “Dominic and I crash here whenever we can. He’s been sleeping below deck since Thursday when his parents left for China. It’s the best. Party on deck, bedroom below, cleaning crew comes out here daily.”
Dominic’s been sleeping below deck? Might be a great place to snoop around.
“How long are they in China?” I ask then add, “In case I need to replenish my supply. I’ll know where to find you.”
“You’ll know where to find me,” he repeats. “Have you always been this cool? Who usually hooks you up?”
Who usually hooks me up? That’s a great question. Let me ask you one first, Bret… What were you doing in our parking lot after the spring formal? Did you follow Simon home? Did he buy drugs from you? Did you give him something that made him want to shoot himself?
“Actually, I haven’t been hooked up in a while,” I say.
“But who before?” he presses. “Anyone I know?”
I look away from him and chew on my thumbnail. “Just a friend. But I can’t— I mean he’s not— He’s not around.”
Beside me, Bret snorts out a laugh. “No way. Simon Gilbert didn’t have anything good to share with you. Not in a million years. The guy wouldn’t even touch a glass of champagne.”
“Neither will I,” I point out, hating myself for ruining any image of Simon. “And did I say Simon?”
“Okay, I get it. Not Simon.” He lifts his hands. And obviously not a drug deal behind his appearance in our parking lot last June. “But if you do want anything, go to Dominic, if not me. He’s the only one at our school I would trust to party with you and not turn you in at the drop of a hat.”
“Good to know.”
I’m about to make my case for a bathroom escape, but then I catch sight of a guy stepping onto the yacht. My jaw clenches and I suppress a growl.
Miles Beckett.
CHAPTER 10
What’s worse than Miles showing up at this cool kids drug party? About four things, all of which I list off to myself the moment he enters the party. First, Bret abandons me to high-five Miles. Second, Dominic rushes over to greet him. Dominic, who wouldn’t give me more than a pissed-off nod. Third, Justice grins and whispers furiously to Chantel. And fourth, Miles has ditched the starched-to-all-hell pants in favor of a blue button-down shirt and jeans.
He looks amazing in jeans. He just looks amazing period. His skin is slightly bronzed, probably from all the laps he swam this afternoon when I went inside to get ready. Yes, I looked. Believe me, I’m regretting it now.
I glare at him, refusing to join the parade of Miles Beckett lovers. I mean seriously, how do they even know him? Did he blow all their minds in SAT prep class this afternoon? He bumps fists with Bret despite the fact that he was a hater the other day in the grocery store. And he was about to turn me in for that bag of drugs, and he knows Bret and Dominic were involved. I don’t get it. What’s he playing at?
He turns toward the bar, and like the cool, smooth guy he’s morphed into, he lifts a drink off the counter and “accidentally” brushes Justice’s arm. She pretends to have just noticed his appearance here and tugs the sleeve of his shirt. Then she says something that makes him laugh, something I can’t hear, and my gut twists.
Am I disappointed that he’s made the transition to cool kid before me despite my head start? Or am I disappointed that he noticed Justice before me? But then he glances this way, as if to scan the deck, and his gaze freezes on me.
He blinks. Looks away. And then back at me again. The weight of his gaze, the way his eyes journey from my head to my toes, causes heat to creep up my neck. I shake off the unwanted feelings and move toward the small crowd.
Bret makes a big show of introducing me to Miles, like he’s a celebrity or something—what the hell happened in that SAT prep class—and I fake a smile. “We’ve run into each other a few times.”
“They’re neighbors,” Dominic says, surprising me. But he’s still avoiding eye contact, a scowl on his pretty face. He looks at Bret. “Are we swimming or what?”
“Dude, it’s been, like, five seconds since you came up with that plan.” Bret shakes his head. “If you were ready, you should have told me.”
Silent, tense words flow between the two of them.
“You looked busy.” His gaze finally falls on me. “Didn’t want to interrupt.”
Okay, what the hell did I do to Dominic DeLuca?
Miles looks between them, an eyebrow rising as if asking me what I did to cause that bromance tension. I take a couple of steps in Miles’s direction, daring him to say something. He looks right at me, eye contact to rival the best.
I return the eye contact long enough to see him tense. “Do you ever get the feeling you’re following someone?”
“I’m not following you if that’s what you’re implying.” A grin spreads across his face. “Can’t help it if people invite me to stuff.”
“No, you can’t, can you?” I shake my head. “Poor helpless, friendless Miles. The tuna casserole not providing enough comfort?”
Before I can ask him what he’s really up to, Dominic and Bret pull him away to discuss a night swimming expedition that I want nothing to do with. I find some other classmates to chat up for a while, watch Justice ogle Miles from a distance, and eventually, I make my way downstairs.
Three girls are walking up as I walk down. I press my back to the wall, making room. The lower level of this yacht is nothing like I’d expected. I figured there would be hardwood floors and water and boat thingies. But my platform shoes hit thick, plush carpet at the bottom of the steps and a living room/kitchen combination, complete with a giant flat-screen spread out before me.
Now I get why Bret said they love staying here. It’s like having your own apartment. I head over to a chair beside the couch and sift through the purses piled up here. I open the first top one and find a school ID for Justice’s friend Briley. I snap pictures of her license, credit card—front and back—and then stop myself. I don’t need this information. I find Chantel’s purse next. She’s got a bottle of penicillin. Yeah, I’d rather not know about that.
Justice’s purse is right below hers. Since she’s proven to be sneaky, I feel morally obligated to photograph her license. Tucked way in the back of her wallet is her social security card. I snap a picture of it, too, and then I grab her phone. She’s one of the few who left a phone down here. And no password protection. A couple more girls head down to the bathroom, and I pretend to be busy texting when they look my way. Justice has definitely been texting with Chantel’s boyfriend. I flip through Justice and Jacob’s exchange.
JUSTICE: maybe u should just trust her
JACOB: maybe u should just help me.
JACOB: And see? We r on the same page almost. Only 2 words different.
JUSTICE: haha. Fine. Doing it in the name of love. Nothing else.
The phone suddenly feels hot and heavy in my hands, like forbidden fruit. Okay, so maybe she’s not the evil sneak I pegged her as. If only guys had purses they abando
ned below deck. My work would be so much easier. Then again…
I look around and spot a closed door beside the bathroom. The bedroom Bret mentioned? I turn the knob, but it’s locked.
I glance quickly back at the stairs, making sure no one is coming down, and then I pull a pin from my hair and jiggle it inside the lock. The knob gives, and I turn it slowly, carefully, opening the door a crack before sliding inside. The room is dark, but I can make out the shape of a queen-size bed. I close the bedroom door and use my phone for light, shining it on the nightstand. A wallet, keys, and some pocket change are scattered across the surface. I remove the ID and shine the light on a picture of Dominic. He looks sullen as always. Maybe it’s just his demeanor. I photograph all his IDs and credit cards even though I’m wishing it were Bret’s wallet. Dominic wasn’t the one spotted in the parking lot that night in June. I don’t need him as much as I need Bret.
At the foot of the bed is a red duffel bag and backpack. I have to hike my dress way up to squat down in front of the bag. With Bret and Dominic both sleeping here, I don’t know whose bag this is.
I unzip the duffel first and slide a hand inside, feeling around for something that isn’t clothes. Possibly a bag of drugs like the one Dominic and Bret planted on Cody Smith. Or the ones currently sitting in Bret’s pocket. I remove one of our school polos and notice the monogram on the tag: Dominic DeLuca. I refrain from laughing at the fact that he’s got preschool name tags in his uniforms. So, not Bret’s bag. I drop the shirt and reach back in. My fingers brush something plastic. I shift aside the clothes and shine the light, illuminating at least thirty condom packets spread out over the bottom of the duffel. Good boy, Dominic. Way to be safe. And overconfident, apparently. I go through all the side pouches and end pockets but find nothing of worth. Nothing incriminating or even interesting.
I hold still, listening for footsteps before moving on to the backpack. The only sounds are coming from the party above my head. I remove a U.S. history book, then a five-subject notebook—nothing of interest in there. The Spanish book comes out next, and then I know it’s Dominic’s backpack. Bret’s in German III—not Spanish—right before my AP German class. My fingers reach the metal clasps of a manila envelope. I shine the light on it. Luckily it’s not sealed. I have to set down the flashlight to remove the contents of the envelope. Several newspaper clippings slide out. I pick up the flashlight again and lean in to see better. The headlines jump out at me.