Pretty Little Liars #9: Twisted

by Sara Shepard

  But even though he asked a lot of questions, he wasn’t suspicious. No one was.

  Until now.

  A knock sounded on the door. Aria shot up, nerves jangling. “H-hello?”

  “It’s me,” Noel called from the hallway. “Can I come in?”

  Aria unlatched the door. Noel thrust a big basket of tiger lilies, coffee, and snacks in her face. “For you!”

  “Thank you!” Aria cried. There was even a stuffed pig in the basket, reminding Aria of her favorite puppet, Pigtunia. But then she stiffened. Didn’t guys only give their girlfriends flowers when they felt guilty? “What’s the occasion?” she asked.

  “I saw it in the gift shop and thought of you.” Noel set the basket on the TV bureau and wrapped his arms around her. He smelled like the tea tree oil facial cleanser Aria had bought him for Valentine’s Day. “Look, I know skiing isn’t really your thing, but I’m so happy you came. This trip wouldn’t be the same without you here.”

  He sounded so genuine and earnest that Aria’s suspicions thawed. Klaudia and A were turning her into a crazy person. “I’m happy I came, too,” she admitted. “This place is gorgeous.”

  “You’re gorgeous.” Noel pulled her down on the bed. They started kissing, first tentatively, then more and more passionately. Noel pulled Aria’s shirt over her head, and Aria reciprocated. They pressed their bare chests together, feeling each other’s warmth. “Mmm,” Noel murmured.

  They paused for a moment, and then Aria touched Noel’s waistband and undid his belt buckle. Noel breathed in, obviously surprised. Next, Aria undid the button on his jeans and pulled them off him. She stared at his muscled legs, grinning. He was wearing the golden retriever–printed boxers she’d picked out for him at J. Crew.

  After a moment, she reached for the button on her own jeans. Noel grabbed her hand, his eyes wide. “Are you sure?”

  Aria gazed around the small room, from the flat-screen TV to the champagne bucket in the corner to the generic-looking chair and ottoman by the large windows. Now that they were in an unfamiliar setting, she felt less inhibited than normal. Or maybe she just felt compelled to prove to Noel exactly what he meant to her. It might just be the only way to ensure he would remain hers.

  “I’m sure,” she whispered.

  Noel pulled off Aria’s jeans the rest of the way. They clung to each other for a while, almost totally unclothed, their lips locked in an embrace. Aria’s heart pounded. She was really going to do this. It was time. As Noel rolled on top of her, she kissed him hard.

  Knock knock knock.

  They both froze, staring at each other with wide eyes. There was silence, and then another knock. “Hello?” Klaudia chirped. “Aria? Noel? You there?”

  Aria winced. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Noel?” Klaudia’s voice was muffled. “Come on! Time for hiihto!”

  “Maybe if we be quiet she’ll go away,” Noel whispered, tracing his finger along Aria’s bare collarbone.

  But the knocking persisted. “Noel!” Klaudia teased. “I know you in there! We must hiihto!”

  Finally, Noel groaned, grabbed his jeans from the floor, and slid them back on. “Okay,” he called back. “We’re coming.”

  “Oh, goody!” Klaudia said from the other side.

  Aria stared at Noel, slack-jawed. “What?” Noel asked, pausing with one pant leg halfway past his knee.

  For a moment, Aria was so angry she couldn’t speak. “We were sort of in the middle of something. Are you seriously going to drop everything for her?”

  Noel’s face softened. “We’ll have plenty of time alone tonight, when no one will disturb us. And Klaudia’s right—the lifts close in a couple hours. We’ve got to get our hiihto on. Aren’t you ready for your first ski lesson with her?”

  “Actually, no.” Aria turned away and hugged a pillow to her chest. Fury pulsed inside her like a second heart. “I don’t want Klaudia to teach me anything.”

  The bed springs squeaked as Noel sat back down. “I thought you guys were friends. Klaudia adores you!”

  A bitter chuckle escaped from Aria’s lips. “I highly doubt that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Noel was staring at her with such a puzzled look on his face. Aria thought about the texts Klaudia had written about both of them. Should she tell Noel . . . or would that make her look like a psycho?

  “I just don’t trust her around you,” Aria said. “I see the way she looks at you.”

  Noel’s face fell. “Don’t be like that, Aria. I’ve told you a million times you have no reason to be jealous.”

  “It’s not jealousy,” Aria argued. “It’s the truth.”

  Noel pulled his sweatshirt over his head and stuffed his feet into his Timberland boots. “Come on.” He extended his hand for her, his tone of voice more distant than it had been just a few minutes before.

  Reluctantly, Aria got dressed and followed him out—what other choice did she have? Klaudia was waiting for them in a chair across the hall, already dressed in skin-tight ski pants, a shapely white ski jacket with pink lining, and matching pink hat and gloves. She jumped up when she saw Noel and grabbed his hand. “Ready for hiihto?”

  “Totally,” Noel said jovially. He nudged Aria. “We’re both ready.”

  Klaudia’s gaze flickered briefly to Aria. Her irises morphed from dark blue to an inky, venomous black. “Good,” she said in a chilling voice. An expression crossed her face that Aria couldn’t immediately decipher.

  But as Klaudia turned, walked out of the lobby, and promptly hopped on a chair lift without inviting Aria along, Aria got the message loud and clear. Klaudia had heard everything Aria said to Noel in the hotel room. The expression on her face meant This is war.

  Chapter 21

  Some stripping and some teasing

  “Okay, kids,” Mr. Pennythistle said. “The porters will take your things to your rooms. We’ll meet at Smith and Wollensky at eight for dinner.”

  It was Friday afternoon, and Spencer, her mother, Zach, Amelia, and Mr. Pennythistle had just arrived in the lobby of the Hudson Hotel on Fifty-eighth Street in New York, which had the moody lighting of a nightclub. The air smelled like expensive leather valises. Skinny model-types writhed and sipped cocktails in the various bar areas. A bumbling tourist squinted at a guidebook in the low light. Various languages floated through the cavernous space.

  The only reason they were staying at the Hudson and not somewhere genteel like the Waldorf or the Four Seasons was because Mr. Pennythistle did business with the hotelier and got all of their rooms for free. Mr. Donald Trump of the Main Line was apparently a cheap bastard.

  Mrs. Hastings gave Spencer, Zach, and Amelia a half-wave and then made a break for the elevator bank to the street—maybe she wasn’t a fan of the nightclub-style hotel, either. Mr. Pennythistle followed her. After they were gone, Zach fiddled with his iPhone. “So. What do you guys want to do?”

  Spencer rocked back and forth on her heels. She was tempted to ask Zach if he wanted to visit Chelsea, the gay capital of New York City. Or maybe the Meatpacking District—there were some amazing men’s shops there.

  Accepting that Zach was into guys had been easier than Spencer thought. Now, they could be BFFs and tell each other everything, watch episodes of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, and argue over Robert Pattinson’s hotness. And now that there wasn’t any sexual tension between them, Spencer had felt comfortable sleeping on Zach’s shoulder on the Amtrak ride here, taking a sip from his Coke, and smacking his butt to tell him his jeans looked awesome.

  Unfortunately, they were stuck with Amelia today—Mr. Pennythistle had been very specific about not letting Amelia go off by herself—and Spencer couldn’t very well suggest Chelsea in front of her. Amelia looked miserable to be here—and particularly dowdy today. While Spencer had chosen a chic outfit of black denim jeggings, a Juicy faux-fur jacket, and Pour la Victoire spike-heel booties, and Zach wore a fitted John Varvatos hooded anorak, dark-
wash jeans, and black Converse, Amelia looked like a combination of a fifth grader and a prudish middle-aged woman off to church. She wore a crisp white blouse, a plaid skirt that fell past her knees, black wooly tights, and—ugh—Mary Janes. Just being around her brought down Spencer’s style quotient.

  “We should go to Barneys,” Spencer suggested. “Amelia needs a makeover.”

  Amelia made a face. “Ex-cuse me?”

  “Oh my God.” Zach’s eyes gleamed. “That’s a fantastic idea.”

  “I don’t need a makeover.” Amelia crossed her arms over her chest. “I like my clothes!”

  “I’m sorry, but your clothes are awful,” Spencer said.

  Amelia’s eyes zeroed in on Spencer’s sky-high heels. “Who made you an expert?”

  “Christian Louboutin,” Spencer said with authority.

  “Spencer’s right.” Zach moved out of the way of a blond Swedish couple pulling two Vuitton bags toward the elevator bank. “You look like you’re ready to go to the convent.”

  “Two to one, you’re outnumbered.” Spencer grabbed Amelia’s hand. “You need a new everything, and Fifth Avenue is just around the corner. Come on.”

  She dragged Amelia down the escalators. Zach caught Spencer’s eye and smiled.

  On the street, cabs zoomed and honked. A man noisily pushed a hot dog cart. The Time Warner towers soared overhead, silver and sleek. Spencer adored New York, even though her last visit had been disastrous. She’d met with her surrogate birth mother, who drained her college account, much to A’s delight.

  As they walked down Fifty-eighth Street, a poster in a travel agent’s window caught her eye. Come to Jamaica and feel all right!

  The blood drained from her head. There, in poster-sized photographs, was The Cliffs: the pool with the pineapple decal on the bottom. The purplish cliffs and turquoise sea. The roof deck and restaurant where they’d met Tabitha. The crow’s nest and the long, empty expanse of beach. If Spencer squinted, she could almost make out where they’d stood after everything happened . . .

  “Spencer? Is everything okay?”

  Zach and Amelia stared at her from a few paces away. Busy pedestrians wove around them with annoyance. Spencer looked at the poster again. A’s notes shot through her head like a bullet train. Someone knew. Someone had seen them. Someone might tell.

  “Spence?”

  The strong scent of burnt soft pretzel from a cart wafted into Spencer’s nose. Straightening up, she turned away from the travel agent’s window. “I’m fine,” she murmured softly, pulling her coat around her and rushing toward them.

  If only she could believe that.

  Barneys pulsed with rich women comparing leather gloves, girls spritzing Chanel No. 5 on their wrists, and hot men ogling the Kiehl’s skin cream display. “This place is divine,” Spencer said as she stepped through the revolving doors, inhaling the heady scent of luxury.

  “It’s just a store,” Amelia said grumpily.

  They had to practically drag Amelia up to the Co-op on 8, which brimmed with thousands of wardrobe options. Amelia looked at everything with distaste. “You’re trying things on,” Spencer urged. She held up a Diane von Furstenberg dress. “The wrap dress is a style essential,” she said in her best personal-shopper voice. “Especially because you’re straight up and down. It’ll give you a semblance of a waist.”

  Amelia scowled. “I don’t want a waist!”

  “I guess you never want to have sex, either,” Spencer said breezily.

  Zach giggled and helped her pull several more dresses off the rack. Amelia eyed him suspiciously. “Why are you helping with this? I thought you hated shopping.”

  Spencer almost opened her mouth to protest—what gay guy hated shopping?—but she refrained. Zach shrugged and bumped Spencer with his hip. “What else am I going to do?”

  After choosing several pairs of jeans, various skirts and blouses, and a whole array of dresses, Spencer and Zach led Amelia to the dressing area and shoved her into one of the tiny rooms. “You’re going to be transformed,” Spencer told her. “I promise.”

  Amelia groaned, but locked the door behind her. Spencer and Zach sat on the little couch next to the three-way mirror like anxious parents. The door slowly creaked open, and Amelia stepped out wearing a pair of Rag & Bone skinny jeans, a VPL flutter-sleeve top, and a pair of sleek brown booties with two-inch heels. There was a frightened look on her face, and she took mincing steps in the tottering heels toward the mirror.

  “Amelia,” Zach gasped.

  Spencer leapt to her feet. “You look incredible!”

  Amelia opened her mouth to protest, but then shut it again when she saw her reflection. There was no way she couldn’t say she looked good: Her legs were long and thin, her butt—who knew she even had one?—was round and perky, and the blouse elegantly complemented her skin. “This outfit is . . . nice,” she deemed primly.

  “It’s more than nice!” Zach said.

  Amelia gazed at the price tag on the jeans. “It’s really expensive.”

  Spencer arched a brow. “I think your dad can handle it.”

  “Try on more!” Zach cried, shoving her back into the tiny booth.

  One by one, Amelia tried on new outfits, her hard, bitchy exterior slowly melting away. She even did a tiny twirl in one of the Diane von Furstenberg dresses. By the sixth outfit, she wasn’t even wobbling in the heels. And by the twelfth, Spencer felt so comfortable that Amelia wouldn’t run away screaming that she tried on a fitted Alexander Wang cocktail dress she’d picked out for herself.

  Sliding it over her head, she reached around to fasten the back but couldn’t quite grab the zipper. “Zach?” She poked her head out of the dressing room. “Can you help?”

  Zach opened the door farther and stood behind her. Spencer’s whole back, including the edge of her red lacy thong, were in full view. Their eyes met in the mirror.

  “Thanks for paying attention to my sister,” Zach said. “I know she’s kind of prissy. But you’ve really brought her out of her shell.”

  “I’m happy to help.” Spencer smiled. “Makeovers always work wonders.”

  Zach’s eyes remained on hers in the mirror. He still didn’t pull up the zipper. Then, slowly, he touched the small of her back with his palm. His warm, smooth hand sent tingles up Spencer’s spine. She turned to face him. He moved his arms up and wrapped them around her waist. They stood just inches from one another, so close that Spencer could smell Zach’s breath mints. In just seconds, their lips would touch. Thousands of questions swarmed in Spencer’s head. But you said you were . . . Are you?. . . What is this . . . ?

  “Guys?”

  They shot apart. A pair of snakeskin heels peeked under the curtain. “What are you doing in there?” Amelia asked.

  “Uh, nothing.” Spencer fumbled away from Zach, knocking into a few garments hanging on the wall. She pulled her jeans back on underneath the dress.

  At the same time, Zach smoothed down his shirt and exited the room. “I was just helping Spencer zip something up,” he murmured to his sister.

  Amelia’s snakeskin-clad feet turned this way and that. “Is that all you were doing?”

  A long pause followed. Zach was saved by his ringing phone, and he padded out of the dressing room hallway to take the call. Spencer slumped down on the little bench inside her alcove and stared at her flustered face in the mirror. If only Zach had answered his sister. Spencer would have loved to know if that was all they’d been doing, too.

  Chapter 22

  The Bridges of Rosewood County

  A few hours later that same Friday, just after the sun was sinking past the tree line, Emily pulled into the parking lot of the Rosewood covered bridge. It was about a mile away from Rosewood Day, constructed from Revolutionary War–era stone, and spanned a small creek filled with fish—in the summer, anyway. Now, in dreary February, the frozen creek was silent and deathly still. The pine trees whispered in the wind, sounding like gossiping ghosts. Every so often,
Emily heard a crack or a snap far off in the woods. It wasn’t exactly somewhere she wanted to be right now. The only reason she’d come was because Chloe wanted to meet her here to talk.

  She got out and walked under the bridge, inhaling the scent of wet wood. Just like everything else in Rosewood, the bridge held a sad memory. Emily and Ali visited it once in the late spring of seventh grade, sitting under its shady cover and listening to the creek rushing beneath them. “You know that guy I told you about, Em?” Ali sing-songed happily. She’d often teased Emily about an older guy she was in love with. Later, Emily found out it was Ian Thomas. “I think I’m going to bring him here tonight so we can make out.” Ali twisted the string friendship bracelet she’d made for all of them around her wrist and gave Emily a sly, I-know-just-how-badly-I’m-breaking-your-heart smile.

  Emily’s memory shifted to the friendship bracelet she’d seen on Tabitha’s wrist. As soon as she’d spotted it, she’d backed away from her fast. Something was really, really wrong.

  The crowd on the dance floor and at the bar was thick, making it almost impossible for Emily to find her friends. She finally located Spencer sitting on top of a remote patio table, staring dazedly at the dark, raging ocean. “I know you’re going to tell me I’m crazy,” Emily blurted out, “but you have to believe me.”

  Spencer turned and stared, her blue eyes huge. “She’s Ali,” Emily persisted. “She is. I know she doesn’t look like her, but she’s wearing Ali’s old string bracelet—the one she made for us after the Jenna Thing. It’s exactly the same.”

  Spencer shut her eyes for a good ten seconds. Then she told Emily how Tabitha insinuated that they looked like long-lost sisters. “It was like she knew me,” she whispered. “It was like . . . she was Ali.”

  Emily felt a hot sizzle of fear. Just hearing Spencer say it made it all feel even more real and dangerous. She looked around to make sure no one was listening. “What are we going to do? Call the police?”