“Listen,” I say to Whitney, “I get that this” –I gesture from the top of Max’s perfectly tousled, dark hair down to his sneakers then back up to circle my forefinger around his face— “is nice to look at. He really is all kinds of pretty--”
“Flatterer,” Max murmurs.
“And,” I continue, “I realize you and I don’t know each other that well, but I feel it’s my duty as a female and the person who is ultimately responsible for you being here and therefore responsible for you meeting him--”
“This,” Max says, eyebrows raised, “him. I’m not just a sexual object, here for you to ogle and fantasize about. I have a name.”
I roll my eyes and barrel on. “I feel it’s my duty to warn you that Max” –I glance at him and he nods— “is not the guy for you.”
There’s a beat of silence while that all sinks in.
Silence broken when Max laughs, long and low.
Once again, I’ve amused the heck right out of him.
Still chuckling, still holding his cup, he raises his hands as if in surrender. “No need for warnings. I was just keeping Whitney company until you showed up. And now that you have, I’ll just take this all kinds of pretty and get myself another drink.” He tips his cup to Whitney in a toast. “Nice meeting you.”
He gets only halfway across the kitchen before a pretty junior in a crop top is by his side.
The Constable brothers. Never lacking for female attention.
“I don’t know whether to thank you,” Whitney says, her expression unreadable, her tone mild, “or pick you bald-headed.”
My hands go to my head, as if she’d reached up to start yanking out strands. “You should thank me. Unless you’re totally into players who get trashed every weekend.”
“No,” she says slowly, thoughtfully, as she watches Max pull the same moves on Miss Crop Top that he’d tried with her—the leaning, light touching and deep looks, “I’m not into players.” With a deep and what I’m thinking is a cleansing inhale, she turns to me. “Thank you.”
It’s a moment of sisterhood. Of female empowerment. And possibly, of budding friendship. For once, I don’t run. For once, I don’t mess it up.
I smile back. “You’re welcome.”
16
As soon as Sam pulls to a stop in front of Whitney’s place, I unbuckle with one hand and grab the door handle with the other, ready to jump out and dart across the street to the safety of my own home. There’s only one teeny tiny problem.
The door won’t open.
Sam has engaged the childproof locks. It’s almost as if he read my mind. Sensed my need to escape.
This boy knows me way too well.
It’s so annoying.
I try the handle again. Then the lock. No good.
“Sam…” I say in warning, knowing he knows that I know what he’s doing.
He ignores me. He’s too busy typing his number into Whitney’s phone to be bothered with the prisoner behind him.
My own fault for jumping into the backseat when we left Beemer’s. Then again, it would have been worth sitting next to Sam for the ten-minute drive if that meant I’d have freedom now.
Sweet, sweet freedom.
Huffing out a breath, I cross my arms and sit back. I refuse to demean myself by begging to be let out. Really, this whole thing is childish and I will not be a part of it.
Even if I do stick my tongue out at the back of Sam’s stupid, stubborn, thick head.
He hands Whitney’s phone back to her, then opens his door because, you know, he can and all.
I straighten and lean between the front seats. “Swear to God, Sam, if you leave me locked in here--”
Not so much as looking at me, he shuts the door.
“This is illegal,” I yell but he’s walking around the front of the SUV, not paying me any attention.
Whitney clears her throat but even in the dark, I can see she’s fighting a smile. So glad my being held against my will is funny to her.
“Goodnight, Hadley,” she says when Sam opens her door, like some guy from the 1950s or something. “Thank you for the lovely evening.”
“We saw two girls puke,” I remind her. “Graham dropped his pants to his knees and peed in the middle of the yard, and we walked past a blowjob in progress in the driveway.” Out of the three, Graham’s pasty, flabby butt really was the most disturbing. “You call that a lovely evening?”
“It was nice meeting your not-friends,” she insists. “And I enjoyed talking with you.”
A warm feeling spreads in my chest. She likes me? I don’t know what to do with that.
It doesn’t happen very often. The liking me part.
Not that it’ll last. Once she has some time and space to go over everything, she’ll realize we don’t have much in common and there’s no point in talking to me again. Especially now that she’s met Sam and Kenzie and Tori, people better suited for the whole friendship deal.
People more like her.
Zoe says I don’t get close to people because I’m judgmental. That I have preconceived notions of others based on how I think they’re going to behave, but that’s not true. I’m not judgy.
I’m careful. Smart. And I’m able to read people. Which comes in handy. If you know what to expect from someone, they can’t surprise you.
Can’t hurt you.
I knew Whitney was sweet and polite and assumed that sweetness would be sickening. That politeness boring. I was wrong. She’s fun and funny with a dry sense of humor I can’t help but appreciate.
Great. Just what I need. A girl crush on my new neighbor.
Feeling like an idiot, I slump back only to rear up again when my door opens.
“It’s about time,” I say, but when I get out, Sam is there—right there—blocking my way, one hand on the top of the open door, the other on the side of the SUV. Whitney is waiting at the edge of her yard, her back to us.
I step forward but Sam doesn’t move. I try the right, but he shifts to block me. Eyes narrowed, I go left but it’s no use.
“Excuse me,” I say pointedly.
I can be polite, too.
But I should have just pushed past him because he is not cooperating with me and my manners.
“I’m going to walk Whitney to her door,” he tells me, the first thing he’s said to me directly since my great bathroom escape from the deck over two hours ago.
It’d been nice while it lasted, but my reprieve is over.
“Yeah? Good for you. Very gentlemanly.”
I shift to the right again, planning on just ducking under his arm only to freeze when he edges closer, taking away even more space and any ducking ability.
“Wait for me here, then I’ll walk you to yours.”
He’d always done that, escorted me to my door whenever he brought me home. It was the kind of thing a girl got used to.
Like having him around all the time.
Look how well that worked out for me.
“Not necessary,” I say. “I’ve managed to get myself safely home for the past eleven months. I’ll do it tonight, too.”
“Wait for me here,” he repeats because he is a stubborn, stubborn boy. “We need to talk.”