Fall Guy (12 page)

"Because you're more of a ro
mantic that you like to pretend.
"

“Or more of a slut,” I sigh.

“Don’t call yourself a slut. It’s degrading. Plus that, a slut wouldn’t care who the hell she kissed and left. She’d be on to the next guy already. You, my love, are a romantic,”
Brenna clucks, her voice marinated in triumph. Brenna is the patron saint of romance, and she holds herself proudly accountable for what she perceives as my conversion. "So, what's the plan,
babycakes
?
Because sulking is totally unacceptable.
One thousand percent.
Who can you call? Where can you go?"

"No one.
Nowhere."
I flick a chip of nail polish off my fingernail and let one tiny, baby, secret tear wobble in a makeup-tinged streak down my cheek. "This is what I deserve. I drove everyone crazy and got in trouble. I shouldn't be cruising with some hot guy.
So hot.
So freaking hot."

Brenna's laugh is the chocolate fudge, whipped cream, and double cherry on top to the sad vanilla boringness of my life.

"Stop that right now. You got carried away, but you don't have a mean bone in your gorgeous body, okay? I'm not going to hear you sulk. There must be somewhere you can go. I hate that you're so sad...oh no! You're in your school uniform aren't you?"

I actually swivel my neck checking to see if Brenna had some sort of video camera set up to spy on me.

"School just got out a few hours ago," I mumble.

"Get out of that polyester horror!
Now!"
Brenna's bark is all fashion-drill-sergeant-strict, and it kicks my ass into disrobing action. When I'm down to my under
-
things, I
actually
do feel better.
Brenna’s voice dictates through the phone.
"It's like I can hear your mood improving already. Okay, you need a bitching outfit. Wear the stiletto boots. You know the ones. Pair them with something soft and sweet. And I don't care what you do or where you go, but you need to get out!"

She sighs, and I can picture her leaning her elbows on her windowsill, gazing dreamily at the road where her sexy boyfriend Jake will roar down in his big truck and take her...somewhere terrible like the bowling alley or on a hike. I'm instantly overwhelmed with guilt for crying over my sorry life when Brenna has to live in the backwoods of rural New Jersey.

"Okay,
hun
. I'm
laying
an outfit for tonight on the bed right now. And, oh! I just remembered that Granddaddy asked me to come with them to some art gallery opening. I think it will be boring
,
and I was feeling too depressed to say yes, but I can get all dressed up and be fabulous for a little while
, I guess
."

The dress is made of silky panels of bright paisley, and I picked it up on a shopping trip
in
Venice
with my mother just before she jetted off to her fabulous
Cabo
mansion with her new boyfriend.

It stings that she isn't around, but my mother had been perching right on the edge of leaving for good since I was about fourteen. Honestly, it's a shock she lasted as long as she did.

"You make my heart happy! Send me pictures," Brenna trills ecstatically before letting me go so I can get ready.

I let Granddaddy and
Gramma
know I'm coming along and try not to feel too pathetic about their incredibly joyful, lit-up-like-jack-o-lantern faces when they realize I actually want to leave the house.

I have time for a bubble bath, so I indulge in a swimmy expanse of nearly boiling water and wildflower smelly stuff. I pin my hair up around my head, put on extra smoky makeup, and when I'm dressed and ready, I know exactly how good I look by the scowl on Granddaddy's face.

"I just don't think it's fair to the paintings, is all. People are supposed to be looking at them, but how could they with Evan looking so damn pretty?" he huffs and his mustache quivers.

I kick one booted foot back
and lay a kiss on his cheek. "Is that your diplomatic way of telling me you think I should wear a turtleneck and khakis?"

"Of course not, darling. It's too hot for a turtleneck.
But a nice big t-shirt with a neck up here."
He holds a flat hand under his chin and
Gramma
rolls her eyes.

"She'll have plenty of time to dress like a matron when she's an old lady," she fusses, straightening the strap on my dress and holding me at arm's length. "You
will
steal the show, love. And there will be plenty of eligible young men, probably college boys. I think you're ready to move away from this high school set."

She seethes around the last three words like she's talking about decomposing corpses or
imitation handbags.

From the back seat on the ride over, I watch my grandparents chat and laugh. My granddaddy puts a hand across the console and takes
Gramma's
hand. I can see from the rearview mirror that he frisks a few suggestive looks her way, and when she turns, I catch th
e profile view of her blush-and-
smile combo.

It's so different from the tedium of my parents' marriage,
and it gives me hope. Maybe it will be like the level posture or
peppery temper I inherited from
Gramma
,
and the true love gene will skip my mama's generation and pierce me through the heart with its arrow.

I can hope. I do hope.

By the time Granddaddy hands his keys to the valet and we walk into the cavernous space, hope silvers the edges of my dismal mood. Or maybe
it's
stupidity, because I
immediately scan this
monstrous room packed with smartly casual, perfume-drenched rich bitches for Winch, as if he's going to
magically appear with his
soft blue eyes and the twitch of all our missed-opportunity kisses on his lips.

"Now there's a good-looking
fella
. That's
Margurite
Holinger's
grandson. Sweet as pie and so handsome, he'd have to watch out if I were ten years younger,"
Gramma
purrs in my ear, pressing her hand to my hip to propel me in the direction of a good-looking overly-groomed guy leaned against one of the many wrought iron r
ailings that circle a
platformed
cement landing. "Let me know if you decide to go grab a bite or go out dancing."

I have community service in the morning, but it wouldn't hurt to go have some fun as long as I don't stay out too late.
Gramma
and Granddaddy are already pulled into a throng of their noisy,
rowdy friends, who all seem way
more interested in whispering to each other, stealing crab cake
hor
d'oeuvres from harried waiters, and ordering lots of drinks double and neat, than in soaking up
the art that surrounds them.

Margurite
Holinger's
grandson is hitting on
Genevive
Marcusso's
grandson, so, though I appreciate
Gramma's
adorably
oblivious
suggestion, I'm not about to crash in on their flirtation
when
I would be so incredibly unwanted in every way
. I move instead towards one of the pain
tings and study it as thoughtfully
as I can.

It's dark and messy. I don't get a sense of form. There's no random shock of beauty. I wait,
squinting
my eyes like it's one of those 3-D posters I used to love
when I was a kid, but the gorgeousness
never pops out
of the chaotic lines and scribbles
. The heady scent of
a strong
cologne snaps my attention
suddenly
to the side.

"You're not a fan?"

He's handsome in a tousled, scruffy way; button-down slightly wrinkled, pants too long, blue-green eyes dancing like he's laughing at me.

"Are you the artist?" I gesture to the painting and purse my lips.

"No." He chuckles softly and clasps his hands behind his back. "Do I look like an artist?"

"Or like a couch-crashing grad student." I raise one eyebrow at him and he laughs.

"I take it my iro
ning attempts were unsuccessful?
"

He holds his arms out at his sides and the wrinkled patches of fabric do show a haphazard attempt at ironing.

"Half-successful," I concede, and that familiar pull grabs low in my stomach.

I love the chase, the dance, the flirtation. It's not the honest punch of breathless attraction I feel when I see Winch, but that's not going to happen, and this just might.

"Half-successful is probably worse than unsuccessful when it comes to ironing. I'm
Jace
, by the way." He holds out a hand.

"Evan."

We shake.

He squints against the blaring lights over the uninspired painting and twitches as the crush of the ear-splitting, liquor-soaked crowd presses uncomfortably close.

He turns to me and says,
"It's getting really crowded here. If you're interested, maybe we could go have some coffee? Get a bite?"

"Let me just tell...the people I came with," I say to him. "Do you want to get your car from valet?"

His
embarrassed
smile tells me that if he has a car, he did not opt to valet park.

"Or just wait by the doors," I amend quickly. "I'll be right there."

I find
Gramma
and she's already crossing over from tipsy into giddy. She gives me a hard hug and shoos me off, I'm sure assuming I'm with
Margurite
Holinger's
grandson, but the details don't really matter.

What matters is that I'm out on a Saturday night.

Finally.

Jace
is at the doors, and his smile is
sweet, but his eyes are hungry
as they follow me from across the room and out into the humming night air. He leads me down the street, and we hop into his car and set off. I make sure to take out my cell and text Brenna, and I mention it
, too
.

"Just letting my best friend know I
left early," I tell
Jace
,
to make it clear there is electronic proof of me leaving with a time-stamp
and location
in case he's not as sweet as his pretty eyes make him seem.

Plus that, he doesn't know Bren is all the way in New Jersey and couldn't save me if she wanted to.

"Cool. Do you want me to swing by and get her?"
He
quirks an encouraging smile at me, and I shake my head.

"She's with her boyfriend. At the gun range," I add, and his smile widens slightly.

He clears his
throat,
I think to keep from laughing. "If you're game, I got invited to this house party on the beach. A couple people from the
chem
program at Southern are going." He nods to my phone. "If you want to go, you can text your friend at the gun range the address first. Tonight's the kind of night that makes you want to be by the ocean, right?"

"I don't need to text the address." I give
him
a sheepish laugh. "She really will come, guns blazing, if anything fishy is going on. But a beach party sounds absolutely perfect, and you seem nice.
Wrinkled, but nice."

We share a smile. He has the air conditioning on, but I roll the window down and let the salty air rise and burst through the interior.

"You seem nice, too.
Beautiful and nice."
The words spill out and a blush instantly works its way over his face.

I laugh into the night wind, giddy with the frothing promise of a heady even
ing
earmarked for magic,
compliments of a cute
, appropriately attentive
guy and the enticing crash of the waves on the beach we're whipping towards.

The moon is perfectly round and hangs low over the ocean like it might crash into the dark waves at any minute. I should be able to see the beauty in somethin
g like this moon on this perfect
night, but, lately, everything feels dark and depressing as hell.

"Winchester!"

The yells from the house, overcrowded with dozens of already drunk, young, dancing fools almost drown out my brother's voice. But nothing, not even the world's most insane debauchery, can completely stifle Remington.