No Love Allowed (Dodge Cove Trilogy #1) (26 page)

Or was
courtesan
the right word? It
sounded
classier, at least.

“Oh god.” I shook my head and resisted the urge to smack my palm against my forehead. Now wasn’t the time to get technical.

A sliver of sunlight shone through the top of the window shades, casting a shadow over his face, which was still partially buried in the pillows. I peered over the edge of the mattress but
couldn’t see more than his muscular, deeply tanned back. I
thought
his hair was dark, but I couldn’t be sure. Even though I knew I should get the hell out of here, a part of
me—probably the part that was still drunk—hesitated. I had to know who he was. But each time I tried to get closer, the damn floor kept creaking.

Jeez, what kind of house was this?

Against my better judgment, I snooped around the room, careful to crawl on my elbows and stomach like a soldier in enemy territory. Tennis shoes, video games, textbooks with crisp pages that
hadn’t been used very often, an admirable collection of old-school comic books . . .
Bingo!
I hit the jackpot when I tossed a dirty magazine out of the way and found a stack of
pictures. I shoved my tangled, dark hair out of my face and moved a little closer to the light.

Cars and girls. Loads of them. Girls, I mean. And there was a
lot
of skin in most of them. My cheeks flushed hotly at a picture of a girl and the minuscule bikini that could barely
restrain her large boobs, which she thrust toward the camera with a coy grin. I couldn’t even tell if she was a redhead or a brunette. Just teeth, lips, and boobs.
Flip.
A blond with
boobs. Another blond with boobs. A picture of someone’s legs on the beach.

“Come on. Show your face,” I muttered with a quick upward glance to make sure my unknown partner was still sleeping. He was.

Finally, I found a picture with a guy in it. He was standing in profile, but his face was turned toward the camera, dipped down toward—what else?—more boobs. His nose was pretty
straight aside from the teeniest bump at the bridge. Slightly spiky dark blond hair. Laughing dark gray eyes that glanced to the side. His jaw was sort of large, which could be from an overbite,
but it suited him. Especially when he smiled. So very hot.

And familiar.

My head jerked to the smooth, lounging back. Now I focused on the tiny glimpse of black Chinese characters trailing down his left forearm. I’d seen that tattoo close-up once before.
Everyone claimed it meant “Just live.” But for all I knew, it actually meant “Gum lover.”

A low groan escaped my lips. No, no, no. Not him.
Anybody
but Evan McKinley, Nathan Wilks High School’s very own legendary manwhore. Said to have screwed so many girls that he had
to get a new surfboard, because his old one was full of nicks in memory of each new conquest.

Killing any remaining traces of hope that I was wrong, he stretched out his left arm, and I could see his name written on his skin.
Evan McKinley.
In
my
handwriting.

WHERE WERE THOSE DAMN SANDALS?

I crawled around so fast I was pretty sure I’d have permanent carpet burn on my elbows. I didn’t care. If anyone caught me within a yard of Evan, the rumor mill would explode.
It’d been hard enough to squash the gossip that spread last year when I’d nearly drowned in the Harrison Parks community pool and he saved me. Since then, I’d steered clear of
anything that had to do with him.

Which would really suck if anyone knew I spent the night
in his bed
.

Shoes, shoes . . . maybe I didn’t need them. Dad had bought them for me when I became editor of the school yearbook. He probably wouldn’t even notice that they were missing, but Mom
definitely would. She’d been the one who persuaded him to get them for me despite their ridiculous price—you would have thought the crystals were real diamonds—instead of the
modest black pumps I needed for my internship at his law firm next year.
You need something pretty! Something fun!
she kept saying over and over. Weird how I was more like Dad, even though
I wasn’t his biological daughter. The only thing I’d gotten from Mom was her brown eyes.

And she would give me hell if I didn’t have my shoes. Besides, I didn’t know how far from home I was. And I already wasn’t looking forward to the walk of shame I had ahead of
me. I wiggled even more beneath the bed, arms spread out in search.

A sleepy male voice laced with amusement suddenly drifted over my head. “They’re under my desk.”

When
KATE EVANGELISTA
was told she had a knack for writing stories, she did the next best thing: entered medical school. After
realizing she wasn’t going to be the next Doogie Howser, M.D., Kate wandered into the literature department and never looked back. Today, she is a graduate of De La Salle
University–Manila with a bachelor of arts in Literature. She taught high school English for three years and was an essay consultant for two. She now writes full-time and is based in the
Philippines.
kateevangelista.com

For the future . . .
Because everybody who wants one has one.

A Swoon Reads Book
An imprint of Pan Macmillan

First published in the US 2016 by Feiwel and Friends

This electronic edition published 2016 by Macmillan Children’s Books
an imprint of Pan Macmillan
20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com

ISBN 978-1-5098-0448-1

Copyright © Kate Evangelista 2016

The right of Kate Evangelista to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Book design by Liz Dresner

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