Fire with Fire (Burn for Burn #2)

Fire with Fire (Burn for Burn #2) Page 31

Beth had auburn hair; it was long enough to put in a ponytail, but barely. She had on a ton of eyeliner and no lipstick, and a big black T-shirt with slashed arms that she wore as a dress. She looked like she was twenty-two even though she was probably only eighteen. “Look at those little hoochies in the making,” she cracked, lighting up a cigarette. Her voice was low and husky.

Patrick snorted, and I lowered my eyes. Through my lashes I sneaked a peek at her. She had her legs stretched out on the coffee table even though she still had shoes on. “Let’s go upstairs,” I whispered, but Kat ignored me.

“Us?” Kat said. “Look at you. Where are your pants? In the back of somebody’s truck?”

Beth guffawed with hoarse laughter and took a drag of her cigarette. She looked sexy when she did it, like she was in a movie.

“Excuse me, but you’re not allowed to smoke in the house,” Rennie said, her hands on her hips.

Patrick tapped a cigarette out of Beth’s box. “Go play outside, little girls. We want to watch TV.” They smirked at each other.

“We were here first,” Rennie said.

Patrick gave her a threatening look, and Kat said, “Fine, fine. We’re going.” To us she said, “Come on, let’s go.” At the last second she snatched Beth’s pack of cigarettes and made a run for it with us close behind her. We ran out the screen door and I could hear Patrick’s roar.

I never felt more my age than that moment. I wanted to be eighteen and not thirteen. I wanted Patrick to look at me like he was looking at her.

And more than anything, what I wanted was to ride on the back of Patrick’s motorcycle. Once, to see what it felt like to go that fast, with only him to anchor me to the world. My parents would have sent me to a convent if I’d ever even said that out loud. They’d made me promise I would never ride on Pat’s motorcycle; that was the condition of me being allowed to hang out at Kat’s house.

I’ve never broken a promise to my parents before, but if Patrick asked me to go for a ride on his bike right now, I’d do it. I wouldn’t even hesitate. To feel that wild and free. I want to know what that feels like.

We’re eating candy-apple popcorn and listening to music—Kat’s favorite band, but it’s making my head hurt, it’s so loud—so we don’t hear Mary when gets here. She bounds into the room, her cheeks all rosy and pink, already so much better than she looked on Thursday. “Mary!” I sing out.

“Hi, hi!” she says, coming over by the bed. She’s about to sit down with us when Shep bares his teeth and growls at her.

Kat grabs him by the collar and gives him a shake. To Shep she says, “Cut that shit out.” To Mary she says, “He’s harmless, I swear.”

Mary gives a nervous laugh and sits on the floor. “Dogs usually love me.”

“I can kick him out,” Kat offers, getting up.

“No,” I protest. “Let me cuddle with him. Mary, he won’t come near you.”

“Fine by me,” she says, giggling. “Nice doggie.”

Shep darts under the bed, and I crawl over and try to lure him out with a handful of popcorn, and he looks tempted but doesn’t come out. I offer Mary the can. “It’s so good,” I say, dangling it in front of her.

Mary makes a face. “You only like super-sweet things, Lillia.”

“That’s cause I’m so sweet,” I say in a singsong voice. She smiles back at me, and I climb into Kat’s hammock.

Kat snorts and goes to her closet. She throws me a shopping bag of clothes. “Here. Ammo.”

Before I even open it, I say, “Just so you know, I’m not wearing fishnets.”

“There aren’t any fishnets in there, you beotch.” She plops down on her bed and watches me as I start going through the bag.

A pink strapless corseted top. A lacy black corseted top. Cream thigh-high socks made out of soft yarn. A bandage skirt so short it might even be a tube top; I can’t tell. The socks are kind of cute, but this other stuff looks like Frederick’s of Hollywood. Totally not my style.

“Kat, did you steal all this?” I ask. I’m mostly kidding.

Kat rolls her eyes. “You know I don’t steal, beotch. That’s your girl Rennie. Oh, and BTW, you owe me a hundred and sixty bucks.”

I lift up a stretchy long-sleeved minidress. It’s basically a ballet leotard. “I’m not wearing this!” I shriek. “I’ll look like a prostitute.”

“I have that in purple,” Kat says, glaring at me.

Whoops . . . “It’s not really my look,” I say. “I mean, I’m sure you look amazing in it. But it’s not me.” I spot a black lace corset at the bottom of the pile. “You expect me to go to school in lingerie?”

Kat scoots over to the edge of the bed. “So what! You’re gonna look hot. You strut into school wearing that and some high-ass heels, and Reeve’s head will be spinning. All you have to do is wear the clothes; then you catch his eye. Next comes physical contact, a touch on the arm, a hand on his knee. Then you talk to other guys and inspire jealousy. It’s simple.”

“Um, excuse me, but I know how to talk to boys,” I snap. As if I need Kat to give me advice on how to get a boy to notice me! I add, “For your information, I set a student-council record last Valentine’s Day for most roses ever sent to a girl at Jar High.” True, a dozen were from my dad, but I got roses from boys, too. I even beat out Rennie. She kept saying how I wouldn’t have won if it haven’t been for my dad. Now that I’m thinking of it, I’ll beat her this year too. I’ll do whatever it takes, talk to ugly freshmen dorks if I have to.

Kat heaves a sigh. “Fine. If you’re not going to wear this stuff, then what do you have in mind?”

I pop some popcorn into my mouth and think. “Well, I have this cute blouse with a bow at the collar; I could wear that with these amazing gray flannel shorts that roll up on the bottom. I saw them online last night.”

Mary and Kat exchange a look.

Kat leans forward. “Listen. The way I see it, you’re more of a Jackie O type. You’re classy and refined and stylish.”

I give her a nod. “True, true, and true.”

Rolling her eyes, Kat continues. “But we need you to be a Marilyn. Sexy. A bombshell. Like, we don’t want Reeve to want to bring you home to his mom. We want him to want you. Hard-core obsession want. Blue balls want—”