WHATS UP? the text reads from Jeremy.
I let out a little squeal before I realize how stupid I sound. How can I ever convince anybody I’m not a baby if I’m squealing like a fourteen-year-old? Because really, that was so three years ago.
Pull it together, Cheyenne.
NOT MUCH, I text back.
This time, I don’t have to wait long for response. WHERE U BEEN?
What the hell does he mean where have I been? It’s more like where has he been. For three weeks straight Dad has had him on what the guys call “bitch duty” here at the house. But ever since that one night where Dad came home to find us on the porch talking, Jeremy’s been MIA. After a while I became convinced that he just had better things to do or the guys put them on another detail. I’ve only seen him a few times since his detail changed. He’s been flirty, dismissive, and even downright territorial. But has he asked me out?
No, he hasn’t.
Pussy.
Oh man, I’ve spent so much time in this house I’m starting to think like my dad. I need out. Now.
HERE, I text back in irritation. I’m not going to argue with him or call him on it. There’s no way around not sounding like a pathetic, jealous girlfriend if I ask him where he’s been. But how dare he ask me where I’ve been when I have been right here and he hasn’t shown up. I got used to having him around, and his absence is pissing me off. It’s pissing me off so bad that Daniel is looking better and better every day.
REASSIGNED.
Well, that explains it.
FIGURES, I say.
HOW SO?
DAD IS A HELICOPTER.
WHY? the text reads.
BOYS. HE’S NUTS.
U TRYING 2 TELL ME SOMETHING?
Okay, so maybe getting my flirt on in a text message isn’t that hard after all, but still, my hands are practically shaking. What if he’s just tolerating me because he’s afraid to reject me? Maybe he thinks Dad’s going to break his fingers or whatever the hell he does to scare and intimidate people he doesn’t like. I don’t know the specifics of Dad’s “job” with the club—only that it’s half-illegal and he’s not afraid to get his hands dirty.
DON’T PLAY DUMB, I text back.
God, for some reason this is harder with him than it is with anybody else. Maybe it’s because he’s not playing the game like the other guys have. Daniel plays the game really well. Hell, he’s so good at it he might have invented the damn game. Normally when I try to flirt with a guy, he flirts back by taking my innuendo and running with it. But not Jeremy. No, Jeremy Whelan is the kind of guy who makes you spell it out for him and then tells you exactly how it’s going to be.
He’s a total motorcycle brat through and through. Bossy, self-assured, and a wee bit narcissistic.
He’s perfect.
NOT PLAYING, CHEY. TRYIN 2 FIGURE U OUT.
Oh. My. God.
He is insufferable. Still, the grin that spreads across my face is totally ridiculous. Because if there’s anything that’s hot about a guy like Jeremy Whelan, it’s the fact he can basically do what he wants, how he wants, and when he wants. And he knows it.
ASK ME OUT. I am so nervous that my toes could literally fall off my feet, roll away, and end up in my cereal tomorrow morning, and I wouldn’t even notice. And I know how gross that is, but that’s how screwed up I am over this stupid boy. That’s the big difference between Jeremy and Daniel. Daniel just exists and does as he pleases but invites me along for the ride. Meanwhile Jeremy is growing and learning. He’s moldable, but not Daniel. I don’t want to be with a man who has all his life figured out. I barely know how to wash my own clothes.
NO, his response reads.
My stomach drops, and I toss my phone beside me and then bury my face into my pillow. I can’t believe I just got rejected. By a prospect. This is humiliating. My phone beeps, letting me know that I have a message. Very slowly I drag my face from the center of the pillow and try to breathe normally. It’s hard, though, because my heart is beating a million miles a minute, and I think I’m about to die.
U ASK ME OUT, his text reads.
I shove my face back in my pillow and squeal maniacally. I’m done with being gentle with this boy.
WE R GOING OUT. FRIDAY, I text.
Holy crap.
PICK U UP AT 7. WEAR PINK. U LOOK HOT IN PINK. NO LIPSTICK.
Holy crap.
I’m going out with Jeremy Whelan.
Holy crap.
I stare my phone down, unable to figure out when I got the lady balls to do that. Only one thing perplexes me, though. Why the hell doesn’t he want me to wear lipstick?
CHAPTER 8
December
16 months to Mancuso’s downfall
“Are you excited?” Holly asks. I’m looking in the mirror, and she’s standing behind me. Her reflection is partially covered by mine, but I can see her well enough to tell she’s smiling.
“Yeah, I am,” I say. Because I am. I so am.
I would be more excited if I didn’t know that Dad and Holly were going to be tailing me tonight. Because Dad always tails me.