“I don’t know their names,” Gretchen said. “I just know they have a reputation for being pretty hot.”
That meant Gretchen would make a beeline for them, flirt it up and possibly let one of them put his hands on her. She was too generous with her breasts, and the amount of boys who’d seen them and touched them was in the double digits. I couldn’t let that number climb any higher, not when I suspected the worst of the swim team members.
“When’s the party?” I asked.
Gretchen cocked her head. “So now you want to go? Five minutes ago you were all about spending quality time with your dad, and now you want to go? What? You got a crush on one of them?”
“No, I don’t have a crush. I was just curious what time the party was,” I said.
“I don’t know. I’m not planning on getting there until eleven or so,” Gretchen replied.
“Don’t go without me,” I blurted. It came out sounding like a warning.
“What is up with you?” Gretchen asked.
“I just want to go, okay?” I said. “You’re right. I need to stop moping and being antisocial and all that. Just promise me you’ll wait for me. I’ll go with you after I have dinner with my dad.”
“That’s fine,” Gretchen said. “But I still think you’ve got a crush you’re not telling me about.”
I convinced myself that Cal wasn’t the only predator, not after overhearing the conversation in the stairwell. The swim team was up to something. Maybe not all of them, but some of them were participating in a devious game. A sex club, Gregory said. And the slightly paranoid part of me thought they were showing up at this party to find girls. Victims. And there was no way I was letting Gretchen go alone. I made that mistake with Beth and paid the ultimate price.
I sat in the restaurant feeling antsy and irritable.
“So Pam says the customer expects a solution tomorrow, and I’d like to know who she thinks is going into the office on a Saturday morning,” Dad said. “If the customer hadn’t screwed up the device after we told them specifically not to activate it until clearance from the engineers, there wouldn’t be an issue.” He shoved the pizza in his mouth.
I nodded, having no idea what he was talking about. My mind was on other things. It raced with thoughts of swim team members snaking their way through the crowded party, brushing past girls and letting their hands graze intimate body parts.
“Am I boring you?” I heard Dad ask.
“No,” I lied. “I’m totally listening.”
Dad chuckled. “Why?”
I laughed. “Because you’re paying for dinner.”
“Cute,” he replied. “You get that smartass sense of humor from your mother, you know.”
I shrugged and watched Dad’s face fall. Any time either one of us mentioned my mother, he turned sullen or serious. I didn’t want to go there with him tonight. We were at a pizza joint, after all.
“Dad, when was the last time you had a date?” I asked.
He jerked his head up, glaring at me.
“Whoa, it was just a question,” I said. I took another bite of my calzone.
I watched his eyes soften and the hint of a smile play on his mouth.
“Five years.”
“Holy shit, Dad! Five years?!”
“Brooklyn, must the whole restaurant know?”
“I’m sorry. It’s just, wow. Five years. Yikes.” I sipped my Coke, eyes wide, eyebrows raised in disbelief.
“Will you wipe that look off your face?” he asked. “There’s no one out there. What do you want from me? And anyway, I’m your father. We shouldn’t be discussing this.”
“What does being my father have to do with it?” I asked. “Now my English teacher is single. And she’s cute.” I bit into my calzone and continued with my mouth full. “And surprisingly not an idiot.”
“Are most of your teachers idiots?”
“Yes.”
Dad chuckled. “Glad to know my tax dollars contribute to well-deserved salaries.”
“Oh, Dad,” I said airily. “Let’s not get all political. Let’s talk about Ms. Manning.”
“Let’s not,” Dad replied.
I ignored him. “She’s in her early forties, I think, but she totally looks like she’s in her thirties. Nice skin and hair. She always looks really professional. Dresses to the nines. Her shoes are fabulous.”
“Brooke . . .”
“And she’s an avid runner. She told me she runs about four miles a day and tries to do a long run of about ten miles every Saturday,” I continued.
“Brooke, please.”
“And she’s competing in her first half-marathon this November.”
“Brooke!” Dad interrupted. “I’ve got a gut, okay? I’m not dating a runner.”
I pursed my lips and watched Dad run his hand through his chestnut hair.
“Dad, you barely have a gut. And you’re really handsome. It’s time you get back out there on the field,” I said.
Dad burst out laughing.
“What?” I asked.