Roman Holiday

chapter Twenty-Four

It's not John this time, but the fine men of the Horry County Police Department. And they are heading straight toward us. Roman scowls, whirling back to me. "You told them! You—"

"Stop blaming me!" I snap, grabbing him by the forearm and tugging him toward the crack in the wall. I'm having flashbacks to the night we broke into the put-put course, but somehow I think the repercussions of this will be worse. Breaking in to hit balls off a fake pirate ship is one thing, but breaking into a cemetery during a vigil? Well.

"You there! Stop!" One of the policeman calls after us, but his voice only propels my feet to go faster. Under my fingers, Roman's practically vibrates with anger.

"Front page not enough, huh?" he hisses as we dash over a hill of gravestones. We cut around the statue of a weeping angel. "F*ck. A whole f*cking year in Super 8 Motels and f*ck good that did me. You come along and wham! Oh, look, I'm a household name again!"

"Oh please," I snap, because his temper's getting old—fast. "You love the attention."

"Not as much as you, apparently. You think that hair's bright enough?"

"And yours isn't?" I almost get sideswiped by a knee-high headstone, and I stumble. "And just so you know, I didn't give him that memory card. Those photos were on the local memory, a*shole! Totally not my fault! If anything, it's yours for taking me with you!"

He shoots me a glare as we duck under a curtain of weeping willow vines. "You could've said no!"

"I did, back when you wanted to buy me ice cream."

We hit the back end of the cemetery, and the hole isn't here anymore. Did I get turned around? I scan the walls, but it must be hidden behind a willow? Stupid me—did I even come to this side of the cemetery? Roman curses and kicks the cement wall.

"I hope you and John are happy," he grumbles. "Tell him your life story. Go on. I'm sure it'll be a best-seller."

"Why the f*ck would I tell him anything?"

"Because you hate me!" he roars.

I purse my lips. Nothing could be further from the truth.

"You know, this? This here?" He jabs a finger between us, so close I can smell the cinnamon and wet grass on his clothes. "There's a reason I don't make friends."

"Because you just wanted someone you could pull along for a while, right? You saw me and I tickled your fancy. I don't know why. I'm not pretty. I'm mundane. I'm going nowhere—even my boyfriend kept me a secret. Thanks for solidifying what I already knew."

"Well, you know what they say," he sneers. "Secrets don't make friends."

I fist my hands. The police appear over the last crest. Two of them have tasers out. Neither of us wants to be tased. Where the hell is that hole in the wall? If looks could kill, I'd be in the lowest circle of hell right now.

But then a flash of magenta catches my eyes, past the policeman. My heart leaps into my throat. Maggie. She jumps up on one of the thicker headstones and whips her shirt over her like a lasso. A lumpy policeman passes her, huffing, and his eyes grow as wide as saucer plates.

This is it. Plan B.

Taking the memory chip out of my pocket, I cram it into Roman's hand. "Look at it when you get a chance. It's from John—with love. And do me a favor? Fight for your Madison gig. If she means so much to you, you should fight for it."

His lips curve down into a scowl. "You don't know anything about it."

"You're right," I reply, pulling off my shirt and tossing it aside. "But I know what I'd do." He stares, flustered, as I wiggle out of my shorts. Thank God, I have on matching underwear today. When I pop back up, he's staring, startled, at my chest. "Yes, they're real. Go through the hole in the wall, and do me a favor—don't get caught, got it, RoMo?"

"You're not seriously..." he starts, choked, but I start running back toward the policemen, waving my hands in the air to flag their attention.

"HEY!" I shout, jumping up onto a marble bench. I reach back to unclasp my bra. Out of the corner of my eye, Roman gapes. A grin breaks out over my face. "FEAST YOUR EYES..." I sling off my bra and throw it at the nearest policeman as I jump off the bench and dodge through a row of tombstones.

"BOOB-A-BUNGA!" Maggie howls, slinging her bra up in the air like a lasso. "LONG LIVE ROMAN HOLIDAY!"

The policemen turn to follow us, and the second they do, Roman ducks down behind a gravestone, memory card in hand, and makes a break for the crack in the wall. I give the police the middle finger and hurtle over a gravestone, and Maggie rings her double D bra on a weeping angel. We grab each other's hand and streak through the cemetery screaming Maggie's favorite song, "Crush on You."

Halfway through the crowd, our Roman Holiday underwear go sailing into the air.

I hope Roman enjoys the irony.