I swallow—an action that should be soundless, but isn’t—as I attempt to control the breathiness in my reply.
“Th-there’s a counter,” I reply softly, motioning with my head, even though I know his meaning is a different one. “Lots of stuff you can buy with your tickets…”
He laughs wickedly. “I haven’t any need for rubber snakes or plastic spider rings. Surely, between the two of us, we can come up with a more interesting victory reward?” His eyebrows arch, eyes begging me to play along.
Don’t play along, Echo.
“What do you want?” I choke out on reflex, my own internal warning forgotten faster than it’d been issued.
“I want you to dance, just for me. At your spot—your tree.”
“And if I win?”
“Anything you want, Love.”
What do I want? I need to think simple, because “Quit being a man whore, and also never leave” is probably a little much for the scope of this competition.
And then it hits me: the perfect solution to a problem that’s been plaguing me since the last day of junior year. The desire of this “experience” exists inside me, but the disgust that hits me anytime I consider my possible date options always overshadows it.
“If I win…”
I shift from foot to foot, then take a deep breath and stare at him, praying he’ll see how hard this is for me to ask and not laugh.
“You’ll escort me to my senior prom.”
A vivid smile lights up his face, and the blaze in his eyes has me licking my parched lips.
“So, either way, I get a dance from you,” he whispers. “Must be my lucky night. You, Love, have got yourself a deal.”
Chapter 13
The ride home is beyond awkward. Imagine driving through hell, in neutral. Or opening your eyes and realizing it wasn’t a bad dream—you are in front of your entire class naked.
Yeah, it’s that bad, for several reasons I can’t even catalog in order from least dismal to catastrophic, since they suck equally. Needless to say, my mood has completely plummeted.
“Um, Echo? Pardon the interruption to all this stimulating conversation we’re currently engaged in, but did we run over a puppy and I somehow missed it?”
I refuse to laugh. Refuse.
“Echo, talk to me. You cannot possibly be this sore of a loser,” Kingston says, failing to mask the victorious chuckle in his voice.
Yes, I lost. It seems the notorious Mr. Hawthorne forgot to mention he was Lord of the Vintage Video Game—and air hockey. Or that he could whack a freakin’ mole like he had two sets of eyes and four hands.
Bastard.
“So you won. Congratulations. But that’s the least of my worries,” I seethe, giving him a sidelong glare. “Ego, much?”
“Well, I know you’re not stewing about the part where you’ll be dancing for me. You’re so engrossed when you perform, you won’t even notice I’m there.” Yes, I most definitely will. “And I’ve watched you before, so I refuse to believe that’s the reason behind your sad eyes.”
Problem is, that’s part of it—doing a private show for Kingston has my stomach coiled in Army-issue knots. Putting myself, my art, on display for only him adds a whole new aspect to it: intimacy.
Plus, I am kind of a sore loser.
I exhale in a huff of worried, complex frustration.
“Kingston…I don’t like to lose, I’ll admit. And I’m a little nervous about putting on a special show just for you. I’m not a showgirl, or your ‘private dancer,’ so I hope you’re not having any indecent thoughts that would degrade my artistry. But that’s neither here nor there, because I’m gonna be grounded for so long I won’t be able to leave my room to hold up my end of the bet anyway.”
But that’s still not the thing bothering me the most.
His head jerks my way. “What? Why would you be…oh, bloody hell.” He groans, grabbing his hair with both hands. “Curfew. Echo, I’m so sorry. I was having such a smashing time, I didn’t even think of it.”
“It’s not your fault.” I sigh. “I forgot too.”
“No.” He reaches over and squeezes my knee. “I’ll fix this. You let me handle it with your father. Promise?”
“Yeah, right,” I scoff. “And just how do you propose to do that?”
“You got a spare back there?” He points with his thumb toward the bed of my truck.
“Yeah, of course, why wouldn’t…” I cringe. “Crap. No. Sebastian took it for something his buddies were up to, and forgot to return it. Glad you reminded me.”
He’s silent, drumming his fingers on my knee while he thinks.
“Wait, why?” I ask.
Finally, his hand disappears from my knee and he snaps his fingers.
“Do you know of a salvage lot between here and your house?”
“Like a junkyard?”
“Yes, exactly like that!”
“Actually, I do. Why?”
“Go there. Quickly.”
When I fail to accelerate fast enough for the adrenaline junkie, he laughs. “Drive faster, Love.” I smile to myself, pressing down on the gas and praying he knows what the hell he’s doing, when he asks, “Where’s your phone?”