I hold up my hands in surrender. “Of course not. I was just curious.”
She nods and opens the door to a small room with a neatly made bed and a normal sized television.
“So how are the Royals at home?” she asks as she sets up the game.
“Nice,” I lie.
“Really?” She looks skeptical. “Because they haven’t been nice to you. Or about you.”
Some misplaced sense of loyalty to those jerks makes me shut her down. “Naah, they’re coming around.” I echo Callum’s earlier words, but they don’t sound any more believable from my mouth. Trying to change the subject, I tap the television. “Ready to dance?”
“Yep.” Valerie accepts my topic switch with ease. She grabs two wine coolers from a mini fridge and hands me one. “Here’s to hiding and still having fun.”
The game is a breeze. It’s way too easy for both of us. Valerie is a great dancer, but I grew up in this environment and there’s no shift of the hips or flip of the arm that I can’t make. Valerie decides we need handicaps and so she pauses the game and we start chugging our wine coolers. As we drink, her moves become increasingly terrible, but the alcohol is like magic for me and the music just takes over.
“Damn, girl, you’ve got moves,” she teases. “You should try out for one of those TV dance shows.”
“Nope.” I take another swig of my drink. “I’ve got no interest in being on television.”
“Well, you should. I mean, look at you. You’re hot even in that rich bi-otch getup you’re rocking, and with those moves? You’d be a star.”
“Not interested,” I say again.
She laughs. “Fine, be that way. Gotta pee!”
I laugh, too, as she bounds away from the screen mid-song to use the bathroom. She’s got a crazy amount of energy, and I like her. I make a mental note to ask her if she goes to Astor Park Prep too. It’d be nice to have a friend there when I start on Monday. But then the song on the screen changes, and the music pulls me in again.
While Valerie is in the bathroom, the Divinyls’ “Touch Myself” starts playing and I start dancing—not to the game, but my own moves. A slick sultry dance. One that makes my blood pound and my hands grow sweaty.
The unwelcome image of Reed’s hot body and blue eyes appears in front of me. Dammit, the asshole Royal has invaded my thoughts and I’m helpless to shut him out. I close my eyes and imagine his hands running along my hips and wrenching me close. It’s his leg thrust between mine—
The lights turn on and I stop abruptly.
“Where is he?” the devil himself demands.
“Who?” I ask dumbly. I can’t believe I was fantasizing about Reed Royal, the guy who thinks I’m screwing his father.
“The meathead you’re dancing for.” Reed crosses the room and grabs my upper arms. “I told you that you can’t turn tricks with my friends.”
“There’s no one here.” My drunk mind is too slow to catch on to what he’s saying. The toilet flushes.
“Oh yeah?” He flings me away and yanks open the bathroom door. A squeal of dismay rings out and he bites out an apology as he slams the door shut.
I can’t help the smug smile from forming.
“Did I mention I was a lesbian?”
He doesn’t think I’m funny. “Why didn’t you tell me you were with Valerie?”
“Because it’s funnier watching you to jump to conclusions. And even if I told you who I was with, you wouldn’t have believed me. You’ve already decided who and what I am and nothing is going to change that.”
He scowls but doesn’t contradict me. “Come with me.”
“Let me think on that.” I tap a finger against my bottom lip as if I’m really contemplating his crappily delivered invitation. His eyes drop to watch the movement. “Okay. I’ve decided. No.”
“You don’t like it here,” he says flatly.
“Thank you, Mr. Perceptive.”
He ignores the sarcasm. “Yeah, well I don’t like it either. But here’s the deal. If you don’t come with me and make a fucking effort, then my father will keep forcing you to go to these parties. But if you get your ass out there and everyone reports back to their parents that they saw you, then Dad will lay off. Got it?”
“Not really.”
Reed moves closer again, and I’m once again floored by the size of him. He’s so tall. Tall enough that if he were skinny, his nickname would be “beanpole” or something. But he’s not skinny. He’s built. He’s big and muscular and the alcohol is making me feel all hot and achy around him.
He’s still talking, oblivious to my inappropriate train of thought. “If my dad thinks you’re a lost, lonely lamb, he’ll keep pushing us all together. Or maybe that’s what you want. Is that it? You want to be seen with us. You want to be at these parties.”
The accusations snap me out of my haze. “Because I’ve spent so much time around you tonight.”
His expression doesn’t change, not even to acknowledge that I’m right. Whatever. Fine.
“Come on, Valerie, let’s go party,” I call out.