Page 61 of I Knew You Were Trouble

The weather has dropped to thirty degrees, and there is no doubt in my mind that Pete is still running around on that death machine.

I pull into the Troublemakers parking lot, my heater on full blast on my lower half. These holey jeans do nothing against the December air except invite it in.

With it being winter break, my art class doesn’t start up again until January, so the only way I can send invites is to spread them around social media.

So my profiles need some revamping.

After spending way too many hours deciding whether or not to even create the event, I realized that the moment I invite Zach, he might take a gander at my profile page. My pictures. And holy wow, they have my good girl reputation all over them.

Me with my 4.0 report card, pictures of perfectly arranged food on my parents’ china, posing in front of the Mormon temple in Illinois with the caption “Friday Night Out!”

He will take one look at that and think, “I knew it.” And I’ll never get that motorcycle ride he sort of promised, let alone a date.

I pull in next to the motorcycle I knew would be here and put my car in park. A happy flutter briefly overtakes the desire to erase all evidence of my good girl self when I take in the new bike cover I gave Pete for Christmas. His face was so darn cute when he tore the wrapping off. He let out this frustrated sigh and scrunched up his nose, his eyes pinching shut. He didn’t look at me once when he muttered, “I was joking about this, Candace.”

“I know,” I said, but I didn’t care. Gertrude needed some coverage in this weather, and I needed to express in some small way how grateful I was that he let me into his world for a bit. I’ve never been invited into anyone’s world, really, and I liked my visit.

After yanking the zipper up on my coat, I open my car door and brace for the rush of cold air. The wind nearly takes the door off its hinges, and I make a face, hoping it didn’t just tear up the car next to me. I quickly inspect, relieved it’s all good, no damage done, then force my door shut against the wind.

My hair whips to and fro, and I mutter censored curses under my breath. I spent longer than necessary on my curls this morning, making them look not so perfect, but messy perfect, if that makes any sense. It’s all moot now, anyway.

The cover slaps against the bike frame, the wind beating against it with a fury. I use my gloved hands to find the zipper on the thing and tug it open and off. Oh geez, it’s freaking twenty pounds, at least! I heft it to the hood of my car, using my front bumper as wind coverage, and let it drop with a heavyplopagainst the asphalt.

Okay, just a quick picture with Gertrude will up my bad girl points. I need to shed my coat for the full effect—or at least unzip it and leave it hanging open. One of my gifts to me this year was a black as night, off the shoulder top. My boobs look twice as big in this number, even with the slimming color. Probably because the tightness of the shirt pushes them together so much that my cleavage is out of this world.

I’m not comfortable in it. I prefer loose, flowy materials, sweaters, pastels, jeans without holes… But that Candace doesn’t get the guy. Or anyone for that matter.

Not to say Pete’s lessons aren’t doing their job. Oh, they are. Any time we’re scheduled together, there’s this excited and nervous buzz that pings me to life. I knew I was sheltered—which is putting it lightly—and he’s slowly pulling me out of my safety net while still making me feel safe. Though… a new fear may have just popped up on my list because of it. I don’t know if I’ll be able to conquer any more of them on my own. Never thought I’d need Pete in any capacity, but I do.

I won’t admit that to him, though.

I open my passenger door and pull out my tripod for my phone. I figured I’d do a couple of selfies and then a couple of shots as if someone is here with me. The friend barrel isn’t exactly full right now, since my coworkers are working or vacationing, I have no clue where my art classmates are, and it’s not like I can admit to anyone what I’m doing anyway.

Yeah, best to get this done without anyone seeing.

I set the tripod up and put my phone in the holder, turning on the camera. Hmm… fifteen shots should be enough. I leave five seconds between each picture and set the beginning timer to thirty seconds for me to prepare.

I take a deep breath and hold it in my cheeks, eyeing the employee parking lot to make sure I’m alone. Then I yank the zipper down and chuck the coat off before I lose my nerve.

Ohmygosh, ohmygosh, ohmygosh. If Pete finds me frozen against Gertrude, I would not be surprised. Every hair I possess stands on end, including the ones on my head. I feel like I’ve taken a dive into an electrified lake, my body frozen from the current. Forcing myself to move, I place my hand on Gertrude’s seat and try to pose like I studied before I came all the way across town to do this. Girls on motorcycles, how to pose with a bike, and bad girl photo ideas—that last search was helpful until I got to some… not so helpful ones.

I shake my head, letting the wind do with my hair what it pleases, and try to make my face imitate the ones I studied. No smiling, that’s for sure. Not that I could with how cold it is. My bottom lip juts out, and I try to do that pout thing, but it starts trembling, my teeth chattering behind them. At worst I probably look like a dead fish. At best, I look constipated.

Counting down in my head, I wait the fifteen shots, trying to switch it up between each one. In my ancient history as a girl, I did photoshoots with my mom, and the photographer always said to give subtle differences in each picture. My “subtle” at age twelve was switching the hand up on my hip to down by my side and sticking my tongue out.

Not much has changed.

After what I believe is the last picture, I find my muscles and rush for my coat, jamming my arms through the sleeves and defrosting almost instantly.

“Ahh,” I sigh through my teeth chatter. My gloves go back on, and I pluck the phone from its stand.

Oh no. Oh no no no. We have dead fishandconstipated. Plus, in every photo, my… my…nipplesare to a point. I slap a hand to my face, covering one eye while the other continues to look through photo after photo of nipple mania.

I can’t post these! My dad will see them. My aunts and uncles. Mypastor.

I quickly delete, delete, delete, then head back to Gertrude. I’m going for the selfie and the open coat. It’s enough cleavage to say bad girl with enough smarts to say it’s freaking cold and I’m not taking off my coat for a darn picture.

My selfie skills are nearly non-existent. I gave up after scrutinizing every picture I took and have never felt the need to post a selfie when posting my art was so much more fun—and better looking.

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