Page 62 of I Knew You Were Trouble

I tilt the phone, going for the angle, but that showswaytoo much boob. I try another angle, but now Gertrude is hidden.

“Ugh!” I scream out into the empty parking lot. “Candace, why are you like this?” A bad girl would just take the darn photo. A bad girl wouldn’t have to use her best friend’s motorcycle to pose against. A bad girl would already have a date with the hot bad boy in her art class. Probably already kissed him, too.

And I just realized I think of Pete as my best friend, and that’s just sad. He thinks of me as a co-worker at the very most, I bet. A pupil maybe. An annoyance most likely.

Tears start to prickle against my eyes. No. I will not let them fall. They’ll freeze to my cheeks and become permanent fixtures of my pathetic personality.

My butt flumps against the seat of Pete’s bike, and I stare at my legs, the ripped jeans showing more skin than I prefer, and I wish I didn’t have such an aversion to something as simple as clothing. I reach down, using my pastel pink gloves to pick at the material. I paid eighty dollars for these, thinking I’d wear them all the time now that I’m such a rebel. Now I wouldn’t mind if I never saw them again.

Maybe I shouldn’t have a party. It’s a less than a week out. Is that even enough time to extend invites? Get RSVPs? Wait… do I request RSVPs? Or is this a show up anytime with anyone they want? Am I supposed to have alcohol there? Because I don’t drink, I don’t know how to get drinks, and will I be responsible if people drive home drunk… Or will there be passed out people on my couch all night? Gosh, I don’t even know how to party right.

The wind picks up, and I shiver against it, grabbing my zipper and pulling it to my chin. I don’t care if there will be no cleavage shot. I don’t care that I’m wearing a baby blue coat with white fur fringe and pink gloves. I’m sitting on a motorcycle, and that should be enough right now, and I’m not leaving without a decent picture.

I hold the camera up, set my jaw, and then force a smile. I click before I overthink it.

“Should I leave you two alone?”

I whip around to Pete’s voice, and my smile is no longer forced. Embarrassed, but not forced.

“Hey, sorry.” I jump up from Gertrude and rush to get his cover. “I was just…”

“Taking selfies on my bike?” he offers. His chin is more scruffy today than usual, his eyes tired but friendly. He hops off the curb and stands next to me. His black coat sleeve presses with my baby blue.

“No,” I answer, even if that’s exactly what I was doing.

“Messing with my brakes?”

I blink, shocked he’d ever think that of me. But his mouth splits open in his usual tease, and I give him a good smack to the upper arm.

“Fine. I was trying to get a ‘bad girl’ picture for my profile. You know, before I start inviting people over for New Year’s Eve.”

“Ah.” His normally playful demeanor diminishes, and he almost looks… angry? I can’t put my finger on it. “Trying to impress a certain nude model?” he asks, his voice rougher than I’m used to.

“Possibly.” I let out a huff. “Probably.”

His eyes drop to my phone. “Can I see?”

Thank heavens I deleted the nipple pictures. I slap my phone into his palm, and he opens the screen to my most recent selfie with Gertrude. He doesn’t comment, and when he flicks, it’s a picture of him and his sisters by the purple tree at his house.

“You only took one?” He lifts a brow, like he knows it’s not in my personality to take only one photo.

“One that is usable.”

“Damn, I missed the blooper reel.”

“I’m quick with the delete button.”

He takes a few steps toward Gertrude, the wind blowing through his hat hair. I think he’s in the paintball zone today, but I don’t know for sure. His Troublemakers shirt is covered by his coat, but I think I see the yellow collar poking out from just behind the zipper.

He sits on the seat, still gazing down at my screen, and pats the spot next to him. “If you’re gonna take pictures with the best bike in the world, you need more of the bike in there.”

“I was trying,” I argue, plopping next to him. “My arm isn’t long enough.”

He makes a face and stretches his arm out in selfie position.

“Monkey,” I tease when I see the entire front handlebars framing us both in a great shot. His arms are long, but he’s tall so I should’ve figured.

He takes a couple, and because of my extensive training as a model, I inch closer to him, changing up each shot.

---