Page 10 of An Uphill Battle

“You love methough!”

“That I do, sister-girl. Now, you better cover up. Grams will fall over dead if she sees you lookin’ like a prosti-tot!”

“A prosti-tot?”

“Yeah, an underage prostitute.” We both crack up, laughing until tears stream down ourcheeks.

“Damn it, Myles. Now I gotta fix my makeup. Can’t go lookin’ like araccoon.”

“’Kay. Well, Simon just texted me again. He’s here. Hurry down!” she says before darting down the stairs to kiss her Gramsbye.

I shrug on a long coat before darting down the stairs behind her, because she’s one hundred percent right. Grams wouldn’t let me step foot outside dressed like this. She’d sit my ass down quicker than two shakes of a lamb’s tail, call my mom, and then the both of them would lecture me for days on end about decorum, and modesty, and not giving the milk away forfree.

And I get where they’d be coming from. I really do, and normally, I’d agree. But desperate times call for desperate measures. And my God, am I desperate for that boy. Or I guess, man would be the more appropriate word. Because at six foot four, Drake is every bit a man, even if he is onlyeighteen.

“Bye, Mrs. McGraw,” I call out as I make my way to the door, not waiting for her reply or giving her a chance to catch a glimpse of what I’m notwearing.

* * *

“What time’s our curfew?”I ask Myla Rose as I slide into the back seat of Simon McAllister’s old, beat-up, rust-bucketChevy.

“I told Grams we were gonna be home around midnight. She said as long as we’re with Simon, it’sokay.”

“Wonderful,” I tell her before turning my attention to the shaggy-haired boy driving us. “And, how’re you tonight,Sim?”

“Ready to get outta this hell hole. How’reyou?”

“Ready for a good night. Drake’s gonna be there,right?”

“Sure is. He’sbring—”

“Nope.” I hold up a hand in the dark cab of the truck. “That’s all I need toknow.”

“If you say so, but don’t say I didn’ttry—”

“Seriously, Simon. As long as he’s there, I’m good. He and I need totalk.”

“You sure got a thing for cuttin’ people off,don’tcha?”

The disgruntled silence I offer back is drowned out by Myla’s howlinglaughter.

The drive from Myla’s to Jake Bishop’s, our party host tonight, is so short that she’s still laughing when Simon parks his truck at the end of a long line of cars. Judging from the looks of things, the party’s in fullswing.

I climb out of the back seat and immediately shed the knee-length coat I was hiding under. “Azalea, wanna explain why you’re wearin’ a trench coat in the middle of summer?” Simon calls to me from the other side of hisvehicle.

Stepping around to the front of the truck, I show him my outfit. “This iswhy.”

Simon’s eyes just about bug out of his head. “You sure about this,Az?”

“Abso-freaking-lutely.”

“Imma say it again—don’t say I didn’t warn you aboutDrake.”

“Okay, Grandpa, thanks for the warning,” I tell him as I link my arm with Myla Rose’s. “Now, let’s get our partyon!”

Our short walk from the street to the front door is hampered by my ridiculously high heels, but with Drake being so much taller than me, they seemed very necessary when I was formulating this plan. Now? They’re a nuisance. I’m one ankle-roll away from a brokenneck.

Once we’re inside, I spend a few minutes in the kitchen with Myla and Simon, though I’m not listening to a word they’re saying. No, I’m watching—waiting—forDrake.

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