Page 19 of A Favor Owed
Okay, it’s obviously time for a reality check. Too much is riding on me being able to handle my shit for me to get all doe-eyed over the first guy in years to pay me some attention. Even if not a man-whore, Brady is obviously a social butterfly of the highest order and has probably text-bantered with at least five other girls tonight.
I wish I had someone to call to get some advice and perspective. Elisa is my boss, Kelsey’s working, I’m not close to anyone at school, and my few friends back home are 100 percent off-limits. I’m under no illusions about how precarious my situation is. As far as my family knows, I’m on the other side of the world and off the grid. One phone call, one email, one hint to anyone outside my family that I’m not where I’m supposed to be, and my parents will find me in a week, tops. My disappearance has to be complete and unrelenting if I truly want to be free. So I’m going to have to forget girl talk, avoid distractions, and focus on something actually important—like school.
Unfortunately, my hormones have other plans for me. I might be a law student, but they’re lovestruck high schoolers writing anonymous notes to slip into their crush’s locker. I try to read about strict liability for Torts class, but two cases in, all I can think about is how it would have felt if it had been Brady’s arms wrapped around me at work that night, his body pinning me to the bar, his breath in my ear and against my neck.
Shit!I slam my book closed and push it off the sofa. It lands with a thud on the floor. I cap my highlighter and drop it on the floor next to the book. It’s no use. I’m just going to go to bed.
I grab the sweatshirt I promised to keep safe. It smells like Brady’s cologne mixed with my perfume. It’s old but in good condition. I notice that there’s a name written with a Sharpie inside the collar. B. McDaniels. I fold it up and put it back safely in my drawer.
I lie in bed alone in the dark and wait for the fear and anxiety to descend. As I wait, I imagine Brady’s laughing green eyes. But they aren’t laughing. They’re drinking me in as I lie in bed in nothing but my thin cotton camisole and lacy underwear. I imagine that his hands are everywhere his eyes had been—in my hair, on my face, touching me from my neck down to my toes.
And I’m not afraid. As much as he’s distracted me from my work, he’s distracted me from my fear. For the first time since I’ve left home, I don’t fall asleep thinking about bills, grades, or hiding. I fall asleep thinking about Brady’s lips all over my body.
Chapter Eight
Brady
I wake up on Saturday morning with Angie on the brain. And other places. The girl may be a bald-faced liar, but she’s a hot liar. And I’m going to see her today, preferably with a whole lot of skin revealed.
As predicted, the day dawns nice and hot and hazy. The temperature has slowly climbed all week until it’s a hundred degrees on Friday and expected to be even hotter today. Exactly what I had hoped for. Perfect weather for a pool party at my place. I invited my study group and the handful of buddies I drink with and, of course, Angela Pines.
“I’ll pick you up at eleven,” I told her after class on Friday before she went home to get ready for work. She shrugged, playing it off like a pro and making me smile. I’ve always appreciated a girl who could drop-kick my ego.
When I pull up to her place on Saturday morning, I can’t suppress a grimace. I’d hoped this place would look better in the daylight, but everything that looked rundown in the dark looks outright disgusting now. To top it off, a fiftyish woman with stringy, grayish-blond hair and a square, fierce, heavily wrinkled face sits on a beach chair on the porch, her thighs squeezing out of a pair of spandex shorts and the strap of her stained tank top falling off her shoulder. She takes a long drag of her cigarette as she watches me get out of the car. A huge, drooling rottweiler stands next to her, a low growl rumbling in its throat.
“Hi.” I wave and smile.
“How ya doing?” she calls back in a lazy, scratchy voice. Her eyes follow me until I get to the end of the driveway and the boxy garage that Angela calls home. I knock on the door, looking around at the weeds growing through the cracked cement of the driveway and the tree branch practically resting on the roof of the garage. I notice that someone has planted a small garden off to the side, with tomatoes ripening on the vines. Geranium-filled window boxes hang beneath the two windows that face the driveway. Something about that attempt to make this place look nice, that small sign of pride and optimism, feels like a sudden punch to my gut.
Don’t be a pussy, McDaniels, I chide myself.
“I’ll be right there!” Angela’s voice coming from inside snaps me out of it. A moment later, she’s opening the door as little as she can and squeezing out of it.
“You cooking up crack in there or something?” I say, trying to peer inside.
“Meth,” she volleys back, throwing a little bit of a smirk my way and closing the door firmly.
“You got that swimsuit?”
“Everything’s in here,” she says, holding up a canvasMuseum of Modern Arttote bag. Her hair is twisted into some elaborate braid that makes her look like the Victoria’s Secret version of a Midwest farm girl. She’s wearing a strapless plaid dress that matches her hair and emphasizes her first-rate rack. The classiest tattoo I’ve ever seen, finely etched gray lines forming a cluster of roses, covers her left shoulder. Her lips are shiny and pink with some kind of lip-gloss stuff that reminds me of watermelon.Eyes off the lips, McDaniels. And definitely off the rack.
“Let’s blow this joint, then,” I say, motioning toward my car.
“Bye, Lizette!” she calls as we pass the lady on the front porch.
“Bye, hon!” The woman waves back.
“That your landlady?” I ask when we’re in my car.
“Yeah.”
“Someone oughta tell her there’s like a dozen code violations in plain sight.”
“Wow. You’ve been paying attention in Property,” she says with a smile. “So who all’s going to be at this party?”
“Just a few people from our class,” I say.
“Cool.”
