Get Dirty (10 page)

If her mom didn’t want a daughter, then Bree didn’t want her either.

Only she did. Desperately.

In the back of her mind, Bree had always blamed her dad for her mom’s prolonged absence. It wasn’t exactly a secret that he was a cold, determined man, and Bree could count on one hand the number of times he’d actually hugged her with any real affection. It made sense that her mom would want to leave, to get as far away from him as possible.

But what didn’t make sense, what Bree couldn’t ignore anymore, was that she’d leave her youngest child behind to fend for herself.

Tap. Tap tap tap.

Bree hastily wiped the tears from her cheeks and rushed across her room.

“John!” She threw open the window, never so happy to see anyone in her life. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m Luke Skywalker,” John said. “And I’m here to rescue you.”

“Huh?”

John smiled. “I think Leia’s line is actually ‘You’re who?’ but I’ll take that in a pinch.”

Bree’s tears began to flow afresh. She couldn’t help it. All the pain and sadness of the last few days, and here was her best friend who, with one quote from
Star Wars
, reminded her that someone cared.

John’s smirk vanished. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Bree sniffled. “I’m just happy to see you.”

“Aha!” John said. He dropped his backpack into the gravel and unzipped it. “Well, if the mere sight of me brings you to tears, maybe I’d better not show you this?” With a flamboyant magician’s flourish, John yanked what appeared to be a tangled mass of rope out of his bag.

“What is that?”

“Stand back,” John said. “And I’ll show you.”

Bree backed away from the window. She heard John grunt, and then there was a thud, as if something soft had hit the side of the house.

“Dammit,” John said, his voice muffled.

Another grunt, and another thud. This time, Bree could hear him swearing under his breath.

“Would it help if I got out and pushed?” Bree said, smiling at her own
Star Wars
quote.

John’s voice drifted up through the window with the expected response. “It might.”

A third grunt, and this time the end of a rope soared through the window. Bree grabbed it before it slipped back down.

“Pull it up!” John instructed.

Hand over hand, Bree drew the rope up the side of her house. It was heavier than she thought it would be, and she had to brace herself against the wall to haul it in. After ten feet, two metal hooks appeared over the window sill, and suddenly Bree realized what John had brought.

She secured the hooks on the sill and stuck her head out the window. Below her, a rope ladder descended to the gravel path.

“Nice thinking,” she said, impressed.

John looped his backpack over his shoulders and grasped the bottom rungs. “Okay, wish me luck.”

A minute later, John’s pale arm popped over the windowsill and with a deep groan, he hauled himself onto Bree’s bedroom floor.

Bree stood dumbstruck as John scrambled to his feet and brushed dirt from his jeans and black button-down shirt. He smiled at her sheepishly, and all the awkwardness of a thousand unsaid emotions descended upon them. Bree wasn’t sure if she wanted to joke with John as they usually did, or throw her arms around his neck and kiss him.

“I . . . I can’t believe you’re here,” she said at last.

John approached her slowly, calmly, as if she were a skittish
kitten, and reached out his hand to cup her face. He brushed away a lingering tear with his thumb, which was rough and calloused from his years of playing bass. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, noting the spicy mix of aftershave and perspiration from scaling the outside of her house.

Then she felt the heat of his breath close to her face and her heart stopped. She remembered the first time he’d almost kissed her. She hadn’t realized how much she’d wanted him to, but now, after all they’d been through, after the
L
word had been spoken, she wanted to feel his lips against her own more than ever.

Bree raised her chin, angling her face toward him. “Please,” she whispered, unaware the word had escaped her mouth until she heard it.

She felt his fingers creep around to the back of her head, and then his lips were pressed against hers. She kissed him back hungrily, her hands firmly planted on his chest, and then she felt his arm around her back, pulling her closer to him.

John moaned and gripped the back of her dress with both hands, twisting the fabric into bunches. Before Bree even knew what she was doing, she had unbuttoned John’s shirt, peeled it off him, and was kissing the muscular lines of his chest.

“Bree,” John said, his voice thick and throaty.

She heard it through a haze, her mind far away. “Yeah?”

He placed his hands on either side of her face and looked directly into her eyes. “Are you okay with this? I mean, you’ve been through a lot and I don’t want you to think I came here just
to . . .” His voice trailed off and she watched a flush of pink wash over him.

Could he be any more adorable? “John, I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Her heart pounded in her chest. “Then there’s your answer.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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FITZGERALD WAS SITTING IN THE FRONT ROW OF THE HOUSE
reading an issue of
American Theatre
magazine when Olivia arrived after school.

“Miss Hayes!” he exclaimed as she approached, tossing the magazine aside and leaping to his feet. “I’ll be delighted to have you at Aspen this summer.”

Olivia tried to keep her mounting excitement under control. “Thank you, Mr. Conroy.”

“It will be a grueling six weeks,” he said, tilting his head toward her, “full of laughter and tears and misery and elation. And you won’t get any special treatment as a high school student.”

Olivia smiled. “I don’t expect any.”

“And it will be lonely,” he said.

“Lonely?”

“Away from your friends.” Fitzgerald glanced at the floor. “And your mother.”

Lonely wasn’t the word Olivia would have chosen. More like
“vacation.” She opened her mouth to reassure him that she’d be fine, when he interrupted her.

“How are things at home, if I may ask?”

“Fine.” How are things at home? That sounded like something a guidance counselor would ask.

“And your mother? How is she?”

“She’s fine too.”

“Such an odd coincidence. I once directed your mother on stage, and now I’ll direct you.” He laughed nervously, then glanced at his watch. “Shall I drive you home?”

“Um, I thought we were going to discuss my internship?”

Fitzgerald waved his hand dismissively. “Of course, of course. In the car, my dear.” Then he linked his arm through hers and hustled her out to the parking lot.

They pulled onto DuMaine Drive in silence, Olivia’s address programmed into the GPS in Fitzgerald’s rental. After two blocks, Fitzgerald cleared his throat and glanced at Olivia sidelong. “Do you think your mother will be home?”

Olivia tensed. Was he going to demand some kind of sexual payback for offering her the internship at Aspen? He knew she was only sixteen, right?

She clutched her tote bag to her chest and slowly, silently, reached her hand into its depths until her fingers closed around her house keys. When they got to her building, she’d dash out of the car and sprint up the stairs to her apartment. She could be inside with the door locked before he even knew what was happening.

“She’s
always
there when I get home from school,” Olivia
bluffed. There was probably a fifty-fifty chance her mom hadn’t left for work yet.

She eyed Fitzgerald, expecting his face to fall, but instead, his features lit up. “I’d love to see her again.” His eyes sparkled, and for an instant, Fitzgerald looked positively boyish. She’d seen that look on his face once before, in her dressing room before the opening curtain for
Twelfth Precinct
, when he ran into his former protégé June Hayes.

A smile spread across Olivia’s face as they pulled up in front of her building. It wasn’t
her
Fitzgerald wanted to spend time with. It was her mother.

“You should come up and say hello,” she said, noticing her mom’s car still in the carport. Cinderella-type fantasies of her mom rescued from poverty by the hottest director on Broadway played out before her eyes. “My mom talks about you all the time. The
Twelfth Night
you did together is still her favorite production ever.”

Fitzgerald smiled broadly. “Is it?”

“Totally.”
Come on, take the bait.
“And she was just saying yesterday that she hoped she’d see you again soon,” she lied.

He pulled the parking brake and cut the engine. “In that case, I’d love to say hello.”

Olivia hurried up the stairs ahead of Fitzgerald. She prayed her mom was actually up and ready for work as opposed to hibernating in the daybed after calling in “sick” for her shift. As she burst through the door, she heaved a sigh of relief. The sheets on the daybed were neat and tidy, her mom’s purse and leather jacket laid across the bedspread, all ready for work.

Game on.

“Mom?” she cried. “Mom, someone’s here to see you.”

“What?” her mom called from the bathroom.

Olivia turned back to Fitzgerald, who tentatively entered the living room.

“She’ll be right out,” she said with a nervous laugh.

Fitzgerald nodded. His eyes swept the small interior of their apartment, resting on the peeling paint near the kitchen ceiling, the stained carpet, and the cramped quarters of the living room where Olivia’s mom slept. There was no judgment on his face, only curiosity.

Then curiosity turned to surprise, and Olivia noticed that his gaze lingered on the coffee table. There, amid a haphazard pile of magazines and remote controls, stood an assortment of prescription pill bottles.

Olivia was shocked. She knew her mom was on antidepressants, and had been prescribed anti-anxiety meds to take as needed for the occasional panic attack, but there had to be at least a half-dozen different bottles on the table—three times the normal collection—all neatly labeled from the pharmacy.

“We’re, um, not used to company,” Olivia said, fumbling for a way to draw Fitzgerald’s attention away from the pharmaceutical display.

“Quite all right, my dear.” He smiled warmly. “It’s an artist’s life.”

“Is someone with you?” her mom yelled. The bathroom door opened and her mom walked into the living room, fastening the belt on her skintight black jeans. “If it’s Anthony, tell him I’ll
have the rest of the rent by—”

“Hello, June.”

Olivia’s mom froze at the sound of Fitzgerald’s voice, and Olivia was astonished to see the color drain out of her lovely face.

“Fitz,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“How are you?”

“I’m well.” She swallowed slowly. “And you?”

Fitzgerald smiled. “Also well.”

They stood in silence, gazing at each other. Olivia barely knew Fitzgerald Conroy, but she recognized the look in his eyes—he had a crush on her mom.

Olivia half-expected them to fly into each other’s arms and confess their decades-long love for each other. Then he’d carry Olivia’s mom out of the apartment and into his luxury rental car like Richard Gere at the end of almost every Richard Gere movie.

So she was dumbfounded when her mom snatched her purse and jacket from the daybed, and hurried past Fitzgerald to the door.

“Yes,” her mom said, clearly flustered. “Well, I’m off to work and I’m sure you have other places to be. So nice of you to stop by.” She held the door open for him, steadfastly refusing to look Fitzgerald in the eyes.

“Oh!” he said, looking as if she’d just slapped him across the face. “Yes, of course. So sorry to intrude.” He was out the door and down the stairs before Olivia could protest.

“What was that all about?” Olivia said, as soon as her mom closed the door.

Instead of apologizing, her mom whirled on her. “Don’t you
ever
bring that man to this house again. Do you hear me?”

“Why?”

“Do you hear me?” her mom repeated through clenched teeth.

There was something wild in her mom’s eyes; it wasn’t anger or fear, but a mix of the two that seemed to ignite from nothing.

“Are you okay?” Olivia asked.

“Of course I am,” her mom snapped. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“It’s just . . .” Olivia glanced at the pill bottles on the table. “Are those new prescriptions from Dr. Kearns?”

Her mom shrugged. “How am I supposed to know? She phones them in, I pick them up.” She took a step closer to her daughter and gripped Olivia by the arm. “You didn’t answer me. Promise me you’ll never bring Fitzgerald Conroy to his house again.”

Olivia winced as her mom’s fingers dug into her flesh. “Fine. But why not?”

Instead of offering an explanation, her mom spun around and stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door behind her.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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STILL SWEATY FROM VOLLEYBALL PRACTICE, KITTY HURRIED UP
the steps to the private gym. She taught volleyball lessons there every summer, and in addition to a small stipend, she received an annual pass to use the gym. Which was unnecessary most of the time, considering that Bishop DuMaine had state-of-the-art weight and cardio facilities on campus, but today it was going to come in particularly handy. Last summer, Kitty had noticed an old classmate working out every evening around five o’clock. It was someone Kitty knew only too well: DGM target number one, Wendy Marshall.

If truth be told, Kitty had a soft spot for Wendy. Her label-shaming, queen-bee fiefdom at Bishop DuMaine had inspired Kitty to form DGM freshman year, and though the plan against Wendy wasn’t one of their finest, it still gave Kitty a special thrill when she thought about it. The first time is always the sweetest.

It had been a simple mission, and kind of stupid when she thought about it, but DGM hadn’t fine-tuned their roles yet, and hacking into the camera feed from Wendy’s online LARPing
group was the best they could do. But the image of Wendy dressed as a steampunk cowgirl for online sessions with her group was amazing. Again, Kitty admired the way Wendy dove into her role with 100 percent commitment, and under different circumstances, she felt as if she and Wendy could have been friends. After all, Kitty had done her fair share of dressing up in Hogwarts robes and running around straddling a broom as she pretended to be the Ravenclaw Seeker. But after terrorizing the female population of Bishop DuMaine for nondesigner clothing labels and questionable fashion choices, Kitty was seriously pissed off by Wendy’s hypocrisy.