The Good Girls (9 page)

“Have your friends dropped you? Has anyone sent you disparaging texts?”

Julie rolled her tongue over her teeth. She'd received a few emails from Nyssa and Natalie, but she'd deleted them without opening them, fearing the worst from even two of her closest friends.

“What if I walk you to and from every class? And I'll kick anyone's ass who even
looks
at you funny. How's that?”

Julie laughed uncertainly, but she started to wonder. Maybe the sight of tall, buff, alarmingly hot Carson by her side would stave off the rest of the kids at school. She didn't hate the idea of having such a handsome bodyguard.

“Will you come back, for me?” Carson begged.

Julie took a deep breath. “Okay. I'll try it for a
day
.”

Carson smiled sweetly. “Good.”

“But if anything happens—anything at all—I'm bolting. Got it?”

“Nothing will happen, Julie. People aren't as bad as you'd think. You'd be surprised.” He grinned. “Besides, a girl as hot as you shouldn't waste your life hiding in your bedroom. Take it from the guy who looks good in even a crushed-velvet blue suit. I know it all.”

Julie smiled at that, feeling a little bit lighter. Carson clearly believed what he was saying. She just hoped he was right.

FRIDAY NIGHT, MAC PULLED INTO
the parking lot of Umami, a trendy Thai restaurant in downtown Seattle. She popped her Ford Escape into park and sat quietly in the driver's seat for a moment, watching people stream in and out of the low-slung building festooned with fairy lights. The place was packed, and Mac could smell their famous spicy wings even from here.

She was running late—she and a bunch of the Juilliard kids, including Oliver, had all made plans to get dinner tonight, too excited to wait until the next welcome event to meet up again. She flipped down the mirror and checked her makeup one last time. She'd tried to pull off a smoky eyeliner look and liked the way it made her eyes really pop under her glasses. Just as she was about to open the door and head out, a snippet of news on the radio caught her attention.

“Police are still questioning the suspect they have in custody for the murder of Beacon Heights High School teacher Lucas Granger,” a commentator said. “Some believe Granger's death was also connected to that of Beacon student Nolan Hotchkiss.”

Mac raised her eyebrows.
Interesting.
Were they saying that Alex was responsible for
both
deaths? Not that she really knew Alex that well, but he didn't seem the type to poison anyone with cyanide. Then again, it felt like she didn't really know
anyone's
true nature these days.

Just hearing Granger's and Nolan's names gave her stomach pains, and she took a few more deep breaths to recover. Everything still felt so up in the air. She just wished someone would confess already to the Nolan thing. Alex . . . a stranger . . . who
ever.
The police might not have her and the other girls behind bars, but she couldn't shake the feeling that she wasn't safe yet.

With a resigned sigh, Mac shut off the engine, threw her leather bucket bag over her shoulder, and ducked out. As she crossed the asphalt, she hummed a few measures of a tune that had been running through her head that she couldn't quite place. A few measures in, she realized what it was: a song for Blake's band that he'd written himself.

She stopped in her tracks. Why the hell had
that
popped into her head? It annoyed her to no end. She needed to
stop thinking about Blake for good. Especially now that she might be starting something with Oliver.

Her stomach fluttered giddily. The other day at the Juilliard cocktail party, Mac had rustled up an A game she didn't even know she had. As everyone started leaving, she'd sauntered up to Oliver and asked for his iPhone. “Here,” she'd said, typing in her number and handing back his phone with a confident wink. “Now you can call me.” Oliver had blinked at her. “Okay,” he'd said, grinning. When Mac looked up again, Claire was gaping at them.
Ha.

And guess what? Oliver had texted her yesterday, and they'd spent the entire afternoon exchanging texts about music, the things they wanted to do first in New York City (Lincoln Center for her, jazz clubs downtown for him), what TV shows they watched. Mac had been tempted to ask Oliver what he thought about Claire, but she knew that would make her sound jealous.

She pushed through the front door and into the lively restaurant, where palm fronds hung low over laughing diners and waitresses delivered sweating glasses of Thai iced tea and coconut drinks. She spotted a long banquet table against the back wall where the group, most of whom she recognized, was chatting excitedly. They looked a lot like her, in chunky knit sweaters, thick black or tortoiseshell glasses, ironic little-girl hair clips on the girls, ratty Mostly Mozart and Interlochen T-shirts on the guys. Mac spied
Oliver leaning back in his chair at the far left end of the table, his hands folded behind the back of his blond head, revealing sculpted biceps and tan forearms. He was even more handsome than she remembered.

Oliver turned and caught her eye, stopping his conversation mid-sentence to smile at her. He held her gaze as she walked over.

“Hey,” Mac said, standing by his chair.

“Hey, yourself.” Oliver grinned. “I was afraid you weren't coming.”

“Nah, just fashionably late,” she teased.

She tore her eyes from his and glanced around the table, waving at the group. A chorus of
Hey
s and
Hello
s rang out. As Mac took off her coat and threw it over the chair next to Oliver, she felt a firm hand on her shoulder. She turned around and gasped.

“That's
my
seat.” Claire shot her an ice-cold smile. She waved a dismissive hand toward the far end of the table, by the bathroom doors. “Try down there. I thought I saw an empty one.”

Mac gritted her teeth. She looked over at Oliver, who had gotten distracted by his phone. The worst thing to do, she decided, was to act like this bothered her. Oliver had been texting with
her,
after all.

She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Oh, sure. That's cool.” Then she turned and headed for the other end, where
the birdlike Lucien and the surprisingly supermodelesque Rachel slid over to make room. Oliver looked up from his text and made a pouty face, but Mac just smiled at him. There was no way she was getting into a fight with Claire in front of him, but she also felt defeated. Clearly, Claire had won Round One.

“I'm so glad you came out!” Rachel trilled, then pressed something square and cold into Mac's hands—a flask. Mac looked up to meet Rachel's gaze, but Rachel just grinned conspiratorially. Mac took an experimental sip, bitter whiskey slipping down her throat. Lucien nodded approvingly at her across the table.
Interesting,
Mac thought. These Juilliard kids were wilder than she expected.

Mac took another pull of whiskey and was about to pass the flask down, but Rachel caught her arm. “No, keep it between us,” she whispered. “You're cool, but some of these other kids are totally straight-edge prudes.” She rolled her eyes.

“Got it,” Mac said quietly, handing her back the flask. Rachel passed it to Lucien, who took a covert swig—apparently he was one of the cool kids, too. It felt good to be included in a secret circle. Especially one that excluded Claire.

A loud trill of laughter sounded from the other end of the table, where Claire was flirting with Oliver. She was in top form, her eyelashes batting a mile a minute, giggling
and tossing her hair. Oliver was laughing at her jokes, but Mac noticed that he pulled away when she put her hand on his thigh.
Ha,
she thought. At least he was fending off her advances for the time being. But would he forever?

The flask had come back to her, and she grabbed it and took another swig. The whiskey began to warm her stomach and relax her mind. When Lucien began to tell a story about his singular and disastrous foray into musical theater, she laughed loudly and raucously. She felt Oliver watching her from the other end of the table—with jealousy, maybe. Like he wanted to have the same kind of fun she was having.
Well then, come down here,
Mac thought.
Ditch boring Claire. I'm way more fun.

But then, when Claire rose from her chair, beaded clutch in hand, and headed for the bathroom, Mac saw her opportunity. “Be back in a sec. I just need to say hi to someone,” she said to Lucien and Rachel. With a determined stride, she walked to the other end of the table, sat down in Claire's still-warm seat, and pushed Claire's drink—a Thai coffee,
boring!
—away. She flashed Oliver her biggest, broadest, sexiest smile. “Hey there! Long time no see.”

Oliver smiled back. “And here I thought you were ignoring me.”

“Oh, no.” Mac leaned forward. “Just making the rounds, you know.”

Oliver nodded toward Rachel and Lucien. “What's going on down there in the winds section? You guys seem to be having fun.”

Mac's eyes darted back and forth. “Rachel brought in some whiskey,” she whispered. “She's got it in a flask.”

Oliver's eyebrows shot up. “Lucky. Can you make sure it gets to my end?”

“Only if you're good,” Mac said, enjoying that she was suddenly the gatekeeper. Then she placed her hand on Oliver's forearm. His skin was hot and smooth under her palm. “So,” she said, “I want to hear more about growing up on a farm. Was it amazing?”

Oliver looked at her appraisingly. “You seem to be the only person who thinks so. Whenever I tell anyone else, they're like,
hayseed
!”

She waved her hand. “Please. Farms rock. I used to want to live on one when I was younger. Did you have goats?”

He flashed her a crooked smile. “Pygmy goats, yeah. We sometimes let them come in the house.”

Mac's eyes widened. “That's adorable!”

Oliver nodded. “We had llamas, too—used them for their wool.”

“Do you still have them?”

“Yup. Maisie and Delores. My two girls.”

Mac smiled shyly. “I'd love to meet them sometime. I've never pet a llama before.”

“I think that could be arranged,” Oliver said, his eyes twinkling.

“Uh,
hello
?”

Mac looked up. Claire stood over her, nostrils flaring, hands on hips. “You're in my seat,” she hissed.
“Again.”

“Oh, sorry. I thought you had left,” Mac said sweetly.

“Pull up a chair, Claire,” Oliver said, gesturing to a chair at an empty table nearby. “Have you two met? Claire, this is Mackenzie. Mackenzie, this is . . .”

“We've met,” Claire said sharply.

Oliver smiled obliviously. “Oh, right. You're both from Beacon! Well, cool, then.”

There was no malice in his eyes. No sense that he was two-timing them. But still, Mac didn't want Claire sitting here and ruining her sweet little down-on-the-farm moment with Oliver. Then, suddenly, she realized how she could make Claire leave for good.

Without thinking too hard about it—otherwise she'd totally lose her nerve—Mac reached up, put her hands on Oliver's face, and pulled him down toward her. She kissed him, lightly at first, then with intensity. He seemed surprised, but quickly responded by tangling one hand in her hair and pulling her closer. “Whoa,” she heard him murmur.

They kissed for a few moments. Mac could feel everyone else at the table watching them, then heard some
whispers.
She's drunk,
someone said.
That's hot,
someone else mumbled. But Mac didn't care. When she opened her eyes, Claire was halfway across the restaurant. She barreled through the front door and was soon on the pavement.

Poor baby,
Mac thought with satisfaction.
Couldn't stand the heat, so you got out of the kitchen.

And then, right on the heels of that, she felt the tiniest pang. She was acting crazy. She didn't kiss boys in public. She didn't act rudely to people—even if they were ex-friends. Who was she turning into?

Oliver pulled back and looked at Mac meaningfully. “I had no idea talking about llamas got you so hot.”

Mac blushed, trying her hardest to snap back to the present. “What can I say? Llamas are sexy.”

“Do you want to get out of here?”

His question startled Mac, and she instantly realized what an idiot she was. Of course he wanted to get out of here—she'd just kissed him passionately in the middle of a restaurant. She cleared her throat. “Um, okay.” The last thing she wanted was for him to think she was a prude. “Let's go.”

Oliver grabbed Mac by the hand, tossed some cash onto the table, and waved good-bye. Mac heard more whispers, and Lucien yelled out a
whoo!
but she didn't turn.

He led her toward a dark blue Prius on the far edge of the parking lot, then opened the door and held her hand
while she climbed inside. The car smelled like Winterfresh gum, and there were a bunch of Rachmaninoff CDs littered on the floor. Mac stared blankly at the little disco ball hanging from the rearview mirror, its tiny mirrored panes sparkling in the overhead streetlight.

Oliver walked around to the driver's side and slid into his seat. “Where to?” Mac asked once he closed the door. But just as the words escaped her mouth, Oliver leaned across the seats and pulled her close again, kissing her deeply. He was an excellent kisser, brushing her lips with his and holding her face in both hands.

“How about right here?” he breathed into her ear.

Mac tried to shift her body so the curve of the seat wasn't digging into her thigh, but she only ended up banging her knee on the gear shift. Struggling to maneuver himself in the tight space, Oliver leaned sideways and landed on the car horn, which blasted across the quiet parking lot. They giggled and fell back in their respective seats until they caught their breath.

Oliver pressed a lever and scooted his seat as far back as it would go, then reclined the backrest until it was touching the rear seat. With a chuckle, he grabbed Mac's wrist and pulled her over onto his lap, facing him. “Better?” He kissed her neck.

“Um, okay,” Mac murmured, taking off her glasses and placing them on the dashboard. She let him leave a trail of
soft caresses on her neck, up her jawline, across her cheek. It felt good, there was no denying it. But suddenly, Mac felt sort of . . . separate. She didn't feel the kind of emotion she was expecting. In fact, she kind of felt nothing.

Only,
why
? What was wrong with her? Maybe she was just a freak.

She tried to kiss him some more, but the more their lips met, the antsier she became. Finally, Mac pulled back and laid her hands in her lap. “Oliver, I'm sorry, but . . .” She trailed off, grabbing for her glasses again.

“Oh.” Oliver shifted backward. “Hey. I'm sorry. Are you okay?”

She pretended to rub her glasses clean. “Uh, yeah. I just should probably get going.”

Oliver stared at her for a beat. He didn't seem angry exactly, just confused. “Did I read this wrong?”

“No!” She shook her head. “You are amazing. It's just that I . . .” She
what
? She didn't even know. “I have to go.” She straightened the straps of her bra and grabbed her purse, which had fallen onto the floor. “I'll call you, okay?”