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“What? What are you talking about?”
My heart is beating so hard it’s about to crash out of my chest, and I’m pretty sure my soaked uniform is leaving a wet stain on the wall behind me. I need to escape the confined, claustrophobic space he’s creating. So I do something that’s probably pretty stupid. I put my hands on his chest and push.
He doesn’t budge. But his pecs contract at my touch, and his bare skin is warm and smooth under my palms. He presses against me, forcing my elbows to bend even more as he inches closer.
“Play innocent all you want, Harlow. Just know that not everyone here buys it.”
“There’s nothing I want to sell you, ass—”
I cut myself off. Goddammit. I really am going to get us fired.
Lincoln smirks, as if he knows exactly what I was about to call him. Then he steps away, leaving my hands suspended in empty air in front of me, touching nothing.
“Just remember your place, Pool Girl, and we’ll get along fine.” He jerks his chin toward the stairs. “Better go clean up before anybody sees you.”
When he turns and walks off down the hall, it takes all my self-control not to slide down the wall and plant my ass on the floor. I rest against the hard surface for another second, letting it keep me upright, then I shake my head and glance quickly around. I still don’t see anyone else, thank fuck.
I dart up the stairs and hightail it to my bedroom. In the attached bathroom, I strip off my wet uniform, shoes, and underwear and replace them with dry clothes. The bricked phone sits uselessly on the counter. I towel dry my hair and throw it back up in a bun, then wipe away the little smudges of mascara under my eyes. I still smell like chlorine, but I don’t have time to shower. I need to mop up my path from the pool house before somebody sees it—or worse, slips on it.
After grabbing several rags from the linen closet, I methodically wipe up every puddle.
I don’t go back into the pool house though.
My nerves can’t take it.
4
I’m on edge for the rest of the day, waiting for Mr. Black to summon my mom into his study and fire her.
But nothing happens.
Maybe Lincoln didn’t actually say anything to his dad. I don’t understand quite why he didn’t, but I decide not to look a gift horse in the mouth. He didn’t rat me out. My mom still has a job. Win-win.
I can’t help thinking that he’s going to try to get back at me for this somehow though. If not by getting me fired, than by some other means. He doesn’t seem like the type to let things go easily, if the few encounters I’ve had with him so far have been any indication.
And what the fuck did he mean by all that “I know what you want” talk? What does he think I’m after?
I keep my head down and work my ass off for the next three days, avoiding Lincoln as much as possible. I see all three of his friends at the house several more times, but I avoid them too.
On one of those occasions, River pointedly holds up his new cell phone, and I’m torn between relief and disgust. I don’t exactly have an extra six hundred bucks lying around; I could’ve taken the money from Mom’s account to pay for it if I needed to, but I usually only try to put money into the account.
I’m sure the annoyingly gorgeous boy can afford it anyway.
On Monday, for the first time all week, I don’t put on my black and white uniform first thing in the morning. Instead, I slip into a pair of faded jeans and a soft, long-sleeved shirt. Mom got it for me for my birthday last spring, and even though it wasn’t all that expensive, it looks like it could be. And it covers up my port scar, which matters, even though I try not to let it.
I eat breakfast with Mom in her little apartment, and she tells me I look beautiful and kisses my hair before I leave.
“Have fun at school!” she gushes. “Don’t hurry back if you make new friends or something. I’ll hold down the fort here.”
“Okay, thanks.”
I shrug on my backpack, deciding not to tell her that’s not really how high school works—especially not if you’re the new senior-year transfer student in a school of overprivileged trust fund babies.
But then again, maybe for my mom, it would be. She’s the kind of person most people like immediately.
She lets me take the Nissan to school, and as I chug up the drive into the student parking lot at Linwood Academy, my mouth forms a silent O. The shittiest car in the lot is a Mustang, and they only get fancier from there. They all shine like diamonds in the morning sunlight, and I’m half tempted to scratch a few paint jobs as I park.
Okay, maybe I’m a little bit bitter. But after watching my mom struggle under crushing debt for years—debt she acquired through no fault of her own—it’s hard not to be. The contents of this parking lot alone could put us in the clear with thousands of dollars left over.
