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“I was never going to hide away in here and let you pay for everything,” I roll my eyes. “Who knew state-of-the-art mansions have such insane property taxes?”
“Hopefully we won’t have to worry about that for much longer. Be careful, Claws.” The irony of Antony telling me to be careful when I just heard a guy’s skull crack against the concrete behind him makes me smile. Antony and I are more alike than we first appear.
I toss the phone on the chair, push a protesting Queen Boudica off my lap, and pad down to my room. My real bedroom is on the second floor – a suite of rooms painted soft pink with a balcony overlooking the swimming pool. Sleeping in there is not an option – far too freaky with all the porcelain dolls lined up on shelves and closet filled with clothes too small for me – so I’d taken a guest room on the first floor. It’s more my taste – dark jarrah wood floors, crimson linens, soft, modern lighting, and a bathroom lined with tiny black and silver tiles that looks like something Mötley Crüe would shoot up in.
I step under the rain shower, letting the water and fancy bath products sluice away my makeup. My armor removed, I pull on my uniform, tucking my hair into a bandana until not a single scrap of blonde shows through. I tilt the makeup mirror toward me and apply a completely different face – natural colors, dark eyebrows and lashes, a light pink lipstick that makes me look younger, more innocent.
When I stand back to admire myself in the mirror, Mackenzie Malloy has disappeared. In her place is Claudia Jones – waitress from the wrong side of the tracks. Claudia grabs her purse, gives Queen Boudica a scratch behind the ears, and walks down the hill to catch the bus to her final shift at her shitty job.
Gabriel
“I just… can’t believe… she’s back,” Eli puffs, drawing back his racket to serve. I brace myself, knowing this is going to be hell.
SMACK.
Eli’s racket connects. I dive out of the way as the ball hurtles toward my face. My knee slams into the turf just as the ball smashes into the wall behind me, sending leaves and chips of tile flying everywhere.
“Bloody hell, mate.” I stand up, wiping off my palms even though they aren’t dirty. Eli’s mother would never dare let a single speck of dirt blow onto her tennis court. My knee throbs, but at least I don’t need it to play guitar.
Why does it matter? You’re not playing anyway, a voice taunts me. My own voice. The voice that used to gift me with lyrics to break girl’s hearts and open their legs, but now spends its days making me as miserable as possible.
“Watch the face, okay?” I glare at Eli. “I’m shooting with Rolling Stone next week.”
“Fuck Rolling Stone.” Eli wipes sweat off his brow. “Can we take five, bro? I need a drink.”
You need ten drinks, mate. But before I can reply, Eli stomps off the court. He heads over to where Noah lounges under a palm with his face buried in one of his AP History books.
“Scotch,” Eli barks. Noah doesn’t glance up.
“Make mine a double.”
Eli grabs a bottle from the outdoor bar and slams down three glasses. He sloshes top-shelf Scotch all over the table, managing to get some of it into the crystal. Noah grabs a glass and knocks it back in one hit, not even looking up from his book. Eli takes his and stands on the edge of the garden bed, twitching with agitation. This is fucking weird. Eli is usually the calm one. Nothing can ruffle his Tennessee feathers.
I glance between them. “If you two insist on being miserable sods, I’ll go home, shall I?”
Neither of them responds.
“We should be celebrating. It’s senior year – nothing but one endless party. Or are you two threatened by my presence? I understand completely – there will be less hot women to go around now that I’m back.”
The glass weighs a hundred pounds. I raise it to my lips, but I don’t drink.
“Why are you back?” Eli fixes me with that stare of his, what I like to call his ‘Sherlock-Holmes-Orgasm’ face when I feel like pissing him off. Eli loves to figure things out, solve problems. He always wants to be the one to find a solution, which is a super-annoying trait in a friend when you’re trying to hold your secrets close. “Aren’t you supposed to be making a new record?”
“I can write music and go to school and continue to be the same lovable rogue who makes your lives worth living.” I slump into a lawn chair, dangling the glass from my fingers. “It’s called multitasking.”
“Multitasking is a myth perpetuated by productivity gurus,” Noah mutters without looking up. He makes a note in the margin of his book. “And you’re a bastard.”
What is going on here? “As much as I adore indulging in my favorite topic of conversation – myself – I want to know who shoved giant sticks up both your arses, and why they didn’t call to let me in on the fun.”
Nothing. Noah’s shoulders tense, and Eli shifts his weight between his feet, glancing back at the tennis court like he wishes he succeeded in decapitating me.
I take a guess. “This is about the new girl, the Ice Queen?”
Eli stiffens, and I know I’m right.
Mmmmm. Mackenzie Malloy. Just thinking about those crimson lips, that haughty pout, the way she peers down that perky nose and makes lesser mortals quiver like jelly…
She’s tempting. She’s dangerous. I see myself reflected in those cold eyes. Behind that shell of ice, Mackenzie Malloy is bleeding on the inside. When her pain and my pain crash together, the world better watch out.
