I snort. “Trust me, if I could afford a car, even if it was a heap of junk held together by duct tape, I’d never risk it doing something like this.”
“Then you came to watch me,” he says, a triumphant smirk finding his lips. He lays a hand on my waist, pulling me closer. His thumb moves back and forth just above the top of my jeans, the warmth sinking through my tee shirt and making stupid things happen in my low belly.
I step back from him, so frustrated I could scream. “What do you want from me?” I demand, forcing my words past the ache in my throat. “You treat me like shit, and then you kiss me, and then you tell me to leave you alone. You act like I don’t exist, even this week, when ‘anything goes.’ But as soon as some other guy shows interest in me, suddenly you give a shit?”
“Maybe I do,” he says quietly. He reaches for me again, then drops his hand to his side. His unfathomable eyes search mine, begging me to understand something that I can’t. How can I understand anything about him when he won’t let me?
“That’s fucked up, Royal.”
“I know.”
Someone in aScreammask yells for him, and his gaze flicks behind me to the row of cars.
Suddenly, I’m so fucking tired. Tired of the games, tired of his school, tired of this town. I sigh, my voice coming out defeated. “Go hang out with your friends, and let me have mine. You know that’s how this ends.”
“What if I can’t do that?” he asks. “What if I can’t watch some guy feeling you up?”
“So, what is it?” I ask. “Now you like me?”
“No,” he says, glaring at me.
I sigh. “Fine, I’ll be the first to admit it. I might have started to like you at one point. I fell under your spell, got the Dolce fever, wanted to be in your little Dolce girl fan club. But you made sure to crush every bit of that feeling before it could go too far. I get it, I do. I don’t want to be your dirty little secret, and you’d never risk your reputation to be with me. So, that leaves us… Where?”
“Here,” he says, ignoring his brother, who is yelling for him. “Here we are.”
“What do you want?” I ask again. “You want to go on looking down your nose at me and calling me a trashy whore, or you want to get all up in any guy’s face if he touches me, like I belong to you? You can’t have it both ways.”
“Why not?”
We stare at each other another long moment, and then Duke comes bounding over and grabs Royal. “Come on, dude, you’re going to lose me a shitload of money. Get in the car.”
Royal lets Duke pull him away, but he turns back to look at me one more time, like he’s making sure I’m still there, still watching. Some people whoop when Royal climbs into a white Cobra with shimmering dark blue stripes. To my surprise, I see Gloria Walton sitting on the door of a sleek, sparkling green Mustang convertible. She waves and blows kisses, but she doesn’t look like a Southern Belle in a parade, the way she did just last week on the Homecoming float. Then, all the cheerleaders wore those old-fashioned pastel gowns that looked like confections from Quinn’s baking channel and had their hair shellacked into place.
Today, Gloria’s blonde hair streams down to her waist, blowing out like ribbons in the chill Halloween night. She’s wearing simple, skin-tight jeans and a white tank top that shows off her toned, tan shoulders. But her crowning beauty is her face—the freckles scattered across her cute little nose, the huge smile that is the exact opposite of the plastic grin she wore in the parade, her eyes lit up like sparklers with so much excitement. There’s something so pure about her joy that I can’t help but smile back, even though it puts an ache deep in my chest.
I can’t remember the last time I felt joy like that.
I take in the other cars. Unlike the ones that fill the lot at Willow Heights, most of these aren’t new, luxury cars. They’re a mix of classics, regular cars, Camaros, Chargers, and the like. I spot a few Faulkner High kids behind the wheels, as well as some older racers.
Colt steps out of the crowd, Dixie clinging to his hip. Instead of her usual goth getup, she’s wearing a Cinderella costume complete with puffy blue dress, crown, and wand. In her other hand, she holds a checkered flag like we’re at Nascar. She giggles and ducks her head at something Colt says. He wraps an arm around her middle and raises his arm. He’s holding a gun, but it doesn’t look like the kind I heard on the way here. He fires a shot, and Dixie drops the flag.
The cars shoot forward, spinning their tires and revving their engines. They spew smoke and exhaust, the clamor deafening. They’re all roaring so loud it’s clear they’ve been stripped of mufflers, and one of them has jacked up the exhaust pipe to make it sound like gunshots. That’s what I heard earlier. Not a gang shooting, not Colt’s little pistol, but a tailpipe.
Cheers break out down the street as they pass another crowd gathered somewhere further on. I wave to Dixie, and she comes scurrying over, her face flushed.
“Did you see me? I got to hold the flag!”
“I saw,” I say, smiling at her. I raise a brow and nod behind her. “I also saw you and Colt. Is that a thing now?”
“Oh, you know,” she says, waving a dismissive hand. “Bye Week!”
“If you say so,” I concede as Colt comes up behind her.
“Hey, Appleteeny,” he says, flashing me a smile and sliding a possessive arm around Dixie’s waist. He looks around like he’s trying to find someone. “I could have sworn I saw Royal following you like a lovesick puppy, but I must have been mistaken.”
“You were,” I assure him. “He was just making sure I knew once again that he thinks I belong in the gutter.”
“Sure he was.” He shakes his head. “Never thought I’d see Royal Dolce chasing a girl. Guess he finally found one worth chasing.”