“You’re making it worse for yourself,” he says after a minute.
“And you’re making it too easy for them,” I say. “If they’re going to kill me either way, why not give them a taste of their own poison before I go?”
He shakes his head and doesn’t say anything. I turn the radio back on, turning it up and singing along. After a few lines, Colt shakes his head and grins at my antics. Then, he joins in, belting out the dramatic anthem with me. A swell of exhilaration builds inside me as we share this moment, even though I know he’s right. They’re going to make me pay for that. But why shouldn’t I make them pay for what they did to me? They deserve it. I’m not just getting revenge for me. I’m getting it for Gloria, her sisters, Quinn, and all the other girls they’ve hurt.
Right now, I don’t want to think about the consequences. I don’t want to think about anything. I want to do what I did on Halloween night, when I drove away from a party with Royal. I understand my mother too well in this moment.
I understand the siren song of a bottle, like standing on the edge of a cliff and suddenly being filled with a rush of daring, an irresistible urge to leap. I know giving in would leave me right where Mom is, stuck in this hellhole town with a kid she doesn’t want. But god, what I wouldn’t give to get high as a kite and fuck my brains out just to forget for a moment, an hour, a day, with a boy who doesn’t matter.
We drive north out of town, further than the Dolces’ neighborhood, down a winding two-lane road and then a section of gravel, until at last we pull up in a gravel parking area beside a house. I can see the back deck from here, complete with what looks like an outdoor bar, and the front porch. As we stare out the windshield into the rain, a weird feeling of déjà vous runs through me like a shiver.
“We can sit here until the rain lets up,” Colt says. “I can think of a few ways to occupy our time.”
“Like smoking a joint?”
“Sure,” he says, lifting his hips to dig in his jeans pocket, which leave me staring right at his crotch. “Or you could give me a BJ.”
I glare at him. I heard that shit all week, an incessant, exhausting parade of guys leering at me and asking for head. “Please tell me this has nothing to do with that video.”
“Oh, I saw the video,” he says. “Everyone saw the video, Teeny. But nah. I wanted you to suck my dick way before I saw that.”
I shake my head, but I can’t help but smile. Gotta love the honesty.
He lights a one-hitter and inhales before handing it to me. “Smoke up,” he says, a cloud billowing out of his mouth as he speaks. “Maybe you’ll get horny and change your mind.”
“Never gonna happen,” I say, taking a hit and passing it back.
He reloads, and we smoke in companionable silence for a while. It’s still raining when we step out, but we’re too stoned to care much about the icy drops streaking down from the grey sky. I grab my bag, and we run across the gravel onto the front porch, where Colt unlocks the door and pulls me inside. We’re both breathless and laughing a little, and Colt’s sparkling blue eyes are so damn inviting, I want to jump in. I want to be my mother, do something stupid, something easy and uncomplicated, something that would mean nothing to either of us.
“Come on,” Colt says, taking my hand and tugging me up the stairs. “I’ll show you my sister’s stuff. You can take whatever you want.”
The house is big and a hell of a lot newer than mine, but it’s not outrageous, like something out of a TV show about celebrities flaunting their wealth.
“Are you sure she won’t mind you giving away her clothes?” I ask as we reach the top of the stairs.
“She never comes home,” he says, opening a door and pulling me inside the bedroom. It has a sterile smell, like no one has been in here for months. It looks like a guest room, with everything tidy and unused. There’s no bulletin board with pictures of Mabel Darling and her friends and family, no trophies or awards, though Dixie told me she was smart and involved in a lot of school activities. A digital picture frame lays flat on the dresser, as if it were taken down before the batteries even went dead. No posters of movies stars or athletes or Just 5 Guys adorn the walls. It looks like the room of a girl who left, never planning to return.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Colt, but he’s already strode past me into the room. He throws open the double doors of the closet, and my first thought is a less than grateful one—why the fuck would he think I want these clothes?
It’s not that they aren’t new or nice, it’s that they aren’t me.
But then, I guess that’s the point. I don’t fit in at Willow Heights. He’s trying to help me. This is why he called it a makeover. He’s not just giving me some new clothes that I’d choose for myself. He’s giving me a new look, the chance to start over. To be a girl who doesn’t give old men blowjobs in the back of cars.
The clothes hang in neatly organized, color-coded order. I think of my own dresser with the drawers pulled out at odd angles, t-shirts spilling from them; my closet with shirts hanging halfway off the hangers and old shoes kicked into the back corner to hide my stash of money.
I reach for the pants section, which contains several pairs of white pants, a handful of khakis, then a few tan, two shades of brown, a handful of navy, and a handful of black. Talk about a wardrobe of neutrals—or zero personality. Pulling out a pair of khakis, I hold them up against me and fight back the urge to laugh. Either these clothes are from a long-ass time ago, or Mabel Darling is built like a child. There’s no way my fat ass is fitting into these.
I put the khakis back and pull out a pair of black pants. Same straight cut.
“I don’t think these are going to fit me,” I admit. “Your sister was a lot thinner than I am.”
“She did like to complain about her lack of ass,” Colt muses. “And you’ve got that in spades. But I bet something in there will fit you. Try a top.”
He reaches past me, his other hand resting on my lower back, his body brushing against mine as he stretches an arm in to grab a shirt. I startle at the contact, and he chuckles before holding the shirt up against my front, still standing so close I can feel the heat of his body all up my back. It doesn’t make me crazy the way Royal’s touch does, but it’s not unwelcome, either. I like Colt, maybe not the way I like Royal, but he’s sexy and easy and I don’t feel like I’m drowning every time he’s near me. It’s nice to feel wanted, to feel sexy, instead of being told I’m a worthless whore by the guy touching me.
I take the shirt from his hand and step over to the mirror, holding it up and ignoring what he just did. My head is foggy from the pot, and I know I’m making terrible decisions today, but I can’t seem to stop. From leaving school, to keying the Dolces’ cars, to being here alone with a boy I hardly know… I’m on a real fucking roll today.
“Maybe,” I say doubtfully. Not because it won’t fit—I have no tits to speak of, so that’s not a problem—but because it looks like the exact opposite of something I’d wear. She’s got a few more colors of shirts to choose from—pastels as well as the neutral colors of her pants—but they’re all button-up dress shirts, with a few simple blouses at the end.