Good Girl Complex(Avalon Bay #1)(31)

My phone vibrates, momentarily distracting me from my brother’s bullshit. I check the screen to find a text from Mac.

Mackenzie: My bio prof just shared with the class that he’s got a dog named Mrs. Puddles. I say we steal the name and never look back.



I can’t stop a chuckle, causing Evan to eye me sharply over the lip of his water bottle.

“What about you?” A bite creeps into his voice.

“What about me?”

“Every time I look over, you’re texting the clone. You two are getting awfully cute.”

“Thought that was the idea, genius. She’s not dumping her boyfriend for some asshole she doesn’t like.”

“What do you text about?” he demands.

“Nothing important.” It’s not a lie. Mostly we argue about names and how to train our dog. Mac has granted herself partial custody and visitation rights. I tell her she’s welcome to chip in for puppy pads and dog food. She demands more photos.

“Uh-huh.” He reads me with narrow eyes. “You’re not catching feelings for the rich bitch, are you?”

“Hey.” Evan can throw all the shit he wants at me, but his anger has nothing to do with Mac. “She didn’t do anything to you. In fact, she’s been perfectly nice. So how about you watch your mouth.”

“Since when do you care?” He steps up to me, getting in my face. “She’s one of them, remember? A clone. Her entitled shithead boyfriend got you fired. Don’t get it twisted which side you’re on.”

“I’m on our side,” I remind him. “Always.”

There’s nothing stronger than my bond with my brother. Period. A girl doesn’t change that. Evan’s just got a thorn in his paw about everyone who goes to Garnet. Far as he’s concerned, they’re the enemy. It’s an attitude most kids who’ve grown up around here share, and I don’t blame them. I don’t remember the last time a clone did anything but use and abuse us.

When it comes down to it, Mac’s a product of where she comes from, the same as me. That doesn’t mean if we weren’t different people—if we came from similar backgrounds, lived similar lives—I couldn’t see myself liking her. She’s smart, funny, sexy as hell. I’d be an idiot not to admit that.

But we aren’t different people and this isn’t some other life.

In the Bay, we play the cards we’re dealt.





CHAPTER TWELVE


MACKENZIE

I’m twenty minutes into my Wednesday biology class before I realize it’s Friday and I’m actually sitting in my media culture lecture. Now those Real Housewives clips on the projection screen make way more sense. I thought maybe they were nervous hallucinations.

Truth is, I haven’t been quite right the past few days. School bores me, and my dissatisfaction over my business is growing. It’s frustrating how little work there is to do on the apps, now that I’ve delegated most of my duties to other people. I need a new project, something big and challenging to sink my teeth into.

To make matters worse, I’m battling this constant feeling that someone is looking over my shoulder. Toeing a knife’s edge. Every time my phone buzzes, it’s a shot of endorphins followed by a rush of adrenaline, guilt, and a pit of nausea in my stomach. I’m an addict, jonesing for the hit despite knowing it’s killing me.

Cooper: How bout Moxie Crimefighter?

Me: I like Jimmy Chew.

Cooper: She’s a girl!

Me: I still think she’s a Daisy.

Cooper: Muttley Crue.



It’s some kind of twisted foreplay. Bickering about puppy names as a form of flirting, every escalation another piece of clothing we’re daring the other to remove in a metaphorical game of strip poker. It’s gotten to be too much. I can’t stop myself, though. Every time he texts me, I say this will be the last time, then I hold my breath, type a reply, hit send, and wait for my next fix.

Why do I do this to myself?

Cooper: What are you up to now?

Me: Class.

Cooper: Come over after? We’ll take Moon Zappa for a walk on the beach.



Why do I do it? Because Cooper turns my insides out, gets my head messed up. I wake in cold sweats from unbidden dreams of his sculpted body and his soulful eyes. As much as I want to deny it, I’m starting to like him. Which makes me a terrible person. A rotten, horrible girlfriend. Still, I haven’t acted on anything. I’m capable of exerting self-control. Mind over matter and all that.

Me: Be there in an hour.



For our dog, I tell myself. To make sure he’s taking good care of her. Uh-huh.

Self-control, my butt.



An hour later, I’m at his front door and shit is awkward. I don’t know if it’s me or him or both, but luckily our puppy serves as a much-needed distraction. She jumps at my knees, and I spend the next few minutes entirely focused on petting her, scratching behind her ear and kissing her cute little nose.

It isn’t until we’re some ways down the beach from his house that Cooper nudges my arm.

I glance over. “Huh, what?”

“Something up?” he asks. The beach is empty, so Cooper lets the dog off the leash and tosses a small piece of driftwood for her to fetch.

It isn’t fair. He has just removed his shirt, and now I’m forced to watch him stroll around bare-chested, a pair of worn jeans hanging off his hips. No matter where else I try to divert my eyes, they return to the yummy V that disappears into his waistband. My mouth actually waters like one of Pavlov’s stupid dogs.