The Naughty List (The Naughty List #1)(2)

A few feet away, I heard squeaks and the sound of sheets rustling. Was he getting up? Instinctively, I tucked my arms at my sides and rolled under his bed, only a second before I saw his bare feet hit the ground. I swallowed hard, trying to keep my breathing quiet as I watched him walk forward, scratching at his flannelpajamaed rear. Gross.

It felt like a bazillion seconds, but finally, he opened his bedroom door and walked out into a brightly lit hallway. I needed to escape.

Quickly, I scrambled out from under the bed and pushed aside Michael’s leather desk chair as I made for the window. I paused, mid-getaway, and turned back. I wanted that sim card from his phone. I moved fast.

My polished fingers shook as I quickly slid off the metal back cover and removed the battery. From outside the room, I heard a toilet flush. Cranberry juice cocktail! I had to go.

I plucked out the card and snapped the battery case shut. There was the soft creak of a door hinge, and I dropped the phone and dashed to the window. I dove and had barely gotten my sneakered heel through when the bedroom door opened. I front-flipped and fell into the grass, Lycra-covered rear first, and stared up into Kira’s terrified expression.

I put my finger to my lips and motioned for her to get to the gate. Still lying on my back, I opened my palm. Sim card.

Strawberry smoothie.

Kira had calmed down by the time we reached my car. She wasn’t very good at handling stress sometimes. She suffered from post-traumatic SOS disorder. In fact, after our last mission at the Regal Cinemas, Kira had a panic attack and nearly choked on a Twizzler.

“Oh,” she said as she buckled her seat belt. “At practice Leona wants to talk about a name change. Everyone is still calling us the Sex Kittens, and she thinks it’s demeaning.” Kira breathed on the passenger window and then traced KD into it.

I sighed. We’d had this conversation before. “I understand, but just because we’ve agreed to stop using the name doesn’t mean the rival schools will. We cheer for the Wildcats, K. It makes sense that with our good looks, they’d come up with Sex Kittens. I give them credit for being clever.”

Truth was, I did think the name was offensive, which was why I took it upon myself to call us the Smitten Kittens whenever possible. It had a much better connotation. And besides, it rhymed!

Still, most of the boys at school called us the Sex Kittens, including my boyfriend. Technically, our name was the Society of Smitten Kittens (SOS), only … without the K. Acronyms were ridiculously hard! Plus SOS sounded way more official than SOSK.

“You’re right,” Kira said, adjusting the aim on the heater vents. “And honestly, I don’t mind being a Sex Kitten. It’s way better than being a Cougar, right?” We both laughed. The rival squad at Templeton High was totally lame.

Even though we occasionally helped out the girls at other schools, we tried not to go too far out of our district. It was harder to get accurate information, and it made carpooling difficult. But we prided ourselves on being an equal opportunity operation.

When my car heated up, I shifted into gear and began driving toward Kira’s apartment complex. She lived in the Marshall District—an older section of town on the other side of the freeway. It was mostly duplexes and mom-and-pop shops, but it was closer to the mall, which Kira was stoked about. Especially since she didn’t have a car.

“Just remember,” I said as I stopped at a red light. “If we act like the name bothers us, they’ll only use it more. What’s the Smitten Kitten motto?”

“Never let them see you sweat,” she announced, looking proud to have remembered this time.

“Exactly. Because Kittens. Don’t. Sweat.”

I bit on my lip as the light changed to green. I wanted to believe those words, but sometimes in this business, perspiration was unavoidable. I’d known back when we’d first started that SOS would be a hard gig. Harder than a double-flip basket catch.

It was two years ago when our cheerleading captain, Mary Rudick, had been cheated on. Her boyfriend, Kyle, had been the Wildcats’ power forward and an all-around nice guy, or so we’d thought. Turns out he’d been running a screen.

At a playoff game, a girl showed up—obviously from a rival school because she seriously lacked school spirit—and stomped down the bleachers in heels during halftime. We were all waiting on the sidelines for our signal to go out and cheer when the girl came over, not even dressed in our colors. She asked Mary if she was still dating Kyle, and Mary, always polite, said that she was indeed his girlfriend.

But instead of congratulating her, the girl laughed right in Mary’s face! She said that for the past year, Kyle had been seeing her and that Mary needed to back off. Turns out, Kyle had been sleeping with both of them!

As the girl spoke, Mary had just stood there, completely silent. I felt like I had to do something to stop the self-esteem assault, so with emergency captain authority, I’d told the girl to leave. Very sternly. She gave a little smirk before shoulder bumping me and exiting the gymnasium.

The buzzer had sounded, signaling time for our halftime cheer, but Mary didn’t move. Her pom-poms dropped to the wood floor with a double thwack. My heart broke. And then my adrenaline kicked in.

I marched out onto center court, soon followed by the others. I cheered my stuffing out. The power was amazing as the crowd reacted to my every word. I remember watching the sidelines as Mary stumbled back a few steps and sat in a folding chair, staring straight ahead, her dark eyes glassy with tears. I cheered louder.