Filthy Foreign Exchange(20)
“And I don’t want to know how you managed to finagle a US driver’s license so fast. But my kids? They won’t be riding with you.”
It’s a statement that makes even me shiver from the threat behind it.
“Understood.”
My father looks over the car, then back at Kingston. “All righty, then. Let’s eat!”
He pivots, silently commanding that we all follow.
“Must be nice,” I mumble under my breath, nudging Kingston with an elbow. “Your father sent you to the States because you were in trouble, and you already have a license and a Mustang. How’d you manage that?”
“I have my ways.”
“Ways with Daddy’s money? Impressive.”
~~~~~
The next couple days go by fairly normally—well, as normally as one can hope for considering the hot, new British guy in town lives with you.
People at school—no, just the female population, actually, who’d never spoken to me before— now greet me every morning to ask about everything from what Kingston did last night to whom he did it with.
And the number-one most-asked question? “Does he have a girlfriend?”
They even hand me notes—cards that reek of perfume, containing their phone numbers and outlining in great detail what their authors are offering, to pass onto him. One particularly classy girl even handed me Polaroids! Those went straight in the trash, along with her dignity.
After calculus Friday, I watch Kingston open his car door for some brunette to climb inside. He throws me a wink across the parking lot as I stand next to my truck, waiting for Savannah. I shift my gaze to the girl, who severely needs to work on her car-entry skills—especially when she’s not wearing any panties.
If Britney Spears couldn’t pull it off, she damn sure can’t.
I look back at him and shake my head. Wondering whether he’ll understand, I hold up six fingers to convey my rating of the girl. She’s pretty, sure, but she leaves nothing to the imagination and won’t challenge Kingston’s charming wit—or anything at all, for that matter.
His brows knit, telling me he’s clueless about what my gesture meant. I simply smile and send him a wink of my own, just as Savannah rushes over and slaps the roof of my truck.
“You ready?” she asks.
When I take one final glance back across the lot, it’s only Kingston’s tail pipe I see, and I’m left wondering how his first real weekend in the States will treat him.
“Always.”
Once we’re on the road, I invite Savannah, as instructed, to dinner that night for her birthday. She accepts, but smiles deviously as she climbs out of my truck when we reach her house. I know that look, and brace myself accordingly.
“On one condition—that you have to accept, because it’ll break your mom’s heart if I miss the meal she works so hard on for me every year.”
“You’re playing my mother against me? Damn, that’s low, Savannah,” I scold, confident she’s half-kidding. She’d never purposely hurt my mom’s feelings…and live to tell about it.
“Not really.” She waves a hand dismissively. “You know I wouldn’t do that. But I really want you to come to the game tonight. Please, Echo? For my birthday?”
“What game?” I ask.
“You’re not kidding, are you?” Her mouth’s hanging open, eyes bulging. “How is that possi—never mind.” She laughs, short and sharp. “I forgot who I was talking to. Echo, our high school—the one you’ve attended for the last three years—has a football game every Friday night. I’m on the cheerleading squad…ringing any bells?”
Yes. Loud, annoying ones that are giving me a headache.
“Oh, um…” I stall.
“It’s our senior year, and it’s the showcase game, Echo.”
“Which is…?”
“Honestly? A glorified scrimmage to get everyone excited about the season.”
“It’s not even a real game?” I’m not trying to be a bitch, I’m just really curious why this is the game she expects me to go to.
“They do actually play football, and I’ll be there cheering—on my birthday. Can you get excited about that?”
I’m already sold, because it’s her day. But I can’t help scrunching my nose and pursing my lips, as though weighing my options, just to watch her squirm as her anger spikes.
“Eh…”
“It’s a smaller crowd!” she shouts, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Oh, so no one else wants to watch either?”
Now I’m really screwing with her, because why not? If I’m going to endure the nightmare that is socializing with my fellow students, I’m going to get something out of it.
“No, Echo, it’s just our team, playing against each other, so there are no other teams’ fans there. And again, it’s. My. Birthday!”
Before I can end the torment and tell her I’ve caved (and that this means I’m keeping the perfume I bought her in light of this new, very generous gift), she leans into my open window and glares.
“And you’ve never once come to watch me cheer. I’m asking you, for my present, to please be there tonight.”
I sigh, dropping my forehead against the steering wheel. “Fine. What time, and where?” I peer up, laughing as she shrieks and claps her hands. “And this will be the only game, ever. Remember that.”