Filthy Foreign Exchange(32)

I refuse to laugh. Refuse.

“Echo, talk to me. You cannot possibly be this sore of a loser,” Kingston says, failing to mask the victorious chuckle in his voice.

Yes, I lost. It seems the notorious Mr. Hawthorne forgot to mention he was Lord of the Vintage Video Game—and air hockey. Or that he could whack a freakin’ mole like he had two sets of eyes and four hands.

Bastard.

“So you won. Congratulations. But that’s the least of my worries,” I seethe, giving him a sidelong glare. “Ego, much?”

“Well, I know you’re not stewing about the part where you’ll be dancing for me. You’re so engrossed when you perform, you won’t even notice I’m there.” Yes, I most definitely will. “And I’ve watched you before, so I refuse to believe that’s the reason behind your sad eyes.”

Problem is, that’s part of it—doing a private show for Kingston has my stomach coiled in Army-issue knots. Putting myself, my art, on display for only him adds a whole new aspect to it: intimacy.

Plus, I am kind of a sore loser.

I exhale in a huff of worried, complex frustration.

“Kingston…I don’t like to lose, I’ll admit. And I’m a little nervous about putting on a special show just for you. I’m not a showgirl, or your ‘private dancer,’ so I hope you’re not having any indecent thoughts that would degrade my artistry. But that’s neither here nor there, because I’m gonna be grounded for so long I won’t be able to leave my room to hold up my end of the bet anyway.”

But that’s still not the thing bothering me the most.

His head jerks my way. “What? Why would you be…oh, bloody hell.” He groans, grabbing his hair with both hands. “Curfew. Echo, I’m so sorry. I was having such a smashing time, I didn’t even think of it.”

“It’s not your fault.” I sigh. “I forgot too.”

“No.” He reaches over and squeezes my knee. “I’ll fix this. You let me handle it with your father. Promise?”

“Yeah, right,” I scoff. “And just how do you propose to do that?”

“You got a spare back there?” He points with his thumb toward the bed of my truck.

“Yeah, of course, why wouldn’t…” I cringe. “Crap. No. Sebastian took it for something his buddies were up to, and forgot to return it. Glad you reminded me.”

He’s silent, drumming his fingers on my knee while he thinks.

“Wait, why?” I ask.

Finally, his hand disappears from my knee and he snaps his fingers.

“Do you know of a salvage lot between here and your house?”

“Like a junkyard?”

“Yes, exactly like that!”

“Actually, I do. Why?”

“Go there. Quickly.”

When I fail to accelerate fast enough for the adrenaline junkie, he laughs. “Drive faster, Love.” I smile to myself, pressing down on the gas and praying he knows what the hell he’s doing, when he asks, “Where’s your phone?”

“In the cup holder.” I don’t bother to ask why this time. Not only am I beginning to sound like a parrot, but it doesn’t matter. His plan, whatever it may be, is our only plan.

“Just keep driving—fast—but don’t get pulled over, and don’t talk. What’s your cell code?”

I don’t know why I volunteer it with no hesitation, but I do. “1-2-3-4.”

He laughs. “Why even have a code?”

“Not importaaant,” I reply in a tense sing-song. “Doing sixty in a forty, so maybe ask me later?”

“Shh,” he warns sharply, and I clamp my mouth shut. “Mrs. Kelly? Oh, yes, I apologize. Julie. This is Kingston…no, no, she’s fine! But we got ourselves in a bit of a jam: a flat tire on the way home. I’m fixing it now…no, it’s no problem. I simply wanted to call so you wouldn’t worry, since we’ll be missing curfew.”

There’s a long pause in which I can hear my mother’s muffled voice. I can’t stop my smirk, now that I’m finally clued in on his scheme.

“I wanted her to stay in the vehicle since it’s too dangerous on the side of the road, and insisted she let me call to explain. She was worried she might be in trouble, but rest assured, I explained to her that was ludicrous. Considering you’re such supportive, understanding parents, I knew your only concern would be her safety.”

Even with my eyes mostly on the road, I catch his wink at me that clearly states he’s proud of himself for that little trick he just pulled out of his hat. I’ll admit it: He’s good.

As I pull in front of the junkyard, he hangs up with my mom. “You’re really gonna flatten my tire? And replace it with what, genius?”

I stop at the gate and notice the big CLOSED sign, accompanied by a large, unmistakable padlock that signals it’s the end of the road for us.

“No way!” I bang my hands against the steering wheel. “Of course it’s closed. It’s late. So what now, Bourne?”

But he’s already outside, leaning through the passenger-side window to look at me.

“Turn the truck off, but leave the lights on, and jump out. We need to hurry—certainly don’t want a dead battery, as well. And your assistance is required.”