Filthy Foreign Exchange(34)

He slides a finger under my chin and tilts my face upward, bending his head so his next words bathe my lips in warmth. “You owe me nothing for the tire story, except maybe a ride to my truck in the morning.” He smiles. “No, Love. The second dance I speak of is prom.”

He must see the confusion on my face or the girlish hope in my eyes—or both—because he answers my unasked question. “Yes, I’m still escorting you.”

“You don’t have to do that. I lost, fair and square.”

“I know that. As do you.” He runs his thumb along my bottom lip, a smooth smile on his own. “You and I also both know I want to take you. And I don’t think you’re opposed to the idea…are you?”

I blush fiercely and shake my head, quickly and subtly. And with that, I realize everything I thought was bothering me tonight—losing, breaking curfew, lying, possible junkyard-dog attacks—wasn’t it at all.

The true root of my unhappiness was the thought that Kingston wouldn’t be taking me to my one and only prom. I didn’t know how much I wanted it until I thought I’d lost it, which seems to be a lesson I’m learning repeatedly when it comes to him.

I place my new understanding on the “It is what it is” shelf inside the deepest part of me, promising myself I won’t examine it further.

“It was never not going to happen,” he says through the gentlest kiss he places on my forehead. “And now that I see you’ve stopped worrying needlessly, sleep well.”

“Night, Kingston.”

“Good night, Love.”

And sleep well, I do.





Chapter 14


When I arrive at my truck after school the next day, there’s my perfectly good original tire, back on in place of the spare.

I start cackling like a crazy woman, right in the middle of the parking lot, for many reasons. I can’t help it as I think back to last night: our “great caper” of junkyard heists and sinister plotting. I’ve never done anything even close to reckless in my life…and it feels good, now that most of my guilt’s been absolved.

I’m also tickled at picturing Kingston searching the ditch for my hidden tire, then putting it back on…here. I don’t know when or how he managed it, but I’d bet money on the fact that plenty of my fellow female students had noticed—and enjoyed the show. Kingston Hawthorne, exerting physical energy, possibly sweating, maybe even taking off his shirt…

Yeah, he’d drawn an audience. Guaranteed.

After taking a thumbs-up selfie squatted down next to my tire and shooting it his way, I head home, where I wait for him. I want to thank him in person—especially now that my text has gone unanswered. I’d hate for him to think I’m ungrateful.

But after two hours pass with still no sign of Kingston, I decide to head to the pavilion. Time to start working on a brand-new routine: the one I owe him.

I’m tempted to choreograph the performance to a Spice Girls song, just to tease him, but I honestly can’t produce anything I’d be proud of around their beats. So instead, I go with “Paradise” by Coldplay; the dance is for him, so the song shall be too.

And once I work through the intro, I feel confident about where I want to take the rest of the dance, so I head in for dinner.

The moment I spot Kingston’s truck in the driveway, a strange swish rolls through my stomach and my pace increases—until I’m inside, and find he’s not around.

“Do I have time to shower before dinner?” I ask my mom, who’s still at the stove.

“Sure, honey.” She smiles. “What were you out there working on?”

“Just something new,” I answer quickly before bounding up the stairs, calling back over my shoulder as nonchalantly as I can muster, “Where’s everyone else?”

“Your father ran into town, and I’m not sure where Kingston and your brother are,” she answers.

Kingston and Sammy are together? Doing what?

I hurry through my shower, hoping to have time to go track down what they’re up to before we eat. But I don’t forget to do one very important “other” thing before I turn off the water and step out, a grin plastered across my face.

When I’m dressed and my hair’s towel-dried, I head downstairs to find everyone sitting at the table, waiting on me.

“Sorry. I tried to hurry.”

“It’s fine,” my father says. “Your mother said you were working on a new routine?”

I glance over at Kingston, who’s beaming at me.

“New routine? That sounds lovely.” His eyes dance with the knowledge that it’s the performance I owe him being discussed.

“Um, yeah.” I blush, then busy myself with helping my mom carry platters to the table.

“I’ve been working on something too!” Sammy boasts. “Kingston’s helping me!”

“Well, how sweet! John, isn’t that wonderful?” my mother asks, sitting down at the same time I do.

“Uh-huh,” my dad grumbles, filling his plate. “You boys just be careful. Don’t get carried away.”

The table rattles, announcing my mother’s foot has connected with a table leg instead of my father’s. I hide my laughter, but give Sammy an encouraging smile and Kingston an appreciative one.