Filthy Foreign Exchange(39)

“Touché,” he chuckles, taking my hand in his.

I’m baffled all over again, because his reply implies he was jealous. But actions speak louder than words, and considering the dialect barrier, he’s probably just using that one wrong.

“Are we done fighting now?” he asks.

I roll my eyes and close the locker with my free hand. “We were never fighting. I had a brief lapse in sensibility, but I’m over it, so let’s move on.”

“As did I.” He kisses the inside of my wrist. “So we agree—it’s forgotten. What are your plans now?”

“I need to go pick up a few things for next week’s show.”

“Such as?” he asks.

I explain as we walk to my truck; his parked right beside it.

“Mind if I join you?”

I shrug. “You can if you want. Want to ride with me, or follow?”

“I’ll follow. Then perhaps we—”

“Kingston!” The squeal echoes across the parking lot, and I have no doubt that somewhere, glass has to be shattering from the unnatural octave.

Courtney, a blonde cheerleader in my grade, comes bouncing up to him, her hands immediately connecting with his arm and chest. “What are you doing here?”

I’d give her a two, but he might misunderstand and think I was saying “Peace out,” so I generously hold up three fingers.

“I gotta go,” I say before climbing into my truck, no longer caring whether he follows me.

But when I stop at the first light and happen to look in my rearview mirror, he’s right behind me, accompanied only by a smug grin.





Chapter 16


Savannah rides home with me on Friday, and wastes no time in revealing her agenda.

“There’s a party tonight and I really want you to go with me, Echo. I can’t go by myself, and—”

“Okay,” I say, saving her the convincing spiel.

“But you didn’t even—wait, did you say okay?”

I laugh as her prepped argument dies and disbelief settles across her face.

“Yep, I’ll go with you.” I’m in a great mood today. Kingston and I had a great time shopping yesterday, his texts today were all light and funny, and I aced the calc quiz. Why not try out a party for once?

“You’re serious? You’re actually agreeing, just like that, to go to a party tonight with me?”

“Yes.” I look over at her and smile. “Why are you repeating everything?”

She holds up her hands. “Just making sure you understood the question. Kinda feel like you either missed the key details, or I’m in the Twilight Zone right now.”

“I understood,” I say, laughing. “I’ll go, and I’ll drive. What time should I pick you up?”

“Eight-ish?” Her pinched face makes it clear that she still doesn’t believe me, and in the back of her mind, I know she’s forming a plan B for when I don’t show up to give her a ride.

“Savannah, I’ll be here,” I assure her as I pull up to her house. “I promise.”

“Okaaay,” she drawls as she climbs out of my truck. “What are you going to tell your parents?”

“The truth: that I’m spending the evening with you. But,” I continue, pointing a finger at her and leaving no room for argument in my tone, “Sebastian isn’t my parent. So if he asks, don’t tell him I’m going with you.”

“Yeah, of course, no worries there.” She dodges my stare, then runs to her door. “See ya at eight!”

When I get home, Kingston’s truck isn’t there, and only my mom and Sammy are sitting on the couch. Perfect. I can get this over with right now.

“Hey, Mom!” I call over my shoulder, pretending to be digging for a snack in the pantry. “Is it okay if I hang out with Savannah tonight? We haven’t spent much time together lately.”

“Of course it is, honey. What do you girls have planned?”

“You know Savannah—no tellin’ what the night will hold.” I laugh past my stitch of guilt.

I didn’t lie…but I do trim around the edges of the truth more and more these days.

“All right, you girls just be smart. Are you sleeping over?”

“Um…not sure yet. I doubt it. But if I change my mind, I’ll call you.”

That was easier than expected, and as I climb the stairs to my room, I feel more my age than I ever have. I’m going out on a Friday night…to a party. I don’t even know what to think, but I know I’m tingling with excitement. I’m finally going to explore this whole best-years-of-your-life stuff my mom’s always talking about.

It doesn’t take much for me to get ready; I own very little makeup, and my hair is a short pixie cut that pretty much styles itself. I dress in jeans, a lightweight but long-sleeved sweater, and ankle boots. I feel pretty good about my ensemble.

That is, until I honk from Savannah’s driveway and she strolls out to my truck. Not that I’d ever wear anything close to what she has on—I think her “dress” was manufactured with the intent of being worn as a shirt—but if all the girls tonight are similarly scantily clad, I’m going to stick out like a plain, boring thumb, thus drawing attention to myself by trying not to draw attention to myself.