Overnight Sensation(29)

Silas unlocks his phone and starts tapping on the screen. “Two minutes,” he says.

“Where’d you find this new apartment, anyway?” I ask as we step out of the foot traffic on the sidewalk.

“Craigslist,” she says.

“What? That’s danger—”

She cuts me off with a glare and by getting into my face, at least as well as someone who’s eight inches shorter than me can do. “Thanks, but my daddy already gave me that speech. He just wants to keep me under his thumb.”

“Well, this isn’t Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania. I just want you to stay in one piece.”

“Why do you care?” she demands from four inches away.

“Because…” There are too many dead girls in my life already. But I’m not going there. And I’m a little distracted, anyway. Her pink lips are right there.

Silas clears his throat. “The car is here.” He rolls the suitcase toward the vehicle at the curb. When the trunk opens, he makes the grunting noise of an Olympic weightlifter and heaves the bag inside. “Jesus.” He closes the trunk. “Does your new place have an elevator?”

Slowly, the hottest, most maddening girl I know shakes her head.

“I was afraid you’d say that.” Silas opens the rear door and slides into the car. “Come on, guys. Time’s a wasting.”

And there goes pizza and beer.





10





Heidi


Bleecker Street in Bushwick is farther out than I remember. I only came to see this place once, a few days ago. As the car takes us farther and farther into Brooklyn, I try not to panic. The buildings shrink, but the street traffic is still lively at this hour of the night. That’s not a bad sign, right?

Maybe I’ve been too impulsive.

I wanted to smack Jason when he said we weren’t in Bryn Mawr anymore. But the truth is that I’ve never lived in a big city alone. Okay—any city. Last spring doesn’t count because I was staying in Daddy’s condo. His driver took me to work some mornings.

Holy hell—I’m truly the pampered little shit that everyone thinks I am. Although that’s not entirely my fault. It’s not like I’ve ever been allowed to make choices for myself.

These are my depressing thoughts as I sit pressed up against Jason. He’s wearing a spicy cologne I can’t identify, but it’s driving me a little bonkers. I swear he hasn’t said three words to me since the night he kissed the stuffing out of me in the carwash.

And now here we are, three across in the back seat. So cozy, and so unsatisfying.

“You got kinda snappish at that reporter,” Silas is saying. “Miranda what’s-her-name.”

“Because she’s a bitch,” Jason says.

“Miranda Wager?” I gasp. “I love her. She’s so sharp.”

Jason growls, and Silas laughs. “He didn’t used to hate her,” Silas says. “Last year she kept calling him an overnight sensation. But last week she wrote that Coach didn’t know what to do with him. Which is—let’s be honest—hardly the worst thing that’s ever been written about an athlete.”

Since I’m mad at Jason for being hot and bossy and also unwilling to give me more of those kisses, I’m totally willing to wade into this disagreement. “Think of how hard her job is,” I point out. “She’s a terrific sports analyst. Yet every time she goes into a locker room, some Neanderthal tries to embarrass her.” I totally read a story about this. “And no matter how well she covers hockey, her Twitter DMs are full of unsolicited dick pics.”

“Well, I’m not guilty of any of that,” Jason points out. “And I still don’t have to like her.”

“He just gets hangry,” Silas explains. “Most game nights he’d be halfway through a large pizza by now.”

Well, crud. “I’m sorry you’re in a car to Bushwick instead.”

“Maybe there’s food here,” Jason grumps, ducking his head to see out my window. “Hey! That’s a Caribbean joint. Sally Root’s. Looks open.”

My stomach growls. I ate a really meager hotdog during my ridiculously short dinner break five hours ago. I’m afraid to spend much money until I finally get a paycheck. My bank account is down to almost nothing.

“Which corner?” the driver says from the front seat.

“Anywhere,” I say, because all the buildings look alike and I can’t see which building is 415. “You guys can just make the return trip, okay? I’ll be fine.”

“No, you don’t,” Jason says with a sigh. “We’re not just dumping a helpless—”

I elbow him for using the world “helpless.”

“Ow!”

“Sorry, reflex,” I say quickly, hopping out of the car.

Silas cackles. “Didn’t you just play the Rangers?”

“I had pads!” Jason complains as he extracts his long legs from the car.

I run back to the trunk, but of course I can’t get my suitcase out, and Silas has to rescue me. So much for my independence. It’s not going that well. And things go even more poorly when I identify number 415 and march inside.

“At least there’s a doorman,” Jason mutters.