Stuck With The Four Hotties

The first thing I do when I get home from the concert is hit up Planned Parenthood with Miranda. She talks incessantly about how lucky she is that she doesn’t need birth control, but her constant chatter helps calm my nerves. And she’s got a point. Lucky bitch.

“You are so adulting right now,” she tells me when we walk out of there with birth control pills and climb into the Maserati.

“I am, huh?” I say, trying to find a place to put the giant box of condoms they shoved in my arms on the way out. I’m sure Charlie’s vaguely aware that I’m sexually active, but it’s not something he wants to see evidence of, I’m sure. “Should we go out to celebrate? A special birth control lunch?”

“Let’s wear our uniforms and go intimidate preppy, bourgeois brats in Grenadine Heights.”

“That doesn’t sound very adult to me,” I tell Miranda as I start the car, and she gives me a look, pulling down her shades to stare at me with ice-blue eyes.

“Just because we’re hitting eighteen doesn’t mean we have to give up on

all the fun stuff. Come on, let’s go. Food’s on me.”

I grin, but I have to admit: that does sound like fun. Those all-black Burberry Prep uniforms have a way of drawing attention.

I slip my own shades on, and we head back to the house to grab our uniforms. Miranda’s spending the night again, so all her stuff’s piled on my

bedroom floor. The Cabots have a huge beach house, but her parents have guests, so she’s made herself scarce. Creed, on the other hand, somehow got roped into an endless string of dinners and cocktail parties. I almost feel sorry for him.

When we pull into the driveway, I see a For Sale sign in the yard, and yank my sunglasses off to gape at it. What the hell?

Charlie’s sitting in his chair in the living room when I walk in, and he smiles as he looks up and sees us.

“What’s with the sign?” I ask, feeling this niggle of worry in my lower belly. Dad shrugs his shoulders loosely, but I can tell he’s stressed out about it. There’s a little ‘V’ of worry between his brows.

“The landlord wants to sell, and I can’t afford a down payment for a house right now. Don’t worry too much about it. The real estate agent let me know it’s likely to be purchased as an investment property, and having us as long- term tenants is a valuable asset.”

“What about the money in my-” I start, but Dad’s already shaking his head.

“There are six offers on the property already. Homes don’t come up often

in Grenadine Heights. Don’t worry, honey. You save that money for college and stop worrying so much about your old man.” My mouth purses into a thin line. I wish he’d told me about this sooner. Or maybe the sign was in the yard when the tour bus dropped us off last night, and I just didn’t notice? I was so nervous about my Planned Parenthood appointment today, I easily could’ve overlooked it.

“I’ll never stop worrying about you,” I tell him, giving him a kiss on the forehead.

Miranda and I change and head out for the day, coming back to find a Sold placard stacked on top of the For Sale sign. We exchange a look, climbing out in the dark, and then jumping when a person stands up from the shadows of the porch. I’ve been meaning to change that bulb out …

“Marnye.” It’s Windsor, pushing red hair off of his forehead. He waits for me to pause next to him, and I notice he’s got a bulb in one hand and a screwdriver in the other. “I noticed you needed a light, love.”

“What are you doing here?” I ask, as I get my phone out to use as a flashlight, so he can see better. Miranda lets herself inside, giving us a moment of privacy. “And why are you sitting in the dark by yourself?”

“Just tired,” Windsor says, installing the bulb and flooding the porch with light. He turns to look at me, and I see it written all over his face, the dark lines of fatigue. He puts the screwdriver aside and then reaches into the pocket of his leather jacket, pulling out a folded wad of papers.

I take them from him, and squint at the fine print, glancing up suddenly. “You bought our house?” I ask, blinking in shock.

“Just barely. There were quite a few other offers-and not all of them from pleasant or even neutral parties.” Windsor smiles at me, but it lacks some of his usual glitter. He’s exhausted. Whatever is going on behind the scenes, it’s wearing him down. And I don’t want that. I don’t want him working himself to the bone for me. “I just paid ten times what your house is worth.” Windsor laughs and scrubs a palm down his face. “Harper really, really wanted it.”

“You’re not going to raise the rent, are you?” I ask, but it’s just a joke. My heart is thundering in my chest, and I just … I want to hug him. So I do. I slide my arms around his waist, and give him a squeeze. He returns the gesture, and then places a ring of keys in my hand.

“Cash purchase, quick close. Money can buy … almost anything.”

Windsor smiles and pulls away from me, heading down the driveway with his hands in his pockets. I consider following, but I get the idea that he wants to be alone. He pauses at the edge of the yard, waves at me, and then continues on toward the bus stop.

I still don’t get why he doesn’t drive.

In reality, I know nothing about the British prince, the bully of bullies. But I want to.

I want to so damn badly.

The rest of the summer seems to crawl by in hot lazy days, buzzing cicadas, and as much time spent with Charlie that I can manage. The questions I have

about Isabella, and the new baby that Jennifer’s carrying, are pushed aside in favor of keeping the peace.

That … or maybe I just don’t want to know the answers to those questions?

“What do you want to do for your birthday?” Dad asks, and I get mad deja vu, sitting on the back porch with him and Windsor. Last year, we had the surprise party at the bowling alley. This year … seems so much more severe, so much more important somehow. “Your mother wanted to take you and your sister to dinner.”

“That’s pretty much the last thing I’d want to do on my birthday,” I tell him as Wind stays quiet, sipping his lemonade from a metal straw tucked into the corner of his mouth. I exhale and look out across the lawn. It’s a little too long, the grass waving in the warm breeze, but it’s dotted with wildflowers and I find the sight soothing somehow. “Maybe we could all go to the lake and have a barbeque?”Published by Nôv'elD/rama.Org.

“This is your birthday, Marnye-bear, not mine.” Dad reaches over and gives my hand a squeeze, but there’s no strength left in it. Birds chirp, and butterflies flitter by, but I feel like I’m being sucked down a dark, black hole in that moment.

I want to scream at the world, maybe throw something, but that won’t help. Instead, I take a long, deep breath and force a smile. It hurts, that smile, like a knife cutting across the bottom of my face, but I do it anyway. Because really, it’s the opposite of what Dad just said: this is for him, not for me.

“It’s your eighteenth,” Charlie insists, looking over at me with a mischievous smile. “You’re supposed to get into trouble. It’s a rite of passage.” I already got into some good trouble at the Afterglow concert, I think, feeling a small shiver run through me. I cannot get Zayd’s inked hands out of my head, or the way the piercing in his shaft made me finish with such a violent,

overwhelming surge of pleasure.