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“Uh-huh.”
“Yeah, well, after you left,” he said, and I tensed up, digging my fingernails into the small cardboard box, “this freshman girl kind of hit on me. I thought you’d think that was…funny, or something.”
I peered over at him, and his face was normal.
“Nice,” I said, and high-fived him. “Fresh meat.”
Morgan laughed, and I felt my whole body relax. He wasn’t trying to make me jealous or pivot the conversation into some lecture about how he was lovable and better than my repeated rejection. That’s of course how I would’ve played it, but Morgan was better than that.
“Just a stupid turn of events. You lose some, you win some. Kind of.” He laughed to himself again, but maybe this time there was a little edge.
“What kind of hat did she have on?”
“Bride’s veil.”
“She came looking for love. Did you get her number?”
“Yeah, I did, and she seemed really into it. But when I left, I saw her standing outside, talking to Sanders. Fresh meat? He was probably thinking the same thing.”
Somebody had to take those dudes down, stat.
“Speak of the devil…,” Morgan said, and his voice trailed off as the store’s doorbell rang.
Please be Sanders. Please be Sanders , I prayed.
But Morgan had mistaken Stiles for his twin. Damn it.
Stiles was devilish—no doubt about that—but not in a predictable way. He’d literally fallen into the Gap and come out a netherworld poster boy. He was wearing a tucked-in, plain white button-down shirt with the top three buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His khaki chinos were formfitting but casually wrinkled in the total “Who, me?” kind of way thatusually worked on teenage, crush-having suckers like myself. Loafers with no socks. A silver Seiko watch. A fifties straw fedora pushed back on his head. He was a pale, preppy nightmare, and he was coming right at me.
“Quinlan,” he said, wrapping one hand around my wrist and flashing a nasty sweet smile, “come over here and help me choose something.”
I stared at Morgan, who was clearly freaked, and tried to curve my lips into something resembling a smile. Then I turned back to Stiles and pointed over to the side wall, and my smile was gone.
“Those are the Employee Picks. You don’t need any help.”
“Oh, but I do,” he said, leading me to the corner of the store where Morgan and I had displayed our personal faves.
“Fine. How about Sleeping with the Enemy ? Or have you seen that too many times?”
He ignored me and eyed me up and down. “You look delicious tonight.”
“You look like a psychotic yachtsman. Where’s Libby?”
“Oh no, did I forget to give her your message? I know I wrote it down but…I don’t remember where I put the paper.” He reached out and felt my dress’s rayon fabric between two long, bony fingers.
“You can’t keep her from me forever. And whatever it is you’re doing to make her act like a bad acid casualty, you better stop.”
“I can’t tell Libby what to do.” He spoke slowly and methodically, never blinking. If someone could be totally empty, he was totally empty.
I imagined James’s voice telling me to run.
“Well, I can, and I will. And you’ll be old news. Rent a movie and leave.”
I started to turn away, but he grabbed my arm, harder.
“Libby wants to be with me. Just ask her.” Then he leaned in and breathed the words in my ear: “She likes it.”
“I don’t care if she likes it, she’s not a person anymore. She’s just some cult chick.” I was petrified, shaking.
Stiles was thrilled. “Don’t be such a drama queen. She’s still a person ,” he said, then added, “With banging legs.” Then he traced along my jawbone, devouring me with his eyes. “Not that I wouldn’t mind breaking off a little piece of you…”
I wrenched my arm free and stepped back and glared at him.
“Besides,” he said, lightening his tone and surveying his manicured nails, “Libby’s not
“Uh-huh.”
“Yeah, well, after you left,” he said, and I tensed up, digging my fingernails into the small cardboard box, “this freshman girl kind of hit on me. I thought you’d think that was…funny, or something.”
I peered over at him, and his face was normal.
“Nice,” I said, and high-fived him. “Fresh meat.”
Morgan laughed, and I felt my whole body relax. He wasn’t trying to make me jealous or pivot the conversation into some lecture about how he was lovable and better than my repeated rejection. That’s of course how I would’ve played it, but Morgan was better than that.
“Just a stupid turn of events. You lose some, you win some. Kind of.” He laughed to himself again, but maybe this time there was a little edge.
“What kind of hat did she have on?”
“Bride’s veil.”
“She came looking for love. Did you get her number?”
“Yeah, I did, and she seemed really into it. But when I left, I saw her standing outside, talking to Sanders. Fresh meat? He was probably thinking the same thing.”
Somebody had to take those dudes down, stat.
“Speak of the devil…,” Morgan said, and his voice trailed off as the store’s doorbell rang.
Please be Sanders. Please be Sanders , I prayed.
But Morgan had mistaken Stiles for his twin. Damn it.
Stiles was devilish—no doubt about that—but not in a predictable way. He’d literally fallen into the Gap and come out a netherworld poster boy. He was wearing a tucked-in, plain white button-down shirt with the top three buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His khaki chinos were formfitting but casually wrinkled in the total “Who, me?” kind of way thatusually worked on teenage, crush-having suckers like myself. Loafers with no socks. A silver Seiko watch. A fifties straw fedora pushed back on his head. He was a pale, preppy nightmare, and he was coming right at me.
“Quinlan,” he said, wrapping one hand around my wrist and flashing a nasty sweet smile, “come over here and help me choose something.”
I stared at Morgan, who was clearly freaked, and tried to curve my lips into something resembling a smile. Then I turned back to Stiles and pointed over to the side wall, and my smile was gone.
“Those are the Employee Picks. You don’t need any help.”
“Oh, but I do,” he said, leading me to the corner of the store where Morgan and I had displayed our personal faves.
“Fine. How about Sleeping with the Enemy ? Or have you seen that too many times?”
He ignored me and eyed me up and down. “You look delicious tonight.”
“You look like a psychotic yachtsman. Where’s Libby?”
“Oh no, did I forget to give her your message? I know I wrote it down but…I don’t remember where I put the paper.” He reached out and felt my dress’s rayon fabric between two long, bony fingers.
“You can’t keep her from me forever. And whatever it is you’re doing to make her act like a bad acid casualty, you better stop.”
“I can’t tell Libby what to do.” He spoke slowly and methodically, never blinking. If someone could be totally empty, he was totally empty.
I imagined James’s voice telling me to run.
“Well, I can, and I will. And you’ll be old news. Rent a movie and leave.”
I started to turn away, but he grabbed my arm, harder.
“Libby wants to be with me. Just ask her.” Then he leaned in and breathed the words in my ear: “She likes it.”
“I don’t care if she likes it, she’s not a person anymore. She’s just some cult chick.” I was petrified, shaking.
Stiles was thrilled. “Don’t be such a drama queen. She’s still a person ,” he said, then added, “With banging legs.” Then he traced along my jawbone, devouring me with his eyes. “Not that I wouldn’t mind breaking off a little piece of you…”
I wrenched my arm free and stepped back and glared at him.
“Besides,” he said, lightening his tone and surveying his manicured nails, “Libby’s not
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