Get Dirty by Gretchen McNeil Page A

than this medieval torture device. Set speed, start running. But what were all these buttons? Freestyle, CardioBurn, FatBurn.
    “Push the green one,” Wendy said, panting.
    “Oh.” Kitty found the green button marked “QuickStart” and the console lit up. “Thanks.”
    “No problem.”
    Okay, conversation had been broached. Now what the hell was Kitty supposed to say?
    “Aren’t you Wendy Marshall?” she blurted out, as if she was a famous celebrity instead of a disgraced former mean girl.
    Wendy slowed her pace. “Yeah . . . ,” she said skeptically.
    “You went to Bishop DuMaine, right?” Wow, was that the best you could come up with, Kitty?
    Wendy abruptly stopped her elliptical. “I did,” she said sharply. “And before you crack a joke, yes, I still LARP with the Frontier League of Peculiar Individuals.”
    “I wasn’t—”
    “And I’m proud of it. In fact, I’ve been selling my Frontier League fanfic for the last year. Over one hundred thousand downloads. Do you know how much money I’ve made?”
    “Um . . .”
    “Ninety-nine cents each. You do the math.” Wendy whipped her towel off the console and threw it over her shoulder. “So before you and the rest of those assholes at Bishop DuMaine start tossing my name around as the butt of your jokes again, think about that and suck it.”
    And without another word, Wendy flounced out of the gym.
    An electronic bell sounded as soon as Olivia pushed open the door of Aquanautics, the surf and water sports store where Maxwelland Maven Gertler had found gainful employment after their “rehabilitation.”
    The shop was small, but jam-packed with merchandise. Racks of shirts, shorts, and hoodies in both men’s and women’s varieties ran down the center of the room, while a large selection of shoes were displayed on the far wall. On the opposite side of the store, wet suits in sizes from toddler to adult hung from the ceiling like meat in a freezer, and TV monitors were set up throughout, displaying surf competitions at nearby Mavericks. Above her head, every inch of ceiling space was covered with surf and body boards suspended from the rafters, and a range of kayaks was tilted against the checkout desk.
    The effect was homey, the store was abnormally warm, and combined with the pungent aroma of coconut and beeswax, and the pumped-in soundtrack of ocean waves, it gave the impression that the beach was right outside the door.
    Olivia eyed the cash register at the back of the store. It was empty, which made her nervous. She would have been much more comfortable if there had been other customers around. What if the Gertlers were the killers? And here she was alone and outnumbered?
    Oh, hell no. Olivia had turned and was hurrying back toward the door when she heard someone’s voice nearby.
    “Can I help you?”
    Olivia recognized the deep, gravelly voice of one of the Gertler twins right away.
    Okay, fine. She could do this. She turned to the nearest rack of Hawaiian shirts.
    “I’m looking for a birthday gift for my boyfriend,” she said, making sure she had an unobstructed path to the exit, just in case. “And I’m not sure what to get him.”
    Maxwell or Maven, whichever one it was, sighed as if helping a customer was the last thing he wanted to do, and ambled over. “Is he a surfer, a skater, or . . .” His voice trailed off. “Olivia?”
    She spun toward him, allowing her face to reflect confusion at first, then morph into recognition and surprise. “Maxwell?”
    Maxwell beamed at her. “You’re like the only one who can tell us apart.” He reached out and gave her a hug, squeezing her tightly and allowing his hands to roam up and down her back in an almost inappropriate kind of way. “It is so good to see you.”
    Olivia wiggled free, straightening her dress in the process. “So how are you?”
    “Good,” Maxwell said, gazing around the store. “You know. It was kinda rough after the arrest and all. But our cousin owns this