noise, and the third part of our small-town convergence leaned out of a roaring Camaro and yelled, “Sup, Carlie! Tammy! Like it? Just got it today!”
It was Tristan, the eighteen-year-old male half of two neighbor kids who have victimized me for money and clothes over the past three years. To clarify, they do so at my invitation, since both of them—that would include Tristan’s sister, Julia—have given me rides when I need to leave Halfway proper for shopping. Gran isn’t always in the mood to tromp though stores forty miles away, and I have a reputation for turning cars into glorified paper weights. I’m a good driver, but there’s a kind of universal balancing act that works against me when I’m behind the wheel of a car. After three cars and three separate but hilariously weird accidents, I decided that maybe it was best to avoid driving anything more risky than a bicycle.
Tristan and Julia swept in upon the coattails of my terrible luck and offered to act as my personal chauffeurs—for a price. Julia liked clothes; Tristan, cash. Both of them were cold-blooded hustlers, and maddeningly cheerful about it to boot.
I looked at the growling beast of a car that Tristan was sitting in and felt my eyes flutter upward in the kind of roll that I reserved for middle-aged men on their first motorcycle.
He killed the engine and posed, one arm out of the window in his best bad-boy impersonation, which didn’t really work considering his clear braces appeared to have some sort of green vegetable caught in them. When Tammy began to open her mouth to helpfully point out this offense, I tweaked her arm and winked. She smirked, then directed a brilliant smile at the kid, bathing him in the megawatt look of an actual living, breathing woman. A woman with boobs, I might add, and nice ones that she brought out to play on a regular basis.
“Nice ride. You sure you’re ready for that much horsepower?” Tammy drawled, leaning into the window and offering him a peek at three button’s worth of prime real estate. Her cleavage really was quite impressive, and the effect on Tristan was something like being shot with a rhino dart. His eyes went round, glazed over, and then cleared in a roiling instant that summed up every hormonal tug he’d been subjected to since puberty.
“I, ah. Yeah. I mean, I’m gonna be . . . careful?” he finished, his voice drifting up as he addressed Tammy.
“That’s right. You take good care of that beauty, okay?” Tammy said, her voice light and playful. Tristan blushed to the hairline, fired the engine up, and backed out with the care of a man transporting unsecured dynamite. As he pulled away, she put her manicured hands on her hips and smiled before waving slowly at him. I sincerely hoped he didn’t crash from watching her, then stifled a laugh that was half hysterical. I really was beyond tired, both physically and mentally.
“Men don’t understand hormones. At all. He uses bodyspray like he’s trying to kill horseflies. Phew.” Tammy clicked her tongue thoughtfully and smiled. “He’s had an eye for you since he was fifteen.”
“What?” I didn’t doubt Tammy—this was, after all, her area of expertise, but still. I’m usually a little more observant.
“Oh, yeah. I’ve seen him watch you walk to the diner. Not like a stalker, just interested. He’s a guy. You’re pretty. It was inevitable.” Tammy pronounced this with an air of conviction.
“I’ve known him since he was born. I babysat him,” I protested, feeling a little off at the knowledge that Tristan was now eying me in that way. Where had the time gone?
She shrugged. “Doesn’t matter now. He’s old enough to know the difference.”
“Between what?” I asked, confused.
She pointed at me, her smile wicked. “Between what he thinks he can have”—her finger curled, then she tapped herself between two mounds of cresting cleavage—“and what he can’t.”
I laughed, snorted, and then wiped my nose
It was Tristan, the eighteen-year-old male half of two neighbor kids who have victimized me for money and clothes over the past three years. To clarify, they do so at my invitation, since both of them—that would include Tristan’s sister, Julia—have given me rides when I need to leave Halfway proper for shopping. Gran isn’t always in the mood to tromp though stores forty miles away, and I have a reputation for turning cars into glorified paper weights. I’m a good driver, but there’s a kind of universal balancing act that works against me when I’m behind the wheel of a car. After three cars and three separate but hilariously weird accidents, I decided that maybe it was best to avoid driving anything more risky than a bicycle.
Tristan and Julia swept in upon the coattails of my terrible luck and offered to act as my personal chauffeurs—for a price. Julia liked clothes; Tristan, cash. Both of them were cold-blooded hustlers, and maddeningly cheerful about it to boot.
I looked at the growling beast of a car that Tristan was sitting in and felt my eyes flutter upward in the kind of roll that I reserved for middle-aged men on their first motorcycle.
He killed the engine and posed, one arm out of the window in his best bad-boy impersonation, which didn’t really work considering his clear braces appeared to have some sort of green vegetable caught in them. When Tammy began to open her mouth to helpfully point out this offense, I tweaked her arm and winked. She smirked, then directed a brilliant smile at the kid, bathing him in the megawatt look of an actual living, breathing woman. A woman with boobs, I might add, and nice ones that she brought out to play on a regular basis.
“Nice ride. You sure you’re ready for that much horsepower?” Tammy drawled, leaning into the window and offering him a peek at three button’s worth of prime real estate. Her cleavage really was quite impressive, and the effect on Tristan was something like being shot with a rhino dart. His eyes went round, glazed over, and then cleared in a roiling instant that summed up every hormonal tug he’d been subjected to since puberty.
“I, ah. Yeah. I mean, I’m gonna be . . . careful?” he finished, his voice drifting up as he addressed Tammy.
“That’s right. You take good care of that beauty, okay?” Tammy said, her voice light and playful. Tristan blushed to the hairline, fired the engine up, and backed out with the care of a man transporting unsecured dynamite. As he pulled away, she put her manicured hands on her hips and smiled before waving slowly at him. I sincerely hoped he didn’t crash from watching her, then stifled a laugh that was half hysterical. I really was beyond tired, both physically and mentally.
“Men don’t understand hormones. At all. He uses bodyspray like he’s trying to kill horseflies. Phew.” Tammy clicked her tongue thoughtfully and smiled. “He’s had an eye for you since he was fifteen.”
“What?” I didn’t doubt Tammy—this was, after all, her area of expertise, but still. I’m usually a little more observant.
“Oh, yeah. I’ve seen him watch you walk to the diner. Not like a stalker, just interested. He’s a guy. You’re pretty. It was inevitable.” Tammy pronounced this with an air of conviction.
“I’ve known him since he was born. I babysat him,” I protested, feeling a little off at the knowledge that Tristan was now eying me in that way. Where had the time gone?
She shrugged. “Doesn’t matter now. He’s old enough to know the difference.”
“Between what?” I asked, confused.
She pointed at me, her smile wicked. “Between what he thinks he can have”—her finger curled, then she tapped herself between two mounds of cresting cleavage—“and what he can’t.”
I laughed, snorted, and then wiped my nose
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