The Debs

by Susan McBride

  The idea that he might be tiring of her made her crazy. She and Dillon had been together for two years, ever since she’d broken up with Avery to be with him. Jo wondered if they’d gotten too comfortable together, if she just didn’t do it for him anymore. Oh, God, please don’t let it be that! she thought, and took a deep breath, telling herself that she couldn’t freak out tonight, couldn’t break down and cry, even if she wanted to. She had to stay cool and calm, make Dillon think everything was all right, and she could only think of one way to do it.

  She ripped open her Hermès croc clutch and rummaged for the slim brown bottle with her mother’s name on it. She struggled with the lid before getting it open and shaking out two tiny white pills. She made a face as she placed them on her tongue, hating the bitter taste. Quickly, she turned on the faucet and cupped a handful of water, enough to swallow the Xanax in one gulp.

  There, Jo told herself. All better.

  Within minutes, she felt a familiar calm easing through her veins. She hated to resort to Mommy’s Little Helpers, but this was an emergency. She had to be relaxed and ready for whatever was to come (and, hopefully, that would mean Dillon).

  Hello, gorgeous, she could hear him saying, and she closed her eyes, imagining his hands on her skin, his fingers untying her halter dress and gently tugging it down….

  “Yoo-hoo! It’s me and Trisha. Where ya hidin’, girlfriend?”

  Jo Lynn jumped, her eyes popping open. She hadn’t even heard anyone come through the front door to the guesthouse.

  “Hey, Jo-L, where are you? The gang’s all here!”

  Well, part of the gang, anyway, Jo Lynn thought.

  Camie’s loud voice rang out from the living room, cutting through the wailing of The Killers’ “Mr. Brightside” (which Jo Lynn took as a message: look on the bright side), so she quickly stashed the bottle in her purse, pasting a picture-perfect smile on her face as she emerged from the bathroom to greet her friends.

  “Hey, y’all!” she said, flinging her arms wide and exchanging air kisses.

  Then she gushed over how great each looked: Camie with her dark hair piled in a loose knot on her head, her tanned skin glowing against the white of her tiny Versace minidress, and Trisha with her red-gold hair flipped up where it just grazed her shoulders, wearing the loudest Pucci sundress Jo Lynn had ever seen.

  “You got the ’ritas mixed?” Camie asked, making her way around the granite breakfast bar into the kitchen. “’Cuz I’m ready to get this party going.”

  “The guys won’t be here for a few minutes,” Jo Lynn said.

  “They’ll have to catch up, then.” Camie was already tossing stuff into the blender, and she turned the noisy thing on before Jo Lynn could even protest.

  “Make one for me,” Trisha hollered before heading in the opposite direction. She dropped her purse next to the L-shaped sectional sofa with its huge down-filled cushions, arranged around a sixty-inch plasma TV. She turned the set on but kept the sound off and began flipping wildly from channel to channel while the All-American Rejects sang “Dirty Little Secret.”

  “Dirty little secret? How appropriate,” Cam said after she’d turned off the blender and was filling the oversized margarita glasses Jo Lynn had set out. “I happen to have some dirt to share.”

  “About who?” Jo Lynn asked, though she really didn’t care. She only had one thing on her mind tonight, and it was six feet two inches with blue eyes and sandy blond hair.

  “That slut Jessica Rembert.” Camie’s eyes widened with glee. “Someone caught her drunk out on the town in a dress prone to nip slips and minus her panties. There are, like, six pics up on some Caldwell dude’s Facebook page. They’re obviously shot with a cell phone, but they’re clear enough that it’ll keep her off the Rosebud list, thank God.”

  “Like that ho even had a shot.” Jo Lynn sniffed. “Bootsie would rip my head off if I ever did anything that stupid.”

  Besides, she knew better.

  Plenty of pageant girls didn’t wear panties, but that was a different story entirely. Panty lines were a no-no, and any beauty queen worth her sash had a suitcase full of hose with cotton crotches. As a matter of fact, everyone on the pageant circuit knew how to exit a limo without flashing the world. It was, like, the second thing they taught you, after how to walk down stairs in four-inch heels without falling on your ass.

  “Here’s your ’rita,” Camie said, handing Jo Lynn a glass.

  “And yours, Trish, get over here, girl!”

  Like an overeager puppy, Trisha leapt off the couch and bounded across the room, accepting the proffered drink and wasting no time in noisily sucking on the red and white striped cocktail straw. When she came up for air, she tucked a red-gold strand of hair behind her ear and asked, “What were y’all talking about?”

  “Dirt,” Jo Lynn said, sipping her drink and gazing at the door, thinking that any minute Dillon would walk in.

  “About Laura Bell?” Trish asked.

  “No, Jessica Rembert.” Camie set down her empty margarita glass. “Why? Do you know something about the Hostess Cupcake?” She leaned over the counter toward her friend. “What’d you hear?”

  “Okay, okay.” Trisha seemed breathless before she even started to explain. “Suzy Bacino heard from Danielle Bartlett, who flew home on Southwest after visiting her cousin in El Paso, or some other god-awful place, that Avery Dorman showed up at Hobby Airport and picked up Laura on her way home from fat camp!”

  “What?” Camie blinked, her tanned face suddenly ashen.

  “Supposedly, he snatched her away, right under the nose of her two best buddies, Green Girl and Bookworm.” Trisha’s voice dripped sarcasm.

  Jo Lynn heard the names Laura Bell and Avery Dorman and stopped staring at the door, intrigued enough to pay attention.

  “That’s totally messed up.” Camie looked sick. “Why would he do that?”

  “Sorry, Cam, I know you like the dude and y’all had a thing going earlier this summer, but it sounds like he’s slumming again,” Trish assured her. “Suzy says Danielle’s completely reliable. Besides, that burnt orange ’Vette is hard to miss.”

  “Oops,” Jo Lynn said, putting a hand to her mouth. “I guess I shouldn’t have invited him tonight, then, huh?”

  “Avery’s coming here? After he hooked up with Laura Bell?” Camie knocked her glass over, the dregs of her margarita oozing onto the granite countertop, and she backed away, careful not to get any on her white dress. “Are you trippin’, Jo-L?”

  “Sorry, I had no clue.” Jo Lynn apologized without really meaning it. She had to admit she got a kick out of the fact that she had a certain sway over Avery, especially when it came to the girls he dated. And maybe Jo Lynn did still feel the teensiest bit possessive of Avery, not that she ever wanted him again, not that way…not after how quickly he’d rebounded from her to Laura Bell, just to rub her nose in it. She and Avery were a lot alike, that was all: two very pretty peas in a pod who hadn’t worked out together. Jo Lynn’s heart belonged to Dillon.

  “He’s not bringing Laura’s fat ass with him, is he?” Cam asked pointedly.

  “He’d better not.” Or Jo Lynn would be as pissed off as Camie. “You want me to have Dillon toss him out when he gets here?”

  Camie opened her mouth, fit to burst, and Jo Lynn expected to hear a “Hell, yes!”

  But, strangely, Camie closed her trap and gnawed on her lip for a second before asking, “Did you say Dillon was bringing Mike and Brody with him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm, Mike’s hot enough, I guess.” Camie set her hands on her hips, her chin lifted defiantly. “Maybe I’ll just give Avery a bit of his own medicine.”

  Jo Lynn smiled at her and reached out to pat her hand. “That’s my girl.”

  “We’ve got to make sure that debu-tank doesn’t end up on the Rosebud list, Jo-L,” Camie begged. “I don’t care that her mother’s in the GSC and was a Rosebud, Laura’s a lowlife.”

  “Well, it’s not
surprising, is it?” Trish interjected. “Her daddy sells sewers.”

  “More like plumbing parts,” Jo Lynn corrected.

  “Okay, toilets, then. Whatev.” Trisha rolled her eyes and went back to the television.

  Camie headed over to the blender, banging around as she mixed another batch of margaritas, calling out over the noisy whir, “Hey, y’all, how ’bout seconds?”

  But Jo Lynn ignored her. Her ears had picked up the sound of a car pulling into the drive, the low rumble of the motor sounding exactly like the purr of Dillon’s black Mustang convertible.

  She smoothed her halter dress and wet her lips, a prickle of anticipation racing across her skin as she caught the slam of car doors outside, then a quick knock before Dillon let himself in.

  “Hey, sounds like a party’s goin’ on in here,” he said as he entered with Mike and Brody right behind him.

  Brody paused at the door, holding it open and giving a sharp whistle, before a black lab with its leash dragging galloped into the guesthouse and raced toward Jo Lynn, wagging its tail and sticking its nose right in her crotch.

  Lovely.

  Dillon observed with his arms crossed over his broad chest, an amused look on his handsome face.

  Jo pushed its head away, saying, “Nice doggy,” as it slobbered all over her hand before it took off, sniffing various points around the room until Brody caught its dangling leash and led it outside. Through the French doors, Jo Lynn saw him tug the dog around the unscreened porch and tie it to the railing. As soon as Dillon’s buddy had stepped back inside, she drawled, “For heaven’s sake, Brody, you weren’t supposed to bring a date.”

  Brody shrugged his linebacker’s shoulders and scratched at the stubble on his square chin. “It’s my dad’s hunting dog, Bubba. He’s a great birder, but his manners leave a lot to be desired. I’m watching him this weekend while they’re in Palm Springs—”

  “How interesting,” Jo Lynn cut him off before her eyes could glaze over. Brody was pretty much a Bubba himself, always wearing cowboy boots and dipping chaw. Yuck. If he spat in anything tonight except a plastic cup, she’d throw his ass out on the porch with his dog. “I’m sure Trish will be glad she doesn’t have to share you tonight,” she remarked, having to shout over the music as Mike turned up the iPod and Nelly Furtado’s “Promiscuous” filled the room with its sexy beat.

  As soon as Jo Lynn sidestepped the six-foot-four, 240-pound Brody, Trisha stuck to him like Velcro, taking his hand and leading him over to the sofa. Within a blink, the strawberry blonde was in his lap and they were kissing.

  Like the animals on Noah’s ark, her party guests quickly paired up.

  Camie wasted no time in heading Mike’s way with two fresh margaritas, one of which he held in one hand as he did a bad impression of dirty dancing while Camie drank and giggled. A few stragglers, like Avery and a couple of other Caldwell guys, would no doubt show up later. But Jo Lynn didn’t care. She stood still, the noise swirling around her, her gaze fixated on Dillon in his tight polo and jeans as he came toward her.

  “Hey, babe,” he said, and gave her a perfunctory kiss on the forehead. “You got a drink for me?”

  “I’ll make yours special,” she told him, her heart pounding as she thought about how much tonight meant for them. It was hard as hell for her to be around him anymore without wanting him so badly it hurt; she couldn’t stand too much more rejection.

  Dillon’s gaze followed her as she moved around the tiny kitchen, and she hoped he didn’t notice how nervous she was. She banged bottles together and dropped crushed ice on the floor as she threw together their margaritas, adding twice as much Patrón as she normally did.

  “They’ll be ready in a sec,” she told him, leaning in so he could hear her over the music and the blender. She took hold of his arm, curling her fingers around the taut muscles, inhaling the scent of him, clean like soap with just a hint of citrus cologne.

  “You look great,” he told her, his lips brushing her ear, and Jo Lynn felt the warmth that spread through her lower belly.

  “You do too,” she said, laying her palm against his cheek.

  She hated to let go of him.

  As soon as the margaritas were mixed, she shut the blender off and poured him a heaping glass, giving herself far less. The drinks were perfect: frothy and cold with no salt on the rims, just the way Dillon liked them.

  A few other friends dropped by, making themselves at home, raiding the fridge for beer and wine coolers or drinking the Patrón straight out of the bottle. But Jo Lynn hardly noticed they were there, not once Dillon had slurped down several potent ’ritas and was nibbling on her ear.

  “C’mon,” she said, tugging him up from the leather armchair they’d been curled up on. “I’ve got something to show you.”

  He was a little unsteady on his feet, but willing enough so that she led him away from the main scene and down the hallway to the empty master bedroom. Once she’d nudged him through the door and locked it closed behind them, she drew him toward the bed and gave him a gentle push down onto the mattress.

  “So what’d you wan’ me ta see?” he asked her, sounding about one drink shy of passing out.

  “This,” Jo Lynn said, and untied her halter dress, dropping it to her feet and standing before him in nothing but her lacy push-up bra and thong.

  “Well, damn,” she heard Dillon say, before she walked up to the bed and straddled him. Her hips pressed against his pelvis as she kissed him, her hair falling in curtains around their faces. She tasted the sweetness of the tequila on his lips and on his teeth as he opened his mouth to her, and their tongues did a familiar dance, the world slipping away….

  “Jo, hey, whoa,” he said, his voice soft and slurred. He turned his face briefly away, but she didn’t stop.

  Instead, she ran her lips along his jaw, then down his neck to the collar of his polo. “Off,” she breathed, grabbing the material, pulling it up until he raised his arms and ducked his head and she ripped it off as fast as she was able.

  She pressed her face against his chest, her fingers sliding over the sculpted muscles, her tongue tracing a path from his sternum along the baby-soft hairs to his belly-button and then to the waist of his jeans. Her hand reached for the metal buttons and started working them free.

  “Jo, c’mon,” he said again, more insistently, and she hesitated long enough to look up into his face, his expression panicked.

  “I know it’s been two weeks since we, you know,” she whispered, “but it’s like ridin’ a bike. You never forget.”

  “Babe, I wish I could, but I can’t—” He tried to sit up, but she leaned her weight forward, her palms on his chest, pushing him back down.

  She was not about to give up so easily.

  “Sure you can, darlin’. I’ll help you.” She was nose to nose with him, staring into the eyes she loved so much, the blue almost indigo in the dark. “Besides, it’s not like I don’t love you and you don’t love me back, right?”

  His Adam’s apple did a bob as he swallowed before nodding. “Yeah, of course.”

  “Then what’re we waiting for?” She smiled at him, feeling his quickened heartbeat slam against his chest, nearly in time with her own. “I need you so much, Dill. I’ve missed you so much I could die.”

  “I’m so sorry,” he said hoarsely, and she saw tears on his lashes.

  He missed her too, she knew. What else could it be?

  She began to peel down his jeans, exposing paisley boxers, and she lowered her head, her pink lips parting as, from the pocket of Dillon’s jeans, the Caldwell Fight Song started playing.

  What the f—?

  Dillon moaned and pushed her away as he scrambled to get up and reach for his pants, but Jo Lynn had her hand in his pocket before he could get to it.

  She flipped the phone open and was about to answer to find out who it was when Dillon snatched his cell from her hand, glanced at the screen, flipped it shut, and shoved it back in his pocket.

 
“I’d better go,” he mumbled as he tugged his jeans back up and buttoned them in haste, glancing around for his shirt while Jo Lynn helplessly watched him.

  “You’re leaving?” She folded her arms over her breasts.

  “Have to,” he grunted.

  “Is it an emergency?”

  “Something like that, yeah.”

  He put on his shirt and flip-flops, then stumbled toward the door.

  Jo Lynn didn’t know what the hell was going on, but Bootsie hadn’t trained her for situations like this. Jo Lynn could set a table with all the forks and spoons in the right place. She could strut across a stage in a floor-length gown and four-inch heels with blinding lights in her eyes and not miss a beat. But how was she supposed to handle her boyfriend walking out on her in the middle of seducing him?

  “You okay to drive?” she asked, because he couldn’t seem to walk a straight line, and Dillon never got behind the wheel when he’d had one too many. He’d always stay in bed with her until he’d sobered up in the morning. It had always been that way.

  “I’m okay.”

  “Call me?”

  “I will.”

  “I love you,” she told him, in lieu of goodbye.

  He paused, glancing back at where she stood, nearly naked and alone in the middle of the room. Then he unlocked the door and was gone.

  Jo Lynn shivered and rubbed her arms. Part of her wanted to rush after him and beg him to stay, but girls like her didn’t chase after boys. It was always the other way around.

  So she let him go, pulled on her dress, and returned to the party alone.

  * * *

  Sex is part of nature. I go along with nature.

  —Marilyn Monroe

  When you love someone, no matter how smart you are, how tough you claim to be, or how burned you’ve been, it’s impossible to say no.

  —Laura Bell

  * * *

  Nine

  Laura parked her cherry red Mercedes at the very end of the private lane where the Bidwells lived.