Brooke Bait

by Rachel Kiss

  My heart like, sank for her. Totally died.

  For a second.

  But then a girl came skipping up to Tate (from out of nowhere) and gave her a quick, yet lingering kiss on the lips as Tate strolled over to us. So, yeah … I kind of figured Tate would survive. I mean, she’s hot, and has random girls kissing her between classes. She’s obviously enduring okay. (Eye-roll.)

  “What’s up?” Tate asked Anna.

  “This is my friend, Peyton,” Anna said, stretching the word “friend” a bit, since we’d just barely met. (But hey, any friend of Summer’s and all that … apparently.) Anna looked hopefully at Tate, “She needs a job—and I told her you might hire her.”

  “Okay,” Tate said. “Done.”

  Whoa!

  My heart leapt with happiness. But also shock. Okay, mostly shock.

  I stammered out, “But—but I don’t have any work experience.”

  Tate turned back to me with a grin (by the way, there was a girl pulling Tate’s arms, trying to drag her to class). Tate tilted her head with an amused grin, “Are you trying to talk me out of hiring you?”

  “No. It’s just …”

  “Look, you’re a friend of Anna’s,” Tate said, still getting dragged by the girl down the hallway. “I trust Anna’s judgment.”

  Then Tate gave into the girl pulling on her and casually put her arm around the girl, walking with her to class. (She wasn’t the girl that kissed Tate, by the way.) (Sooo surviving.)

  I cocked my head at Anna, “Tate seems to really like you.”

  “Looks can be deceiving,” Anna murmured.

  When I raised my eyebrows, she explained. “Tate is the nicest, sweetest person in the world. But she can’t stand me. I think she feels like I come between her and Sawyer.”

  I lifted an eyebrow. “But she hired me because of you.”

  Anna nodded slightly. “Yeah, like I said—she’s nice. But she only hired me, as a favor to Sawyer. Well that, and because she knew I really needed the job. Like I said, she’s nice.” Then Anna grimaced. “But she doesn’t like me. She avoids me—at all costs. You’ll see—once you start working with us … you’ll see.”

  “Oh-kay,” I said skeptically. Very skeptically. Because what I saw was—Tate loves Anna. (And Anna is blind.)

  CHAPTER 8

  Later that day, after Tate gave me the job, I mentioned to Summer how totally full-on right she was about Anna being able to get me the job by asking Tate.

  Still amazed, I explained, “All Anna had to do was just mention to Tate that I was her friend and needed a job and Tate hired me—on the spot.”

  Summer had grinned all mischievous at that.

  When I finally pestered her enough, she explained, “Anna thinks Tate hates her—that Tate only hired her as a favor to Sawyer. But it’s so obvious—Tate loves Anna.”

  I gaped, though I totally already knew that for myself. Still, I found myself saying, all astonished and dramatic-like, “Her best friend’s girlfriend???”

  Summer nodded with a sad sigh. “Yeah, the poor girl has it so bad.”

  I scoffed, “Well, she’s not exactly a ‘poor’ girl. From what I’ve seen today Tate can have just about any girl she wants.”

  Summer nodded, “Yeah, but she wants Anna. So, she’s a ‘poor’ girl. Because Anna loves Sawyer. Totally.”

  ***

  Now that I’ve started working at the restaurant, I can see it for myself: Poor Tate. She looks away anytime Anna glances at her, but her eyes drink Anna in anytime Anna’s not looking.

  Meanwhile, Anna thinks Tate hates her, because Tate purposefully doesn’t look at Anna—and avoids her—since Anna is Tate’s best friend’s girlfriend. So, completely off limits.

  Tate is in a really difficult situation though, because she’s basically Anna’s boss. I mean, technically Tate’s dad is the ‘boss,’ of course. But really, when you get down to it, basically Tate is our boss. Practically. Her dad leaves Tate in charge all the time, and lately the man goes away on “business” a lot. (AKA: vacations with beautiful women.)

  Sometimes he’s gone a whole week. So, yeah, Tate’s our ‘boss.’

  Like tonight, Tate is totally in charge.

  As I’m picking up an order, I hear drama in the kitchen.

  “Excuse me,” this kind of witchy waitress, Porcha, snaps at Anna all huffy and get-out-of-my-way-like.

  Distracted with filling out an order, Anna moves out of Porcha’s way, but Porcha growls at her anyway.

  Anna rolls her eyes, but goes on with what she’s doing, ignoring Porcha’s rudeness (and downright evilness).

  In my short time working here, I’ve already noticed all the waitresses are mean to Anna. All of them. They’re jealous of her. Not just because she’s the best waitress—which she is, by far—but because they all accuse her of being Tate’s ‘favorite’ (which, again, she is—by far). But it’s not Anna’s fault. And she doesn’t even notice it—that Tate gives her everything she wants. She’s still under the thick cloud of delusion that Tate can’t stand her.

  While Anna is busy making a salad for table eight, she has to get something from the freezer or kitchen or somewhere. While she’s gone, Porcha steals Anna’s perfect, beautiful salad and serves it to table thirteen, instead—Porcha’s table.

  I see it happen, and I’m about to tell Tate, but then I see that Tate already noticed. (Nothing gets passed the girl.) Tate narrowed her eyes, and grunted, then she quickly remade a salad for Anna—to replace the one Evil Porcha swiped. As Tate passes Porcha she says, “If you ever do that again, you’re fired.”

  Porcha tries to act all innocent, “Do what?”

  Tate grinds her jaw muscles. “Make your own salads, Porcha,” Tate says evenly. Then she adds, “And just so we’re clear—you’re now closing tonight instead of Anna.”

  When Porcha starts to complain, Tate replies over her shoulder, walking away, “Take it up with the boss.”

  Recap: Tate is the boss.

  Obviously, it’s her (smooth) way of reminding Porcha.

  Tate’s the boss.

  (In more ways than one.)

  CHAPTER 9

  As it gets near closing time, for some reason Fenton is still around. I don’t know why, but the employees like to ‘hang out’ at the restaurant even when they are off the clock. During our busy hours it’s frantic and difficult to visit, but near closing time things settle down and it’s fun.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Noah walking his ‘date’ or whatever the heck she is, to the bathrooms. Wow, such the gentleman. Eye-roll. (But I want one!!)

  Suddenly, I’m whipped around. What the—??

  I’m shocked to see it’s Noah that did the whipping. Again, what the—?? He spun me around to face him. My heart is slamming so hard against my chest it hurts. What the heck is he doing???!!!

  Noah’s eyes twinkle seductively. Have me totally hypnotized, though equally confused. It all happens in a flash—the whipping and the hypnotizing—then suddenly his amazing, delightful lips crash on mine. At first it’s, you know, obviously for show—for bewildered Fenton. But then holy smokes! Things heat up FAST. His hands tangling in my hair and his tongue exploring mine like there’s no tomorrow and he’ll never get enough of my mouth.

  When Noah finally drags his lips from mine, his hot breath heats up my body as he whispers in my ear, “That was some nice mouth-action, sis.”

  Then he adds seductively with a grin, “—very eventful.”

  While I’m still in a stunned daze, too dazzled to speak (or breathe), Noah’s college-mouth girlfriend (or whatever she is) sidles up to him with absolutely no clue that he’d just kissed me, passionate and mmmm. I mean, holy smokes!! I’m seriously on fire, and weak in the knees, and probably going to need an ambulance. I mean, what was that????

  While I’m trying to catch my breath, Noah watches me curiously. His eyes glued to mine, gently he brings two of his fingers up to his lips, tracing them like he’s dreamily reliving wh
at he’d just been doing with his hot, exquisite mouth. (Quiver!!)

  He tilts his head at me. Then he winks at Fenton. “My text last night may have been a little deceiving,” he says.

  Then he leaves. Out the door. With his girlfriend.

  And I’m about to pass out.

  I seriously can not take this bizarre game.

  My mind, body, soul, and mouth are not equipped to handle this kind of stuff.

  So … I’m just going to have to sternly tell Noah to knock it off.

  … well, eventually.

  I mean, maybe just one or two more hot kisses first.

  Or maybe three?

  CHAPTER 10

  My parents got a divorce because of Noah’s mom. It’s a fact. Well, it was a fact—in my middle school mind. All I knew was, my parents seemed happy—then bam! My dad wanted a divorce—because he loved Noah’s mom. And he wanted to be married to her instead.

  I hated my dad for that—for leaving my mom. So, I left him.

  Mom was hurt and bitter about the divorce—and so was I. She moved us far, far away from Dad, and I refused to go to his wedding—or to visit him. Ever. To me he was dead.

  My mom is an artist. Once she was divorced, and no longer trying to fit into Dad’s ‘box’ (her words) she became extremely successful with her work. It happened like, over night. She was sad and divorced—then wham! Instant success.

  So, she devoted all her time to work. But the thing was, she moved us up on this mountain. It had a breathtaking view—but we were out in the middle of nowhere, and there was no school bus, and mom was really, really busy—you know, making gobs of money and doing exactly what she loved.

  So, it was great … for her. But I had absolutely no social-life. There were no kids around my age. In fact, there were no people around at all. Which, again, was excellent for Mom—no distractions. But me? Well, I could have used some distractions.

  When we first moved on the mountain mom had said, “We’ll home-school you until the fall. Then you can start school at the new school year.”

  Never happened.

  I was just homeschooled. There was no school bus for the area and the school was too far away. And too much of a distraction for busy, successful mom.

  She took me for dance lessons though, twice a week. I made friends there. Well, sort of. The girls were nice enough to me, but they would seldom invite me over to their houses—and never to their parties that I would hear about.

  Also, they all went to school together—so I was the outsider. Always.

  I did make one actual friend though. Her name was Lydia. She explained to me, “They don’t invite you to their parties because they’re worried you’ll get all the attention from the boys they like.”

  Lydia didn’t get invited to their parties either. But it was because they didn’t think she was “cool” enough.

  But whatever. I didn’t have the luxury of seeking someone “cooler.” I was just glad to have a friend.

  I started a blog. It was called, “Is anyone out there??”

  Yeah, I was that lonely. My dad kept wanting me to come live with him, but no way. I would see the text messages my mom and Noah’s mom would send to each other. They were vicious. I was on mom’s side.

  Even when they got a restraining order against Mom.

  I have to admit, Mom doesn’t like to lose. Not even when it’s a guy she’s better off without—even when she knows it. She was still quite adamant—Noah’s mom destroyed our “family.” The lady basically left me without a dad, and definitely left me with a hesitation about men. And love. I mean, since “love” can obviously be thrown away so easily.

  So…

  All I was left with was a blog. And an “un-cool” friend. Well, and also my “cool” old friend, Summer—who was always willing to FaceTime with me whenever I wanted. But face it, Summer had a life. A real one. Full of boys and friends and parties. And a hot new stepbrother, Mason. Who I could tell she secretly loved.

  So, sigh.

  And sob.

  Though not really. I got sooo into dancing. I mean, I’d been into it before I moved away. But once I moved, it became my life. I did it all the time. And I was … awesome.

  So, there was that. Which was good. Since my blog had exactly one follower. One! And it wasn’t Lydia or Summer. I know, since I didn’t tell them about it. The blog was a secret because I wrote personal stuff on it. Well, and tons of stuff about my favorite band of all time (well, at the time)—Sonny and the locks.

  Oh, how I adored Sonny.

  My follower didn’t adore Sonny though. He quite despised Sonny. (By the way, I like to think my follower is a ‘he.’ The messages sound like a ‘he’ but could be coming from a seventy year-old woman with no teeth for all I know.)

  My follower’s name is ‘IDespiseSonny123.’ He makes me laugh—he did even then, back when he first started posting comments to my posts. Comments that told me how very, very messed up I was to love Sonny.

  IDespiseSonny123’s posts cheered me up when I was sad. He would tell me lame jokes and funny things about his life. I liked to think he was handsome. But really I was just glad he was … there. Listening. Letting me know someone was out there.

  CHAPTER 11

  About a month ago, I had to move in with my dad. I had to because of Noah. Apparently, my mom had sent Noah a text instructing him to tell my dad he no longer had to ‘worry’ about me or my mom interfering in his life. That we would never, ever interfere in it again … and that he’d be sorry. He would realize what he threw away when we were no longer around to ignore.

  Okay, it was basically a suicide note—or anyway, it had been deemed that by the family-court judge when the text was shown to him later—after Noah showed it to my dad—which he did after he called 9-1-1.

  Mom had sent the disturbing message to Noah, only because she had been blocked by my dad and his new wife—Noah’s mom. But Noah hadn’t blocked my mom, even though my dad had filed a restraining order against her, saying she was ‘harassing’ him and his new wife—again, Noah’s mom.

  Even though my mom had in no way put my life in any sort of jeopardy, the judge still thought it would be best—and for my ‘safety’—to place me in my father’s custody. The fact that Mom went against the restraining order was sighted as the main cause—but it was obvious the judge saw the text that she sent Noah as a dangerous possibility that he was not willing to risk.

  So, off to my dad’s house I was sent. Unwillingly.

  When my dad brought me “home” from the airport that night, there was a “family” dinner waiting for me. It smelled so good. And Noah and his mom—Beth—tried so hard to make me feel welcomed, but … no way. They’d just ripped me away from my mom. And ripped out her heart. No way was I going to let them into mine. I wasn’t going to let them anywhere near it.

  “Noah made the dinner,” Beth told me proudly, gesturing toward the beautifully set table I could see from the entry foyer where we were still all standing. “I set the table,” she said, “but he insisted on cooking. I was going to make you Chicken Parmesan—I’m famous for my Chicken Parmesan. But Noah insisted on Lasagna.”

  Dad smiled at me, “Lasagna is your favorite, right honey?”

  I choked out, “It used to be.”

  Until right this second.

  Beth went on with a huge (fake) smile, as though I had said, Yes, oh yes daddy, lasagna is my favorite! She explained that Noah had been on a ‘lasagna kick’ for months. “It’s the only thing he knows how to cook,” she laughed. “But he’s got it down to a science. Perfected it. You’re in for a treat.”

  I shook my head. “I’m not hungry.” I wrapped my arms around my stomach. “I feel sick.”

  And it wasn’t a lie. I did feel sick. Sick that Noah—the boy I had never actually met, but had detested with all my heart for the last four years—had made me dinner. And that he was so handsome. And seemed so nice. Yet he had called 9-1-1 and sent the police to my house. It was because of
him that I was forced to leave my mom.

  Well him, and these two other people. These two happy, smiling people—that had ruined my life. Gotten together, and destroyed our family. And turned my mom into a bitter psychopath at strange, unexpected times. Changed her and made her bitter—yet successful. Overly driven. Sometimes insane.

  It was their fault.

  “Can I—just go to my room?” I asked, and then went—without their permission.

  Upstairs, I stared. My room was the same. Exactly as I left it when I moved out with Mom the night Dad announced that he wanted a divorce. They hadn’t changed a thing.

  Noah quietly brought up my suitcase. He had slowly followed me up the stairs—not saying a word. Just following.

  “They left it for you to decorate,” he said as I just stared emotionally at my unchanged room, memories flooding through me.

  Everything else had changed—but not my room.

  I think Noah could see the tears welling in my eyes. He shot me the tiniest look and then softly said, “The lasagna will be in the fridge—if you want to eat it later. Alone.”

  That was all he said. Yet he said it so soft. So gentle. Like he understood what was in my heart. And he felt sorry for me.

  CHAPTER 12

  In the middle of the night, Noah caught me in the kitchen inhaling his lasagna. He’d been sneaking a girl out of his room, but he grinned when he caught me, looking incredibly pleased and teasing, “It’s pretty good, huh?”

  I’d had my mouth full of lasagna. And wanted to die. One, because it was so awesomely good that it seemed I was in heaven. And two, because I was embarrassed—caught scarfing his lasagna that I had made a point to pass on.

  His snuck girl looked shocked and confused to see me in the kitchen—with the lights off—but at the same time, equally seduced by the lasagna I was scarfing right out of the serving pan.