Filthy Foreign Exchange

by Angela Graham

  “Th-there’s a counter,” I reply softly, motioning with my head, even though I know his meaning is a different one. “Lots of stuff you can buy with your tickets…”

  He laughs wickedly. “I haven’t any need for rubber snakes or plastic spider rings. Surely, between the two of us, we can come up with a more interesting victory reward?” His eyebrows arch, eyes begging me to play along.

  Don’t play along, Echo.

  “What do you want?” I choke out on reflex, my own internal warning forgotten faster than it’d been issued.

  “I want you to dance, just for me. At your spot—your tree.”

  “And if I win?”

  “Anything you want, Love.”

  What do I want? I need to think simple, because “Quit being a man whore, and also never leave” is probably a little much for the scope of this competition.

  And then it hits me: the perfect solution to a problem that’s been plaguing me since the last day of junior year. The desire of this “experience” exists inside me, but the disgust that hits me anytime I consider my possible date options always overshadows it.

  “If I win…”

  I shift from foot to foot, then take a deep breath and stare at him, praying he’ll see how hard this is for me to ask and not laugh.

  “You’ll escort me to my senior prom.”

  A vivid smile lights up his face, and the blaze in his eyes has me licking my parched lips.

  “So, either way, I get a dance from you,” he whispers. “Must be my lucky night. You, Love, have got yourself a deal.”

  Chapter 13

  The ride home is beyond awkward. Imagine driving through hell, in neutral. Or opening your eyes and realizing it wasn’t a bad dream—you are in front of your entire class naked.

  Yeah, it’s that bad, for several reasons I can’t even catalog in order from least dismal to catastrophic, since they suck equally. Needless to say, my mood has completely plummeted.

  “Um, Echo? Pardon the interruption to all this stimulating conversation we’re currently engaged in, but did we run over a puppy and I somehow missed it?”

  I refuse to laugh. Refuse.

  “Echo, talk to me. You cannot possibly be this sore of a loser,” Kingston says, failing to mask the victorious chuckle in his voice.

  Yes, I lost. It seems the notorious Mr. Hawthorne forgot to mention he was Lord of the Vintage Video Game—and air hockey. Or that he could whack a freakin’ mole like he had two sets of eyes and four hands.

  Bastard.

  “So you won. Congratulations. But that’s the least of my worries,” I seethe, giving him a sidelong glare. “Ego, much?”

  “Well, I know you’re not stewing about the part where you’ll be dancing for me. You’re so engrossed when you perform, you won’t even notice I’m there.” Yes, I most definitely will. “And I’ve watched you before, so I refuse to believe that’s the reason behind your sad eyes.”

  Problem is, that’s part of it—doing a private show for Kingston has my stomach coiled in Army-issue knots. Putting myself, my art, on display for only him adds a whole new aspect to it: intimacy.

  Plus, I am kind of a sore loser.

  I exhale in a huff of worried, complex frustration.

  “Kingston…I don’t like to lose, I’ll admit. And I’m a little nervous about putting on a special show just for you. I’m not a showgirl, or your ‘private dancer,’ so I hope you’re not having any indecent thoughts that would degrade my artistry. But that’s neither here nor there, because I’m gonna be grounded for so long I won’t be able to leave my room to hold up my end of the bet anyway.”

  But that’s still not the thing bothering me the most.

  His head jerks my way. “What? Why would you be…oh, bloody hell.” He groans, grabbing his hair with both hands. “Curfew. Echo, I’m so sorry. I was having such a smashing time, I didn’t even think of it.”

  “It’s not your fault.” I sigh. “I forgot too.”

  “No.” He reaches over and squeezes my knee. “I’ll fix this. You let me handle it with your father. Promise?”

  “Yeah, right,” I scoff. “And just how do you propose to do that?”

  “You got a spare back there?” He points with his thumb toward the bed of my truck.

  “Yeah, of course, why wouldn’t…” I cringe. “Crap. No. Sebastian took it for something his buddies were up to, and forgot to return it. Glad you reminded me.”

  He’s silent, drumming his fingers on my knee while he thinks.

  “Wait, why?” I ask.

  Finally, his hand disappears from my knee and he snaps his fingers.

  “Do you know of a salvage lot between here and your house?”

  “Like a junkyard?”

  “Yes, exactly like that!”

  “Actually, I do. Why?”

  “Go there. Quickly.”

  When I fail to accelerate fast enough for the adrenaline junkie, he laughs. “Drive faster, Love.” I smile to myself, pressing down on the gas and praying he knows what the hell he’s doing, when he asks, “Where’s your phone?”

  “In the cup holder.” I don’t bother to ask why this time. Not only am I beginning to sound like a parrot, but it doesn’t matter. His plan, whatever it may be, is our only plan.

  “Just keep driving—fast—but don’t get pulled over, and don’t talk. What’s your cell code?”

  I don’t know why I volunteer it with no hesitation, but I do. “1-2-3-4.”

  He laughs. “Why even have a code?”

  “Not importaaant,” I reply in a tense sing-song. “Doing sixty in a forty, so maybe ask me later?”

  “Shh,” he warns sharply, and I clamp my mouth shut. “Mrs. Kelly? Oh, yes, I apologize. Julie. This is Kingston…no, no, she’s fine! But we got ourselves in a bit of a jam: a flat tire on the way home. I’m fixing it now…no, it’s no problem. I simply wanted to call so you wouldn’t worry, since we’ll be missing curfew.”

  There’s a long pause in which I can hear my mother’s muffled voice. I can’t stop my smirk, now that I’m finally clued in on his scheme.

  “I wanted her to stay in the vehicle since it’s too dangerous on the side of the road, and insisted she let me call to explain. She was worried she might be in trouble, but rest assured, I explained to her that was ludicrous. Considering you’re such supportive, understanding parents, I knew your only concern would be her safety.”

  Even with my eyes mostly on the road, I catch his wink at me that clearly states he’s proud of himself for that little trick he just pulled out of his hat. I’ll admit it: He’s good.

  As I pull in front of the junkyard, he hangs up with my mom. “You’re really gonna flatten my tire? And replace it with what, genius?”

  I stop at the gate and notice the big CLOSED sign, accompanied by a large, unmistakable padlock that signals it’s the end of the road for us.

  “No way!” I bang my hands against the steering wheel. “Of course it’s closed. It’s late. So what now, Bourne?”

  But he’s already outside, leaning through the passenger-side window to look at me.

  “Turn the truck off, but leave the lights on, and jump out. We need to hurry—certainly don’t want a dead battery, as well. And your assistance is required.”

  I’m knee deep in the conspiracy now, so I might as well own it. I hop out and meet him at the front of the truck.

  “All right. First, what tools do you have?” he asks, fiddling with the padlock on the gate.

  “Oh, you mean besides the lock-picking set I don’t have in my glove compartment? Hmm…nothing!” I throw my arms out to my sides. “We’re screwed.”

  “How easily you give up. Must be residual from your arse-kicking tonight.” He grins, poking me in the belly. “Do you know how to remove a tire?”

  I nod adamantly. “Yes. And I do have the tool for that.”

  “I knew that’d be your answer.” He beams, with…pride? “Do it—fast. But try not to get dirty. I said I had you wait
in the vehicle. I’ll be right back with a spare. I’ll say your tire rolled down a hill into the lake.”

  “Kingston…” I squirm, gnawing on the inside of my cheek. “I don’t like lying to my parents.”

  “I know, and you won’t.” His hand brushes across my cheek, his eyes latched onto mine. “I will.”

  He runs off, and I yell at his back, “But how are you gonna get a—”

  Oh my God. My jaw drops open, and I can feel my eyes widening.

  “Oh my God, what the hell are you doing?” I watch in horror as he scales the fence like a cat burglar. “Kingston! Junkyards usually have dogs—mean, growly, bitey dogs!”

  “Maybe we hold off on our screaming so as not to alert them, then, eh?” he whispers loudly as he drops to the ground. “Echo, move your beautiful arse and get the tire off. Please.”

  ~~~~~

  Somehow, we manage it. Kingston actually steals a tire off a junkyard truck, slaps that bad boy on, and rolls mine down into a ditch to retrieve tomorrow.

  And the light grease stains on his hands only help prove our case to my parents when we get home, my dad waiting on the porch. I don’t have to speak a word; Kingston does all the talking, just as he promised he would.

  “Well, I’m just glad you were with her when it happened. Thank you, Kingston.” My father claps him on the shoulder. “I’ll see about getting her a new tire tomorrow.”

  “No, Dad, please. My truck, my responsibility. I’ll pay for it.” There’s no way I’ll remain silent and let my father waste his money on our farce—especially since the perfectly fine tire is sitting in a ditch, waiting for us to pick up.

  “Actually, John,” Kingston says, looking directly into my father’s eyes, “I let the tire roll down the hill—in a hurry, but still careless. I’ll buy Echo a new tire. I insist.”

  My dad makes his thinking-it-over humming noise in the back of his throat, scratches his chin, then finally decides.

  “That sounds about right. Way to take responsibility, Kingston. I’m proud of you. Now, you two head to bed. I’m glad you’re both all right.”

  “Yes, sir,” I mumble, ashamed. “Night, Mom.”

  I can’t even look at her, and the deeper concerns plaguing my stomach are undeniable. Kingston Hawthorne is a very bad influence, and the gravity of what that entails is smacking me dead in the face. If he can lie that easily to my parents, he could do it to anyone—including me.

  I watch the floor the entire walk to my room, and quietly shut my door. I manage to change into pajamas without crying, guilt and heavy thoughts weighing down every movement.

  I’m about to head in to brush my teeth when a knock sounds from the other side of the bathroom door.

  “Echo,” he whispers, “can I come in?”

  “Just step back and I’ll open it. I need in there anyway.”

  I pause for him to move away, then enter. I don’t look at him, or in the mirror.

  “Echo,” he says, low and solemn, before stepping close. I can feel his front, a breath from my back. “You didn’t lie—not one time. I did. So stop carrying any burden, which I know is what you’re doing right now. I don’t want you to think me a liar. But Echo, I did it for you. I simply couldn’t let our night end with you in trouble. I wouldn’t have it tarnished.”

  I say nothing, mulling over his words as I give my teeth a thorough cleaning. I’m glad the concern eating at me seems to have crossed his mind, too, considering he’s telling me he doesn’t exactly feel blasé about lying.

  After I rinse, I finally look at him…and I don’t see a liar. I see a beautiful man, inside and out, who showed me the best night I’ve ever had before promptly falling on his sword to spare me. I see a tried-and-true friend who has my back.

  “Thank you.” I wrap my arms around his waist and hug him tightly, my cheek pressing against his bare chest. It’s warm to the touch, and smells deliciously of pure male and hard work. It’s hypnotizing, but I’m not surprised by that anymore. “I owe you one.”

  “Actually,” he replies, rubbing my back and allowing his lips to rest upon my hair, “you owe me two.”

  I lean back, craning my neck to see his face. “Two?”

  “Dances,” he clarifies with a wink. “You owe me two. One for the bet you lost—”

  “And one for covering for me,” I realize, finishing the sentence for him. “You’re right. I mean…it’s only fair. Two it is.”

  He slides a finger under my chin and tilts my face upward, bending his head so his next words bathe my lips in warmth. “You owe me nothing for the tire story, except maybe a ride to my truck in the morning.” He smiles. “No, Love. The second dance I speak of is prom.”

  He must see the confusion on my face or the girlish hope in my eyes—or both—because he answers my unasked question. “Yes, I’m still escorting you.”

  “You don’t have to do that. I lost, fair and square.”

  “I know that. As do you.” He runs his thumb along my bottom lip, a smooth smile on his own. “You and I also both know I want to take you. And I don’t think you’re opposed to the idea…are you?”

  I blush fiercely and shake my head, quickly and subtly. And with that, I realize everything I thought was bothering me tonight—losing, breaking curfew, lying, possible junkyard-dog attacks—wasn’t it at all.

  The true root of my unhappiness was the thought that Kingston wouldn’t be taking me to my one and only prom. I didn’t know how much I wanted it until I thought I’d lost it, which seems to be a lesson I’m learning repeatedly when it comes to him.

  I place my new understanding on the “It is what it is” shelf inside the deepest part of me, promising myself I won’t examine it further.

  “It was never not going to happen,” he says through the gentlest kiss he places on my forehead. “And now that I see you’ve stopped worrying needlessly, sleep well.”

  “Night, Kingston.”

  “Good night, Love.”

  And sleep well, I do.

  Chapter 14

  When I arrive at my truck after school the next day, there’s my perfectly good original tire, back on in place of the spare.

  I start cackling like a crazy woman, right in the middle of the parking lot, for many reasons. I can’t help it as I think back to last night: our “great caper” of junkyard heists and sinister plotting. I’ve never done anything even close to reckless in my life…and it feels good, now that most of my guilt’s been absolved.

  I’m also tickled at picturing Kingston searching the ditch for my hidden tire, then putting it back on…here. I don’t know when or how he managed it, but I’d bet money on the fact that plenty of my fellow female students had noticed—and enjoyed the show. Kingston Hawthorne, exerting physical energy, possibly sweating, maybe even taking off his shirt…

  Yeah, he’d drawn an audience. Guaranteed.

  After taking a thumbs-up selfie squatted down next to my tire and shooting it his way, I head home, where I wait for him. I want to thank him in person—especially now that my text has gone unanswered. I’d hate for him to think I’m ungrateful.

  But after two hours pass with still no sign of Kingston, I decide to head to the pavilion. Time to start working on a brand-new routine: the one I owe him.

  I’m tempted to choreograph the performance to a Spice Girls song, just to tease him, but I honestly can’t produce anything I’d be proud of around their beats. So instead, I go with “Paradise” by Coldplay; the dance is for him, so the song shall be too.

  And once I work through the intro, I feel confident about where I want to take the rest of the dance, so I head in for dinner.

  The moment I spot Kingston’s truck in the driveway, a strange swish rolls through my stomach and my pace increases—until I’m inside, and find he’s not around.

  “Do I have time to shower before dinner?” I ask my mom, who’s still at the stove.

  “Sure, honey.” She smiles. “What were you out there working on?”

  “Just
something new,” I answer quickly before bounding up the stairs, calling back over my shoulder as nonchalantly as I can muster, “Where’s everyone else?”

  “Your father ran into town, and I’m not sure where Kingston and your brother are,” she answers.

  Kingston and Sammy are together? Doing what?

  I hurry through my shower, hoping to have time to go track down what they’re up to before we eat. But I don’t forget to do one very important “other” thing before I turn off the water and step out, a grin plastered across my face.

  When I’m dressed and my hair’s towel-dried, I head downstairs to find everyone sitting at the table, waiting on me.

  “Sorry. I tried to hurry.”

  “It’s fine,” my father says. “Your mother said you were working on a new routine?”

  I glance over at Kingston, who’s beaming at me.

  “New routine? That sounds lovely.” His eyes dance with the knowledge that it’s the performance I owe him being discussed.

  “Um, yeah.” I blush, then busy myself with helping my mom carry platters to the table.

  “I’ve been working on something too!” Sammy boasts. “Kingston’s helping me!”

  “Well, how sweet! John, isn’t that wonderful?” my mother asks, sitting down at the same time I do.

  “Uh-huh,” my dad grumbles, filling his plate. “You boys just be careful. Don’t get carried away.”

  The table rattles, announcing my mother’s foot has connected with a table leg instead of my father’s. I hide my laughter, but give Sammy an encouraging smile and Kingston an appreciative one.

  And the rest of dinner goes off without a hitch—in fact, my mother does most of the talking, thrilled that Sebastian called her earlier today. I listen, adding obligatory responses here and there, but my nerves are fraying more with each passing minute…because the weight of Kingston’s stare never leaves me.

  I just hope my father isn’t noticing the same.

  After the meal is cleaned up and I’m sitting in bed, finishing some homework, I hear the shower turn on.