by Amanda Grace
For my parents, who raised me to believe I could
be anyone I wanted to be. I love you both, and
your support means everything.
Woodbury, Minnesota
Copyright Information
In Too Deep © 2012 by Amanda Grace.
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E-book ISBN: 9780738730073
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Acknowledgments
Many thanks to my editor, Brian, for being such a blast to work with. Now that this book is done, maybe I’ll finally finish that starburst wrapper dress. Thank you, as well, to Sandy, for taking messy drafts and making them sparkle. I’m not sure what I’d do without your sharp eye! And thank you to the rest of the Flux team, especially Courtney and Steven, for being so great to work with.
Thank you to Super Agent Zoe, who has been in every acknowledgment I’ve ever written because I’ll always be indebted to her. And to Jennifer and Saundra, for reading an early draft of In Too Deep and talking me off the ledge. You girls rock. I must also thank Taryn Albright, for reading this book on a moment’s notice and providing such wonderfully insightful comments.
Lastly, thank you to my husband, who is taking our wonderful (and energetic!) daughter “on an adventure” as I type this, ensuring I don’t miss my deadline. Thanks for all you do.
“Oh what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.”
—Sir Walter Scott
One
Close your eyes.”
“What? Why?” Nick Davis, my best friend, gives me a freaked-out look that makes me laugh. He really is too easy to shock.
I lean back into the buttery-leather bucket seat of Nick’s Mustang. “Just do it.”
He lets out a big exasperated sigh and closes his eyes, leaning his head back against the headrest. I grab my backpack out of the back seat and unbutton my pants, glancing out into the darkened night. A group of girls pass by, their feet crunching the gravel not far from Nick’s car, their giggles breaking the silence. They’re heading toward the glowing house in the distance. There’s no way anyone can see me, but it still makes me nervous.
When he hears the zipper of my jeans, his eyes pop open.
I scramble to cover up my new lace-trimmed underwear. “No peeking! Geez!”
He squeezes his eyes shut as butterflies swarm my stomach. I can’t believe I’m going to change in front of him. If his eyes pop open while my pants are off, I’ll never forgive him.
“What are you doing?
“Changing.” I struggle to pull my jeans off in the cramped front. This seemed easier in my head. Thank God for the darker-than-dark tint on his windows, because I’m still struggling to untangle the jeans from my ankles, panic welling up.
“Why?” His voice sounds weird, kind of breathy. My heart flutters before I force it back under control.
“It’s not like I could walk out of the house in what I wanted to wear.” I pull the skirt out of my backpack and slip my bare feet into it, then shimmy it up over my hips. When the zipper on the side slides up, Nick peeks again, one eye at first, then both flare so wide it’s like one of those cartoons where the wolf’s eyes pop out of his head.
My heart goes kerthunk this time. Maybe I should have thought of dressing like this sooner, dressing more like Reyna, his on-again, off-again girlfriend.
Right now, I’m pretty sure they’re on again. To my utter, heart-crushing disappointment.
He looks outraged. “What the hell is that?”
I roll my eyes and try to pretend it’s no big deal. “It’s called a skirt.”
“That is not a skirt. That is a Band-Aid.”
I snort. “You know as well as I do that Carter won’t take a second look at me if I’m dressed the same as always.”
I think he flinches when I say “Carter.” I also think I’ve imagined it. This is the game in my head every time I’m around Nick these days. The “does he, doesn’t he” game. I hate it. And tonight it ends.
I realized I loved Nick the first time I saw him with Reyna, watched the way his lips curled upward when he looked at her, saw his eyes sparkle in a way they never did when it was just us two. And as she trailed her fingers down his arm, laughing flirtatiously, I realized I didn’t want to be “just friends” with him anymore, but by then it was too late.
Now all I ever do is watch them break up and get back together and break up and get back together and I can never seem to tell him how I feel. So I’ve enacted Plan B. I’ll make him think something’s going on with Carter Wellesley, the world’s biggest flirt, and once I see Nick’s reaction, I’ll finally know if he could ever see me like he sees Reyna. If maybe he could be more than just my best friend, my next-door neighbor.
He pulls the key from the ignition, the bulky key ring jingling in his hand. The throaty rumble of his five-year-old Mustang cuts off, plunging us into silence. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
I fight the urge to smile and instead slide deeper into the smooth bucket seat, trying not to fidget. I smooth out my sequined teal miniskirt and peer into the darkness, trying to make out some of the shadowy figures approaching Carter’s house.
Carter Wellesley is Mossy Rock High School’s golden boy, the one with the flawless smile and wicked fastball. He’s captain of the football, basketball, and baseball teams. I guess that’s not a huge accomplishment, considering that anyone with the slightest athletic ability is practically drafted onto the team, but he makes it look effortless. He’s not brilliant, but he’s funny, and people are drawn to him like a moth to flame. And aside from dating Tracey for a record-breaking two months, he’s not into attachment, at least as far as I can tell.
In the twelve years we’ve gone to school together, I’ve watched him flirt with every girl—including me, once, although he might have been joking with the girl next to me. Most guys do ignore me, after all. But he’s still a flirt, which is why he’s the perfect one for tonight.
/> It’s barely nine, but the bash is quickly reaching full steam. Even from our curbside vantage point, I can tell that most of the school is already here. Not that it means much—our senior class has forty-seven students. Forty-five, if you nix the stoner twins who have hardly shown up at all this month.
“Yes, I’m sure,” I say with fake confidence, the cheap sequins digging into my palms. I force myself to let go of the skirt before I ruin it. “We graduate in a week. If I don’t do it now, Carter will never even know my name.”
“He knows your name. You’ve known him since kindergarten. It’s impossible to not know your name.”
I shoot Nick a glare. “Sometimes he calls me Pam.”
“He probably does that on purpose. Besides, at least it rhymes with Sam.”
I narrow my eyes further. “Don’t be stupid, Nick.”
“Don’t be stupid, Nick,” he parrots back at me, in an annoying, nasally voice. There’s no way I sound like that. He’s pissed off, and I let myself hope that means something. Why else would he get riled up about me going after Carter? God let me be right.
Nick blows out a long, slow breath and leans his head against the headrest again, which will probably make his bed-head look even more attractive to the girls at the party. The messier his thick brown hair gets, the more they cling to him like Reynolds Wrap. I bet if he used his graphing calculator, he could show the exact moment that he would get the maximum effect.
Must be nice. I spent forty-five minutes tonight trying to tame my dark blond curls into something resembling Taylor Swift, but I look more like a Lady Gaga–inspired disaster. Nothing new, though. No matter what I do, average is the best I can hope for. That’s all I want. Average. Cute if I’m lucky. I’ll probably always fall short of downright pretty.
I’m struck again by the dull pain of thinking that maybe if my mom were still around, she could help me. Could show me how to dress better, how to use the right makeup to obscure my too-big nose, fix my too-small eyes.
I stare Nick down, but now he won’t look at me. I think I have a heart arrhythmia now—it’s spasming, all thud thud thud thud.
He’s mad I’m interested in Carter. He’s upset I’m dressed in a miniskirt. He won’t meet my eyes. Please let this mean what I think it means.
“Your dad would kill both of us if he saw you in that,” he says, resignation in his voice.
“Which is why he’ll never know.”
“You know this is a bad idea,” he adds, staring out the windshield.
“No, it is not a bad idea. Carter broke up with Tracey two weeks ago. The timing is perfect.” Why is Nick
so intent on talking me out of it? Is it because he thinks I’m not pretty enough for Carter, or because he actually likes me?
I grip the door handle. “Seriously,” I say, “stop trying to psych me out. I’m doing it.”
“Whatever,” he says gruffly. “ Let’s just go in.”
I nod, try not to visibly gulp. I climb out of the car and slam the door extra hard, ignoring the wince Nick gives me. I grip my purse in one hand and use the other to adjust the miniskirt that seems to have ridden up so high I might be showing off my thong.
Thong. I can’t believe I bought one of those ridiculous things. But I’ve watched Carter for four years, and he doesn’t go for my usual look: T-shirts and Levis. Carter is high school perfection—a man’s man who actually has manners, a guy who can fix a car but also knows to open doors and buy flowers for his girlfriend. Well, before they broke up.
I chose him because it’s the obvious choice. He’s single, and he’s flirty, and that’s all I need.
I take in a long breath and blow it out through my mouth as I stride across a lawn so well-manicured it would make a golf course proud, Nick trailing behind. My shiny-new stilettos sort of sink into the grass, so I move over to the walkway.
There are three guys sitting on a brick planter to my right, and I can feel their eyes boring right into me. The confidence I faked in the car disappears completely and I try to walk as if I don’t notice them watching me.
I totter my way to the front door, following a lanky redhead in a spaghetti-strap tank top and jeans so tight they look painted on. When the leaded-glass and oak door swings open, a bass beat rumbles out. It sounds like Flo Rida. Figures Carter would listen to this stuff. What’s wrong with a little country?
The crowd inside is thick. I have to turn sideways to squeeze in far enough to let Nick enter behind me. Even with its cavernous, twenty-foot ceilings, the house feels a little cramped.
I get caught in a stream of people—jammed in the mix, shoulder-to-shoulder—and it forces me to migrate away from Nick, toward the kitchen. I don’t know where Carter even found this many people. Maybe there are juniors here, too.
I know I’m too smashed-in for people to notice me or what I’m wearing, but I feel like every eye in the room is on me. It’s warm, and it feels as if every inch of my skin is already glistening with sweat. This was a bad idea. What had sounded brilliant in the safe cocoon of my bedroom now seems ridiculous.
But if I stick with it, I know it’ll work. Nick will see me flirt, and he’ll feel that same twinge I did the first time I saw him with Reyna—a dull ache that takes up residence in your chest.
A long plastic trough filled with ice and bottles of alcohol is all the invitation I need. I grab the first thing I see—hard lemonade—and twist off the cap. I take a long, relentless drink, downing at least half of it in one swoop. I’m not a drinker, not normally. My dad’s a cop—the chief of police, in fact—and he’d kill me if he knew I went out partying like this. As it is, he thinks I’m at a mock U.N. meeting. I don’t even think we have those at our school, but he doesn’t actually know anything about me or who I am, so he didn’t think much of it.
I’ve only been drunk once, sophomore year, when Nick and I were sneaking alcohol out of the cooler during a particularly busy Fourth of July barbecue at his house. But right now the butterflies are multiplying too fast. I just need this one drink. Maybe two. Then I can reassess the plan. Possibly ditch it all together.
The effect of the alcohol is almost instant. It’s like warm fingers unfurling inside my stomach. I guzzle the rest of the bottle, then toss it and pick up a beer, relishing the quieting of the butterflies.
I sip the beer, finally turning away from the granite counter and looking back into the great room. Finals are mostly over and it seems like the entire senior class is here to celebrate. I guess that’s nothing crazy, in a town this small. This stifling. What else is there to do?
Scanning the crowd, I look for Carter’s perfect, shaggy blond hair and intense blue eyes. It’s too warm in here for his trademark letterman jacket—the one positively filled with patches representing every sport he’s mastered.
Instead, my eyes land on Nick. He’s still stuck near the door, and already people are gravitating toward him, high-fiving him and slapping his back, trading jokes and barbs. You’d think he just won an Oscar for Best Motion Picture or something, the way everyone carries on. He’s the class president, not a celebrity.
He meets my eyes, nodding, and I tip my chin up back at him. And then the moment scatters, as a tall brunette with exotic dark eyes flings her arms around him.
It’s Reyna, the ex-girlfriend. No—wait—girlfriend, without the ex attached. I think. She looks a little drunk, what with the awkward sloppiness of the hug.
Oh God, we’re wearing the same obnoxious sequined miniskirt. But she was smart enough to wear it with
low gladiator sandals instead of sky-high stilettos. She looks beach chic; I look like a go-go dancer. I knew I went overboard.
I tear my eyes away from them, feeling my cheeks flame, and guzzle the beer in my hand until it’s empty. The heat I now feel is not due to embarrassment.
The energy in the room seems to hum and change, and I realize that Carter has walked in. Maybe “walk” is the wrong word. He seems to glide, floating into the room as if he’s above everyone
else, as if he doesn’t need to touch the ground like us mere mortals. And people part like the Red Sea for him, smiling, waving, staring. I’m surprised they don’t drop to their knees and bow.
He’s walking toward me. Straight toward me. I try to breathe in slowly, keep the pressure from squeezing my lungs too tightly. I need this to work. I need him to notice me, flirt with me, laugh with me. Nick is just across the room. If he saw Carter sling an arm around me, saw him tuck a tendril of hair behind my ear, maybe, finally, Nick would do something. Swoop in and admit he has feelings for me. Because no matter how hard I try, I can’t make the first move. Can’t just ask him.
It’s stupid and I know that, but if I ask him and don’t like what he says, it’ll kill me. And it’ll kill our friendship. I just can’t take it if his answer isn’t yes.
When Carter meets my eyes, gives me that glowing smile of his, I’m like butter in a hot pan. I think I might melt right into my terribly uncomfortable shoes. He’s dazzling—it’s no wonder all the girls are after him.
“Hey,” he says, stopping so near me that our toes seem to touch. His presence is more intense than ever. I want to shrink back and lean forward at the same time. I never realized how tall he is—almost as tall as Nick. He must be six foot. And I’m five three on a good day.
“Hi,” I say in my perkiest voice, smiling so widely he can probably tell I’ve had my wisdom teeth pulled.
Way to look crazy. I probably should have stuck with that flippant, bored look that his ex, Tracey, has mastered. Does he like it if girls come on strong? It’s not like I’m going to sleep with him, of course. I’d never go that far. I just need to flirt with him, maybe get him to give me a playful pinch, tug on one of my curls, something.
We share a long, silent moment. I smile demurely in his direction. I think. I’m not entirely sure what smiling demurely feels like. I try to find something intelligent to say. Something to break the ice, get us talking. Something flirty that will let him know I’m interested.
