“Mel,” he called from behind me.

“Thanks for the ride,” I answered, refusing to look at him or slow down.

“Mel!” he said, raising his voice in command. Reluctantly I stopped and turned to look back at him, almost falling on my ass again. I didn’t like being drunk, I decided. Nothing was working right and it’d stopped being fun.

“What?”

“You need to text London and Kit,” he said, his voice almost kind. “Let them know you’re okay. Tell them I brought you home.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling sheepish because it hadn’t even occurred to me. (Definitely no more getting super drunk—I just wasn’t very good at it.) I pulled out my phone and saw several missed texts. Crap. The first was from London, about forty-five minutes ago.

LONDON: Have fun but be careful, Mel. Taz is cute . . . he’s also a player.

Then fifteen minutes later.

LONDON: I didn’t see where you went—you okay?

And finally . . .

LONDON: I’m worried about you, Mel. Please text and let me know you’re all right.

Ugh. I had to be the worst not-quite-daughter ever. Right after that was a message from Kit.

KIT: Londons freaking out and someone said you went off with Taz be careful xx

Crap crap crap . . .

ME: Sorry I got tired and decided to come home. Caught a ride with painter and its all good. See you later and thanks for the invite

I looked back toward the street, where Painter was still sitting on his bike, watching me. I gave him a perky little finger wave—why did you do that? You look like a total dork for doing that! Ugh—then walked up to the door, pulling out my key. I stood there, considering, then turned and walked back across the lawn to him before I could chicken out because we still had unfinished business.

Painter cocked his head, questioning.

“Thank you very much for letting me borrow your car while you were in prison,” I said carefully, holding his gaze. “It was really nice of you and it helped me a lot.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied, some strange emotion stealing across his face. Nodding, I turned and walked back up to the door, pulling out my key again. I heard the bike roar to life behind me as I stepped inside.

Jessica had been right about one thing. Going out to the Armory had been a big mistake.

CHAPTER FOUR

I found Jess on the couch, working on her laptop and eating a red licorice whip. Her hair was still in the disturbing amoeba-growth-shaped bun and she’d balanced a can of Red Bull on the faded couch arm next to her. Music played in the background, her usual mix of upbeat dance and boy bands. As much as I loved Jess, her playlists made me want to gouge my ears out of my head.

When she saw me, her eyes got wide and she pointed accusingly.

“You got laid, you little whore!”

“Excuse me?” I asked, totally confused. God, I must be even drunker than I thought.

“You. Got. Laid,” she repeated, stabbing her finger in my direction for emphasis. “All your lipstick’s worn off. You met some guy and sucked his dick, didn’t you? Did he go down on you, too? I’m assuming he got you off—there’s that sparkle in your eyes . . .”

“No, I didn’t suck anyone’s dick. I mean, we—”

Then I stopped, swallowing. Wait, what? Why were we having this conversation? More important, did I want to tell her what’d happened with Painter? I blinked slowly, trying to figure out what to say when Jess burst out laughing.

“Mellie, you’re too easy,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I know you didn’t get laid—but can you blame me for giving you shit? You always blush so hard. It’s really funny because you’d never hook up at a party. You’re always the good girl.”

I scowled, then dropped down next to her on the couch. I couldn’t decide whether to be offended she thought I couldn’t get any action or thankful that she didn’t suspect anything. Reaching down, I tried to loosen my boots. This proved harder than it should be, because my fingers weren’t working quite right.

“Just because I’m good at school doesn’t mean I can’t hook up,” I reminded her. “It’s not like I’m a virgin.”

“You’ve slept with three guys, correct?” she asked, arching a brow. I nodded, wincing as I thought about that last one . . . none of them had been great, but John had actually hurt me. Terrible, terrible aim that boy had.

“And when was the last time you got laid?” she continued.

“It’s been a while,” I admitted.

“Since you met Painter.”

I shrugged, refusing to dignify her questions with a reply. That would only encourage the wench.

“That’s a dead end and you know it,” she said, flapping her hand in dismissal. “I need you to get off your ass and grab some action—since I swore off sex, I’m counting on you, Mel. You’re my everything.”

She stared at me with adoring, mocking puppy dog eyes.

Flipping her off, I flopped back into the couch cushions, propping my feet up on the coffee table we’d scrounged at the St. Vinnie’s thrift shop. It was battered and hideous, but it was solid enough to hold a pizza and a six-pack, which was all that mattered (at least according to Jess).

“You’re not as smart as you think,” I mumbled. “It’s not like that.”

“I’m surprised Loni didn’t come in to say hi when she dropped you off,” she said, flopping back next to me. “She usually does.”