Just Flirt (27 page)

Moment definitely gone.

We follow Larson for nearly an hour, with Danny and Roxanne barking orders from the backseat.
Change lanes. Slow down. Stay four car lengths behind. Dee, look away, act natural.
Does being good at spy-themed video games make you good at tailing people? It must. We follow Larson all the way to Fairfield. He parks at a swanky restaurant and steps out of his Audi, wiping dust off the hood with his sleeve before going inside. “What now?” I ask. “We haven’t thought this out and Larson knows everyone here except for maybe Natalie—”

“I’m going in,” Roxanne announces.

No, that’s impossible. Larson will surely recognize her.

I turn to see her clutching her backpack, letting out a breath of air with her cheeks puffed like a diver getting up the nerve to jump. She grits her teeth and says, “Just let me out, okay?”

We watch as she disappears behind a thick cluster of the pine trees that surround the parking lot. Minutes later, I have to do a double take when she steps out in a cotton summer dress and cute strappy sandals, her hair pushed back with a wide headband and pink gloss on her lips.

Oh my gosh.

Roxanne tosses her backpack through the open window. “Don’t say it, okay?”

“Say what, that you look beautiful?” Danny asks.

*   *   *

The minutes drag after Roxanne steps into the restaurant. Jake eats Twizzlers and Natalie discusses Disney fast passes with Danny, seeing as how he’s been there twice, until we notice Roxanne waving from the front door. When she makes frantic camera motions with her hands, I grab my purse and jump out without thinking twice.

Inside, a stylish hostess tries to block me but Roxanne grabs my arm. “There you are, Priscilla! Tsk, tsk, late again. Mother and Father are so disgruntled!”

Disgruntled?
And
Priscilla?
“Hey, do I look like a Priscilla to—”

Roxanne shushes me and heads down the hallway past several small dining rooms before pulling me behind a large palm plant. She points to a table next to the fireplace where Larson is holding hands with an attractive woman in—I’m guessing—her late forties wearing a blue wrap dress and diamond studs the size of grapes in her ears. “Now there’s your
Gotcha
, Priscilla,” Roxanne whispers as a waiter serves Larson a plate of food. “He’s cheating on Mona.”

Son of a scum-sucking toad!

Of course Larson is cheating on her, just like George Clooney will always prefer models to pie-serving waitresses his own age. My face burns as the waiter makes small talk with Larson and his date. But then it hits me. “No. He’s cheating on
her
, the one at the table.”

“What? How do you know?”

“Simple. Because his food was served when he arrived, meaning she pre-ordered it for him. People who haven’t been dating long don’t have that level of intimacy yet. And,” I say, just as his date shoves a healthy amount of cheese soufflé into her mouth, “most women eat salad when they’re first dating, because Lord forbid she dare have an appetite.”

Roxanne nods. “Good point. Got the camera? This would make an interesting photo.”

Oh, yes. Yes, it would.

I fish my digital from my purse and hand it to Roxanne. She leans out to take their picture, but when the flash fills the hallway with light, she pins her back against the wall with her stomach sucked in. “Man, maybe I should have been eating more salads.”

“Are you kidding? You look great.”

“Yeah, right. You’re just saying that.”

“Roxanne, I swear, you are not—”

A couple walks by and stares at us. Okay, no time for chitchat, we need to bolt. Now. Outside, Nat is lingering near an empty bench. She quickly leads us to where Jake is now parked in a less conspicuous spot, but before we make it to his truck the restaurant’s back screen door opens. A waiter steps out with an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. As he bends his head to light it, Roxanne yanks Natalie and me down until we are crouching beside a Volvo. “Isn’t that the guy who served Larson?” she whispers. “It seemed as though he knew Larson and his date personally.”

We lift our heads over the Volvo’s hood to see the waiter inhale deeply as though his life depended on nicotine. “Huh. He
could
be quite helpful,” Natalie says.

“Indeed.” Roxanne grins. “What do you think, Natalie, the helpless card?”

Natalie ducks back down, turning to me with her head cocked to the side and a challenging gleam in her eye. “Well, playing the helpless card
is
perfectly acceptable in emergency situations such as these.”

As a busboy opens the screen door and flings dirty water out onto the parking lot, I wipe away their ridiculous notion with a flick of my wrist. “Oh, no, I’m retired from flirting, remember?”

“Are you serious?” Roxanne asks, picking up the sides of her new dress and giving it a shake. “I’m wearing a dress my
mother
picked out so the
least
you can do is whip out the Superflirt, okay?”

I look over to where Jake and Danny are waiting in the truck. No, for some weird reason, I don’t want Jake to see me flirting anymore. But what if the waiter does know something that can help us with the lawsuit? And I’m losing time, now that he’s halfway through his cigarette.

Well, fine, a flirt’s got to do what a flirt’s got to do.

While the waiter’s back is turned, I fluff my hair and creep out from behind the Volvo, easing my way onto the sidewalk, and making it appear as though I’m just going for a stroll. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” I ask, catching his attention while walking toward him in full flirt mode with my hips swaying.

The guy tries to hide his cigarette by cupping it in his palm. He’s about nineteen, with streaks of acne and heavy jewelry peeking out from underneath his uniform. “Can I help you with something? The, ah, main entrance is around front.”

I thrust my lips out in a pretty pout. “Oh, I know. I’m having lunch with my parents, but it’s
boring
so I went for a walk. Who are you, the head waiter or something?”

The guy nervously stomps out his cigarette and brushes the smoke away with his hands. “Well, no, I’m not really the head waiter.”

“Stop,” I tease, swatting his arm. “You’re being way too modest.”

Someone snorts from around the corner. Natalie and Roxanne must have crept up to eavesdrop. The waiter looks over my shoulder so I block his view and twirl a lock of hair around my finger. “I saw how you carried those heavy trays, and wow—I could never remember the names of all those wines!”

Argh!
I’m teetering way too close to fake flattery territory, but the waiter smiles, proving that I struck a chord by complimenting what some could see as a mundane career. “Well, yeah, my parents hate my job, so thanks … um, what’s your name?”

I think for a second, and then drawl out a coy “Priscilla.”

Another snort.

“Cool. And, hey, Priscilla, I bet you’d be a good waitress, too.”

“Really?” I press a hand against my chest and give a little hop, like a beauty pageant contestant who just won the crown. “That would be so incredible.”

I look deep into his eyes.
One … two … three.

Gotcha.

Time to go for the kill.

“But something’s bugging me.” I rest my hand on his forearm. “That couple you served by the fireplace—the tall man and the woman in the blue dress—they were so familiar!”

I toss my hair back, just as the wind picks up. Oh, the sweet timing. The waiter watches my hair tumble across my shoulder and says, “Yeah, uh, Kathleen Myers? She’s a real nice lady. Her husband was nice as well—he used to leave me these huge tips before he died last winter. That was, like, a total bummer, man.”

What?
That Kathleen lady is a
widow
? And a wealthy widow at that, judging from the huge tips and her diamond jewelry.
What exactly is Larson doing with a rich widow while he’s also dating Mona, a woman who’s trying to win a large lawsuit?

The answer is clearer than the pimple on the waiter’s nose.

*   *   *

On the way back to the campground, Roxanne and Natalie have themselves a jolly time mocking me from the backseat.
Me? A waitress? You think so, big strong waiter guy who can carry those awfully heavy trays?

“Ha ha,” I say to them, just as Jake gives me one of his disapproving scowls. “And yeah, I know, Jake, so you can stop looking at me like I’m a complete idiot.”

He grips the steering wheel, watching the road with steely determination before saying, “I never once thought that, Dee.”

I turn to face him. “Oh, please, you love making me feel like a total bimbo!”

“No, I never once thought you were an idiot or a bimbo, Dee. But yeah, I’ve always hated the way you flirt.”

“Yeah, the truth comes out.”

“But—not for the reason you think,” Jake says, before putting on the blinker and turning onto the road that takes us home.

*   *   *

After much deliberation, we decide that showing Ivy the picture of Larson is not a good idea. Not only would she say that if Larson is, indeed, a conniving dirtbag, it has absolutely nothing to do with the case, but she’d also be furious about us following him. And there’s the restraining order, the “very real, very serious restraining order,” she’s warned me not to violate a thousand times. If she knew I was anywhere near Blaine’s house, she’d flip her lid.

Besides.

Ivy doesn’t look all that good when we get back.

Her sophisticated makeover from a couple of weeks ago has morphed into a disheveled mess, with her tailored clothing replaced by frumpy sweats and her hair a battlefield of frizz as she pores over paperwork. After the disastrous settlement meeting, she blamed herself, saying that maybe those Wyatt, Hyatt & Smith farts were right to push her out if she’s the kind of lawyer who allows her clients to be destroyed.

But nobody is going to destroy us, not if I have anything to do with it.

I have a plan … one that requires a little help.

The Cutson brothers, wearing Spy Gear headphones, are giggling behind an evergreen, listening to two girls on playground swings gripe about cramps and uncomfortable tampons. I sneak up behind them and grab their scrawny arms.

“Hey,” they yell. “Let go!”

“Absolutely,” I say in a super-sweet voice. “I just wanted to compliment your stellar spying skills. Those girls had no idea you were watching them. I bet you two are the best spies in the whole town. No, the whole state!”

Lyle takes off his headset. “We’re not stupid, Miss Dee.”

“Yeah,” Tanner says. “What do you want?”

Well, well, well, charm doesn’t get you far with these guys, so I drop my smile. “Fine. I have an assignment for the both of you next Friday night. A secret mission, one that you will accept or I’ll be forced to tell your momma about that little incident involving water balloons and Miss Ivy’s camper, deal?”

“You ain’t got no proof !” Tanner protests. I stand tall over them with my arms crossed, causing the two dirty mongrels to whisper in each other’s ears.

“Deal,” Lyle says. “But for five bucks each.”

“And,” Tanner adds, “we want the money first.”

Good. In exactly five days, it will be time to
really
break the restraining order.

23
Sabrina

“Hey, hey, hey, is everybody having fun?”

Chuck Lambert stands at the mike on Friday night, ruddy cheeks glistening and husky voice booming over the speakers. His hair is brushed back pompadour-style off his forehead and is anchored with enough hairspray to survive a tornado.

“Yeah!” a few kids yell from the pool.

“Of course you are. Everyone has fun here,” Chuck bellows. He leans back and laughs, his lifted shirt exposing a flabby white stomach. So gross. But I should be grateful. Mom could have ended up with him. Larson is bad enough.

“But, folks, before we get on with the karaoke, I have some bad news.” Chuck hangs his head with remorse, like a bad actor in a car dealership commercial. He walks over to loop a beefy arm around Mom’s shoulders. “Unless I can talk her out of it, this will be Mona’s last appearance, now that she’s chosen to retire.”

A few polite groans of protest come from the crowd.

“So, let’s make her last night a good one,” Chuck says, handing Mom the mike. She thanks him and steps to the front of the stage, wearing subdued shorts and a crisp blouse. Even her nails, her trademark, are cut to a more modest length, and she doesn’t bother to name them anymore even though she’s
always
named her nails. No more Billy Joels or Jungle Fevers or Girl’s Best Friends—the ones with little faux diamonds glued on.

I never in my life thought I’d say this but …

I want the old Mona back.

“Well, I sure am going to miss this,” Mom says without her usual showgirl bravado. “But it’s onward and upward, right? So let’s get this gentleman up here who’s gonna sing a Willie Nelson song, ain’t that right, honey?”

The camper nods, his crooked teeth clenched as the starting beats of “Mamas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys” play. I still can’t believe she’s quitting. She loves karaoke more than her miniskirts, but even they are in bags waiting to go to Goodwill.

“You okay?” I ask as she sits down beside me.

Mom nods, her smile fake as she hands a pink songbook to a young mother with a toddler on her hip. “Of course, couldn’t be better. And you?”

“Fine, just fine,” I lie in return, even though Torrance and Bridget haven’t texted or called since Larson’s party, meaning that come next school year I’ll be lucky to make it into Spanish club, let alone the homecoming court. The only person who has tried to contact me is my father, but I just can’t deal with anything he has to say right now. Not yet.

Junk food.

Tonight I need junk food and something tells me Mom does, too. “Hey, want anything from Chuck’s coffee café? I can get you a mocha frappe, remember, with tons of whipped cream and cocoa sprinkles, yum-yum!”