Under the Lights (18 page)

Or what?
hovers on the tip of my tongue, but I don't dare say it. For one thing, my parents have drilled “Respect your elders” so far into my brain I don't think I could talk back to anyone over thirty if I wanted to.

But mostly, all I heard was that tonight I'm going to a club with Bri. And though it makes every hair on my body stand on end to think about why, I can't remember the last time I was this excited for anything.

If anyone asks me tonight how long it took me to get ready, I will blatantly lie. I can't even remember when I last spent so much time on my hair and makeup when there weren't any shiny statuettes being handed out on stage. But by the time Bri texts to tell me she and her Jeep are out front, I'm feeling pretty damn good about the outfit Ally helped me pick out over Skype. I know I look hot in this shade of purple, and given that I've been too anxious all day to eat a single bite, I look extra thin in a dress that's wrapped around me tighter than a bandage. My hair's so shiny I can see dimensions of my reflection in the mirror, and third time was the charm for finally nailing sexy beach waves the way my hairdresser, Isaac, has tried to teach me a zillion times.

I don't even know what I hope will happen tonight, but it
does
feel like my very last night of freedom, and for that, I wanna look good.

Thankfully, my parents are at my aunt and uncle's tonight—I can't deal with my mother eyeing me like I've dressed for Satan worship—so I let myself out of the house slowly, giving Bri time to appreciate me from tousled head to sexy-sandaled toe. But there's no reaction at all—no whistle, no admiring once-over,
not even a “Looking good.” Just a slightly impatient-sounding, “Ready?”

“Yeah.” The word sticks in my throat, all excitement rapidly draining out of my system.

She pulls the car out of park and starts off toward Sugar, a club I'd never go to if it hadn't been arranged by the reality-show clan. It's the first time she's ever driven me anywhere, and I wonder if maybe she's just a nervous driver, like I am. But her clenched jaw doesn't look particularly fearful, and her eyes don't dart around anxiously or anything.

I'm pretty sure she's just avoiding eye contact.

I take advantage of that to do my own once-over, but I can't see much. She's wearing a leather jacket that covers up her outfit, and the combination of the night's darkness and the brightness of the neon lights makes it hard to see her face in any detail. Finally, I feel pathetic for staring, and I sigh and look out my own window.

But when we pull up to a red light a few minutes later, I can't help it anymore. “Did I do something?”

“Nope.” No eye contact.

I bite my lip while I wait for more, but more never comes. The light turns green, and she hits the gas.

“You're really just going to sit there being passive-aggressive all night?”

She snorts. “No. I'm going to be passive-aggressive for the length of this drive, and then I'm going to get wasted at the club and find a nice young man to drive me home.”

For some reason, the “nice young man” part feels like the sharpest stab wound of all. “What the hell, Bri?”

“What?” she asks innocently.

“Don't ‘what' me! You're the one who came up with the idea to supervise me tonight. Why'd you even say that if you were gonna be so pissed to be here?”

“Because I'm an idiot,” she mutters. “A complete fucking idiot who will never, ever learn.”

“Learn
what
?”

We hit another red light, and then she turns to me, her gorgeous eyes blazing with fury. “To stop taking straight girls seriously who get off on flirting with the queer girl but really still want the boyfriend security blanket. Do you have any idea how shitty it felt to hear from my
mom
that you're letting Zander put a fucking chastity belt on you? Pretty sure you had ample opportunity to tell me that yourself last night.”

“It's not a chastity belt,” I mumble, as if that's any sort of defense. She's right. I know she's right. But telling her just seemed so…
meaningful
, like I was looking for permission. “And anyway, it's not like you don't know I'm with Zander, or that your mom comes up with crazy stuff like this.”

“Are you ‘with' Zander?” Bri's voice is even more acidic than Josh's when he asks the same question, and makes me feel a thousand times worse. “Because I saw the two of you in that meeting, and I saw the way you looked like you were gonna hurl when he said you guys love each other. Do you even know him?”

“Of course I know him. We've been dating for months. He's a nice guy, Brianna.”

She laughs and turns back to the road as the light turns green. “Christ, listen to you. You
know
how much his ‘nice guy' act is manufactured by my mom and it still gets to you. He's not a nice guy, Van. He's using you to keep his name in the news before the Wonder Boys go on tour. And you're letting him because you're scared.”

I've never heard Bri sound so cruel, and more than anything I want to jump out of this car and run. Tears prick at my eyes, but I refuse to cry in her presence. Instead, I inhale sharply through my nose, grip the door handle, glare out the window, and pray we'll hit green lights all the way to Sugar.

Which is, of course, when we hit another red.

Bri pulls to a stop, and we're both silent for several of the world's longest moments. And then she says, “Dammit. Vanessa, I'm sorry.”

I don't say anything, don't turn, just bite my lip. If I do anything else, I know I'll spend the next ten minutes cleaning smeared eyeliner from my cheeks.

She sighs, and out of the corner of my eye, I watch her drop her head into her hands. Her hair is straight tonight—a rarity for her—and the long strands splay over her arms, calling to my fingers. I turn to face her, but keep my hands where they are. A second later, she picks her head back up and meets my gaze head-on.

She doesn't say anything, but her eyes are filled with genuine regret that hits me low in my stomach. For endless moments, neither of us moves, but then the light turns green, and she doesn't have a choice.

“I'm sorry,” she says again, her voice raw as she puts her foot to the pedal again. “You're right. You're with Zander, and I have no right to question why or what the two of you do. I'm sure he's crazy about you.” The right corner of her mouth curls up, just a little bit. “How could he not be?”

The flip in my stomach at those words is intense and immediate, and I tear my eyes away from her mouth and force them back on the road. For someone who wanted me to stop flirting with her last night, it sure sounds a lot like she's doing it right now.

Or maybe she's just messing with me because she can. “Don't mock me,” I say stiffly, watching her reflection in the windshield.

“I'm not mocking you,” she says softly. “But okay, yeah, maybe I'm mocking him a little bit. I'm sorry, but I just don't buy this. At all. Why would either of you
want
to take a purity pledge? You really don't want to have sex until you're married?”

“What if I don't?”

“Then I respect that. If it's
really
what you want. But is it?”

The billion-dollar question. “I don't know,” I admit cautiously. “I believe in saving myself until I'm in love. Is that really so different?”

“Um, yes? Like, immensely different.”

“Okay, well, it's not like I have the ring on my finger yet,” I remind her. “I still have time to think about it.”

“What is there even to think about? How can you say yes to this if you're not sure it's what you want?”

Is it really any scarier than saying yes to
this
when I'm not sure it's what I want?
The words are on the tip of my tongue, but saying them aloud…that's a whole Pandora's box I'm just not ready to open. Besides, I'm still not sure what “this”
is
. Hanging out with Bri doesn't feel like hanging out with Ally, but it doesn't feel like hanging out with Zander, either. I just know it's never
enough
. But what is it I even want? And what does
she
want?

“Hey, Van.” Bri snaps black-painted fingertips. “Where'd you go? We're here.”

“Just thinking,” I mumble as I unbuckle my seatbelt and pull down the visor to check my makeup in the mirror. “Look, it's not that I don't get what you're saying, but Zander did make some good points. Kids look up to us.”

“Yeah, and that's great, but shouldn't they look up to you for who you are and not who you're pretending to be? Don't you want to be someone they admire for ideals you actually possess?”

I dab on another coat of lip gloss, but my hands are shaking. She's right. I know she's right. My idols are actresses who persevered against racism in Hollywood and got themselves great roles against all odds. I have no idea what their policies are on sex, and I don't give a damn. Why would I? How did I let Zander talk me into thinking that matters?

Bri doesn't make me answer; I'm pretty sure she already knows exactly how I feel. Instead, she opens her door as I cap my makeup, and then she slips out. I toss my lip gloss back in my bag just as the valet opens my door and focus as intensely as humanly possible on not flashing anyone in my micromini as he offers his hand to help me slide off the seat.

“Ready?” she asks as she hands her keys over.

“Ready,” I confirm, smoothing my dress down over my thighs. “Do—”

“Oh, I should just leave my jacket with the car, right?” Before I can answer, she slides it off and hands it to the valet. “I'm sorry—do you mind?”

I don't hear whatever he responds. I don't hear much of anything at all. Because the only thing my brain can process at the sight of Brianna in tight jeans and a dangerously low-cut black lace top is
holy shit.

And just like that, I know she's right. I'm not cut out for chastity. And I'm sure as hell no role model.

Because right now, looking at her, my mind is on nothing but sin.

I can't even believe I'm doing this right now. I only half-listen to Chuck as he gives me my dialogue for the night; I'm too distracted by all the people here, about to watch this pathetic farce. It doesn't help that Royce thinks this is hilarious and, since he's twenty-one, has absolutely no problem showing up and being in these shots, getting plastered. I can see him out of the corner of my eye, probably trying to convince the blondes he's flirting with to join him in the bathroom, and it only makes this more unbearable.

And then there's K-drama. I look up at where she and Mini-Jade are cracking up at something in the corner, holding glasses of soda because they've both been expressly forbidden by Jade to drink anything harder. There are those fucking legs again. And the rest of her isn't looking too bad, either, I have to admit. It's nice to see her laughing. Happy. Not giving me shit or sulking over work or that Ally's gone. Just…her. I don't know what they're dying over, but I feel a weirdly strong desire to get in on the joke.

I shudder and refocus on Chuck just as he says Vanessa's name. “Be sure you draw attention to the fact that Wilson's not here, all right?”

Wilson's never here
, I think. Not last night, not tonight. I know whatever he and K-drama have is
every bit as bullshit as she and Liam were last year. What the hell does she want, anyway? She's a good-looking girl, smart, occasionally even funny. What's up with all the fake boyfriends? It's not like she's not the girlfriend type; she is
definitely
the kind you bring home to mom—if your mom's not an insane, self-centered drama queen. Why does she settle for such shit?

“Hey, Chester. You listening?”

“Yeah, yeah,” I lie. Chuck's a pain in my ass, and just because Vanessa signed me up for this doesn't mean I'm gonna be his bitch. “Wilson. K-drama. Got it.”

Chuck sighs. “I'm not sure it's a great idea to call her K-drama on TV, between you and me.”

“Your irrelevant opinion is duly noted, boomlicker. Can we get this over with now?”

He just grins, which might be the most annoying thing I've ever seen. He has one of those chin dimples I wanna fill with my foot. “Sure,” he says cheerfully. “Just get your friend Hudson over here so we can get this going.”

Ugh. Right. This shit is so scripted, and scene number one requires some salivating over the girls. Of course. “Hey, Hudson!” I call out, and Royce dutifully excuses himself from the blow-up twins and jogs over with his beer. “Let's do this shit.”

We let Chuck position us at the bar, and I'm grateful Royce isn't drunk or high enough yet to laugh through this entire thing. The last thing I wanna do is multiple takes. They flip on our mics, get the cameras rolling, and…