Page 122 of The Dixon Rule

“It was totally destroyed by a volcano. The eruption lasted eighteen hours! And it covered everything in ash. Ash people everywhere!”

“The more I get to know you, the more I think you really are a psychopath.”

“They died, Shane. I can’t change the past. Anyway, I really want to make a volcano. We did one in school last year and I’ve been dying to make another one ever since, and then we watched the Pompeii show and I asked Mom and Dad again, but they were too busy arguing—”

“Wait, why were they arguing?”

“I don’t know. But then Mom finally came to my room and said we didn’t have the time or the supplies.” Maryanne flashes a big, toothy grin. “Well, guess who has the time and the supplies!”

Spoiler alert: it’s us.

In no time at all, I’m sticking strips of papier-mâché onto a volcano we construct using crumpled newspaper and a cake tray. In the disaster zone that was formerly my kitchen, Maryanne molds our mini-Vesuvius so the top is narrower than the base, while I work hard to create the most epic reconstruction of the city of Pompeii at the bottom of the volcano. Maryanne is more artistic than me, but I think my papier-mâché trees are quite impressive. Despite what some people might say, they do not look like blobs.

When my phone buzzes on the other counter, my hands are too sticky, so I turn to my sister. “Can you check who that is?”

She goes to peek. “It’s a text message from Dixon. Something about Zoey.”

My sister quickly recites Diana’s message before I can stop her, but luckily it’s not R-rated.

“‘Don’t forget to watch foff tonight. Fingers crossed Zoey gets voted back in.’” Maryanne wrinkles her nose. “What’s foff? Who’s Zoey? Who’s Dixon?”

“My neighbor Diana. She’s just talking about this silly dating show we watch.”

“You watch it?” Maryanne starts to giggle.

“Hey, don’t knock it till you try it.”

“Okay, I’ll tell her to come over and watch it here.”

“No—”

Maryanne is already typing. I have no idea what, but it’s too late to stop her. She sends the text and darts back to our workstation.

My suspicions are triggered when a couple minutes later, there’s a tentative knock on the door. Followed by Diana’s cautious voice.

“Lindley, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I holler toward the door. “Why?”

There’s a long pause, then, “Should I call Lucas?”

The hell is she talking about? Who’s Lucas? Does she mean Ryder?

“Do you mean Ryder?” I say in confusion.

“Shane. As your girlfriend, I need to tell you, I’m very concerned.”

Maryanne gasps. “Your girlfriend?”

“Who’s in there?” Diana shouts. “Shane!”

I glower at my sister. “Go let her in, would ya?”

A moment later, Diana appears in the kitchen. Hair in a ponytail, she’s wearing a white tank top and pink shorts.

Why does she always have to wear the tiniest shorts? It drives me fucking crazy. Every time she bends over in those short-shorts, it exposes nearly her whole ass. And I’m obsessed with that ass. I’ve had my hands and mouth all over it on a nightly basis, and I’m nowhere near sick of it.

Sex with Diana only gets better. The memory of each encounter is like a cold sip of water after a hard workout—it’s so satisfying, you gotta let out a little noise. And she’s been my cool cup of water for more than a week now.

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