Page 6 of The Boy Who Loved Wicked
He leaned back on his elbows, trying to adopt a careless attitude. “I figured since we were going to be hanging out, you know,lounging,I’d change into something more comfortable.”
“We’re studying not lounging and it’s eighty degrees outside. Aren’t you hot?”
“My legs may or may not be a bit dewy.” He shot up to a sitting position. “Enough about me, let’s talk about my plans for this weekend.”
“Enough about you, huh?”
He waved off my question. “Theory and I scored tickets to a concert in the park. We’ve got an extra.”
“I’ll pass, but you two have fun.” They were always trying to get me to go to a concert, or a party—that we usually weren’t invited to—or anything else that involved a possible loss of hearing or my life.
“Dude, don’t be a wet blanket. You know we can’t go without you, man.” His eyes begged me to reconsider.
“You both tell me I’m boring at least once a day. Why does it matter if I go?”
“Of course we do because you are, and because you’re also the one we make fun of.”
“Is that supposed to make me change my mind?” Both Danny and Theory complained that things weren’t the same without me. I didn’t get it. I carried a book with me wherever we went, and they’d spend the time bickering like an old married couple, while I got lost in my own world. We’d been best friends since elementary school, and it’d been that way ever since.
“You’re like Ghandi, or the Dalai Lama, or Jesus—postrising from the dead, because he’s cooler, the one before didn’t have as many followers—”
I held up the same finger I gave Theory to reel him back in.
“Bottom line, you carry an aura of peace and tranquility.” He fixed his hands in the yoga pose of namaste. “You do wonders for my blood pressure.”
“Fine,” I agreed. It would be the only way to shut him up for now. I had every intention of ditching them.
“Yes.” He pumped his fist in the air. “Oh, and the Dick stays home.” He pointed to the book on my desk, and I threw a pen at him.
Alone again and darkness now shrouded my room. The patio lights came on at Mr. Sanders’ old house. I made my way to the window, attempting to set eyes on the new owners.
There was no movement on the first floor of the two-story home. My vantage point gave me access to the kitchen and a small section of the dining area. Maybe a racoon triggered the sensored lights. Deciding I would get a closer look, I slipped through our deck door, past our pool, and over to the edge of the high planked fence where an inconspicuous loose board could be moved to gain access to their yard.
Still no sign of activity, at least not downstairs. With one unsure foot in front of the other, I walked along the side of the house. A sleek black Mercedes idled in the driveway, setting my heart to a gallop. Now questioning my spy game, I pivoted to return to my side of the yard.
“Hi. Can I help you?” a cheerful voice called from behind me.
Darn it,I mouthed before turning around with a smile plastered to my face. A tall, slim redhead wearing a pencil skirt and holding mail watched me expectantly.
“Hi.” I hitched my thumb over my shoulder. “I live in the house behind yours. I ah, got a little curious. I didn’t mean to trespass.”
Her eyes brightened. “You’re a neighbor. How nice. Please come in.” She headed to the front door, expecting me to follow. I rubbed at the nape of my neck flicking my gaze to my house, but ended up trailing her inside.
“What’s your name?” she asked, leading me into the kitchen and offering a bottle of water from the fridge. I wanted to decline, but something told me she’d insist. She had a sharp directness about her.
“Thank you. My name’s Phoenix.”
“How long have you lived here, Phoenix?”
“Er, all my life.”
“And how long is that exactly?” She crossed her arms and stepped closer.
Was this an interrogation? My expression must have given my thoughts away.
“I’m sorry, questioning people is what I do for a living.” She placed an apologetic hand to her chest.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs. “Emily? Who are you talking to?”
