Page 27 of Positively Pricked
Chapter 8
I leaned across the kitchen table and whispered, "Did you hear that?"
Charlotte's coffee cup was halfway to her lips. She froze in mid-motion. "Hear what?"
I listened more carefully. Somewhere inside the house, a door creaked. I glanced toward the sound. "Shh! I think it's her."
Silently, Charlotte returned her cup to the table and whispered, "Paisley?"
I nodded. It hadbetterbe Paisley. If not, I had bigger problems than a deadbeat roommate.
Charlotte whispered, "And why are we whispering?"
"Because I'm trying to think of a plan."
"Screw planning," Charlotte said. "Just march out there, grab her by the hair, and say, 'Pay up, bitch. Or else.'"
I stared at my sister. In my whole life, I'd never heard her call anyone a bitch. Ignoringthatpesky detail, I asked, "Or else what?"
Charlotte hesitated. "I don't know." She glanced away. "You could always slap her around or something."
I was still staring. My sister wasn't the violent type either – or at least, not that I knew of. I asked, "Is that a serious suggestion?"
She gave a small shrug and mumbled, "Well, it's how they do it in the movies."
I rolled my eyes. "Good to know."
And yet, Charlotte was correct about one thing. I didn't really need a plan. I just needed the money. And I wouldn't get it by sitting around the kitchen table while Paisley snuck out to who-knows-where.
As quietly as I could, I pushed back my chair and stood. I looked to my sister and whispered, "Wait here."
"No way." Already, Charlotte was pushing back her own chair. "I want to see this, especially if it gets slappy."
"It'snotgoing to get slappy," I told her. "The last thing I need is more drama."
"But what about backup?" she asked. "You need that, right?"
I looked at my sister. She was twenty-one years old and barely over five feet tall. And yet, I was pretty sure she could kick Paisley's ass all by herself if it came down to it – not because my sister was a brute, but because I knew Paisley. She'd crumble like a cookie at the first sign of any real threat.
I whispered, "I'll be fine. Let me handle this. Please?"
With obvious reluctance, Charlotte sat back down. "Oh, all right," she muttered. "But I'll be listening, just in case."
Silently, I turned and tiptoed away. A minute later, I found Paisley with her hand on the front doorknob and an oversized tote bag slung over her shoulder. The way it looked, she was on the verge of leaving.
I felt my gaze narrow.Not so fast, buttercup.
I called out, "Going someplace?"
The question had barely left my mouth when it occurred to me that this was the exact same thing that Zane Bennington had said tomelast night, when I'd been trying to make my own escape on the street outside his house.
But this was totally different. Paisley owed me money. I owed Zane Bennington nothing.
Paisley was still facing the front door. Her long blond hair was in a loose ponytail and was dyed pink on the edges. She was wearing black skinny-jeans and a red flannel shirt several sizes too big.
Probably, the shirt belonged to the professor. The guy dressed like a lumberjack and screwed like a donkey – or at least, that’s what he sounded like when he climaxed.
Yes, the wallswerethat thin.
