All the Bold Moves (All The Right Moves 2)

It actually took a lot of convincing, because, well… Alan loved Stephanie. Or what he thought was love anyways. I mean – what were we? Nineteen? Not to mention, Alan wasn’t just a geek - he was the geek (think: plaid shirts tucked into khaki’s).

Basically, Steph was way out of Alan’s league.

He knew it, and he worshiped her for it.

Alan’s chicken shit, passive aggressiveness to confront her was the opportunity we all needed to go spy on her. We set up special ops; gave ourselves code names. Wore black shirts. Black masks.

The whole nine yards.

I can’t vouch that we blended in to our environment: in an awkward twist, half of us were well over six feet tall and collectively we weighed over eight hundred pounds…

Plus, Manny Cushman wouldn’t shut the fuck up.

From one shitty house party and bar to another, we loudly tailed Stephanie all over Madison – and I can tell you this: Turns out Alan was right. She wasn’t cheating up him with a dude from the rugby team.

Nope.

Stephanie was cheating on Alan with some girl from the Drama department.

An Opera major.

Talk about a dramatic end to an evening of surveillance. Jesus Christ. I don’t remember who cried harder after she’d been caught red handed: Alan or Stephanie.

So yeah – I don’t mean to brag, but I’m pretty damn good at espionage.

Definitely am not going to classify this particular trip across town as stalking because in my defense, I have seen Cecelia Carter go all kinds of crazy with my own two eyes, and figure it’s my Civic Duty to protect Neve from any unforeseen outbursts.

As his friend, the least I can do is keep him away from crazy woman.

At least that’s what I told myself as I climbed in to my Tahoe, fastened my seat belt, and drove the twenty-something miles out of Madison city limits to the quaint restaurant where Neve’s date is taking place.

I’m definitely not crashing this date because I’m jealous.

Pfft. That would be ridiculous.

In fact, I’m so not jealous that I even invited my friend Stacy along to act as a decoy. Wait. Did I just say decoy? I meant, as my date. After all, I can’t just waltz into the same restaurant alone (one that’s way across town and completely out of my way) and pretend to bump in to Neve and Cecelia and have it look like a coincidence, now, can I? Nope. I need a decoy –slash- date.

Because otherwise it’s just weird.

I mean, who does that?

I’ll tell you who: losers and psychos.

Although… to be honest, I’m not sure my side-kick Stacy is clear on what being a decoy actually entails.

I glance over at her, concerned. “Stacy, a decoy wouldn’t put their hand on my thigh while I’m trying to drive.” Gingerly, I remove her manicured hand and return it to her side of the truck. I give her hand a pat as a goodwill gesture. “Safety first.”

Oh god, now I sound like a daycare teacher.

“But Matty,” she whines. “Can’t we still have fun anyways? Why are you sitting so far away?” Her red bottom lips sticks out and she casts me a coy smile.

I’m pretty sure she has lipstick on her front teeth.

Gross.

Okay. If I’m being completely honest: Stacy is one ‘duh’ short of a dozen. She’s all foam and no beer - although she does fill out her tops well with her artificially enhanced assets, I worry that her elevator doesn’t go all the way to the top floor.

You could write everything she knows on to one Sticky Note.

What Stacy is… is convenient. Amiable. Useful... and most importantly: she is available on short notice.

A willing pawn on the ‘Saving Neve Vanderhalt’ crusade.

Albeit a very blonde and clueless one.

“Matty, I’m hungry. Why are we going so late?”

It’s 6:00.

I sigh. “Stacy. I already told you. We are not going there to eat. We’re going to help a friend. You remember Neve Vanderhalt, right?”

She giggles shrilly and twirls a lock of platinum hair. “Ooh, yes,”she breathes. “The really really good looking one, right? Oops, sorry Matty.”

“Um, yeah, that’s him.” Good old, good looking Neve. Bastard. Out on a date with my new breast friend Cecelia.

I mean best friend. Best.

Not breast.

Shit.

Stacy reaches over and gives my leg another squeeze, her hot pink lacquered nails dig into my thighs through my jeans and feel like eagle talons. “I think you’re way better looking. Want me to prove it? I can eat a mint for you – I have some in my purse. The mint will make your you-know-what tingle when I put it in my mouth.”

It suddenly occurs to me that my plan… might not go according to plan.

I’m screwed.

Choking, I press myself into the corner of the driver’s side and press down on the accelerator, check my rear view for State Patrol, and gun it down the highway.