The Girl Next Door

When it comes to the ladies, Beckett makes Colton look like an innocent babe. He goes through girls like most people go through underwear. Speaking of panties, the girls at our high school are always happy—hell, I’d go so far as to say thrilled—to drop theirs for him.

It’s ridiculous.

He’s a chronic user and abuser.

There should be a warning label slapped across his forehead.

Beware. Toxic to the female species.

But you know what?

That wouldn’t stop these bubble-headed chicks from spreading their legs wide for him. I’ve stopped trying to figure out the appeal. All right, I’m well aware of what the attraction is. As much as I’ve tried to pretend I’m immune to his charms, I’m not. I just do a damn good job of burying them deep down where they never see the light of day. If I didn’t, Beck would annihilate me in a heartbeat, and I have zero desire to end up a casualty on his hit list.

Given the choice, I’d rather flip through Netflix and find a movie to watch rather than be dragged over to Beck’s bash.

Doesn’t sitting around in pajamas and stuffing our faces with pizza sound way better than watching a bunch of our classmates get sloppy drunk, engage in way too much PDA, puke all over the place before alcohol poisoning sets in?

I won’t bother posing the question to Alyssa. There is no way she’ll willingly opt for sitting home instead of stalking her crush.

Would you like to guess what Colton will be doing while I wipe drool from Alyssa’s chin?

You guessed it. He’ll be flirting with every vagina he thinks he has a chance of penetrating.

Honestly, it’s one of the most masochistic things Alyssa could do. I have no idea why she insists on putting herself through this kind of agony. Apparently, my job as her best friend is to support her decision to inflict untold amounts of mental anguish onto herself. I’d slap her upside the head if I thought it would knock sense into her.

My prediction for the evening goes a little something like this—Alyssa will have a few drinks, moon over Colton, before dissolving into a puddle of tears while that manwhore makes out with other girls in front of her face. Then I’ll drag her home and she’ll end up knuckle-deep in a gallon of triple chocolate ice cream.

But that’s what friends are for, right?

Don’t worry, I’ve already made my peace with it.

“Fine,” I grumble with a scowl, hoping she understands the depth of my reluctance. “But let it be known that I won’t be staying for more than an hour. So you better make good use of your time, girl.”

She swings around to face me, bouncing on the tips of her toes as she claps her hands together with excitement. “Yay!” As soon as she gets the affirmative, she beelines for my closet, which is half the size of my room.

I have the kind of closet most girls my age can only dream about. Shoes, purses, clothes, jewelry. It’s all there and organized.

“Cue the montage music while I find something schmexy to wear!” she squeals.

“What you have on is fine.” I roll my eyes and yell, “It was good enough for me, wasn’t it?”

From within the depths of my closet comes a snort.

For the next ten minutes, I’m treated to an impromptu fashion show. At the rate Alyssa is going, we won’t make it to the party any time soon.

Take your time, girlfriend. I’m totally good with that.

A dozen outfit changes later, Alyssa settles on a black knit tank and white skirt that showcases her sun-kissed legs to their best advantage. Alyssa has been taking dance classes since she was three years old. She’s toned with long, lean muscles.

“Damn girl, you look hot.” Not that her crush will appreciate the effort. Alyssa needs to move on. I’m thinking a twelve-step program would help kick the Chase Montgomery habit.

“I would gladly live in your closet if you’d let me.” She grins before doing a little twirl. “It’s my happy place.”

A reluctant smile quirks my lips.

My mother is a card-carrying shopaholic and has the Amex Black Card bills to prove it. She buys clothes like our house burned to the ground and nothing could be salvaged. Even with racks and racks of space, my wardrobe is bursting at the seams. Three quarters of the stuff has never seen the light of day. Alyssa is lucky we’re roughly the same size so she can borrow whatever she wants.

Now that she’s dressed and ready to mingle, her eyes narrow as she takes a hard look at me. Wordlessly, she spins around and races back inside the closet only to resurface a handful of minutes later.

“Here you go,” she says, tossing two garments at the foot of my bed.

I glance at the shimmery gold tank and dark wash jean skirt that resembles a folded-up napkin. The skirt is cute as hell, but I would strongly advise against going commando while wearing it unless you’re looking to flash everyone your goodies.