Chapter 58 Jane
Jane
When I pull into the dirt parking lot, Luke’s Camaro is already there.
I see him on the grassy banks, to the left of the old boathouse, talking to Nellie.
Sigh.
I jerk the gearshift into park, swing open the door, bolt from the truck.
I’m still officially ignoring him, so I head down the hill in the direction of the dock, on the other side of the boathouse.
I’m wearing my skimpiest bikini, the most revealing one I own. I bought it in secret at a thrift shop in West End in Dallas. On the way out here, I pulled over on the side of the road, changed into it.
It’s crocheted; you can practically see my nipples through it. Which is the whole point.
I fly down the hill, hair waving behind me, feeling sexy, powerful.
I’ve got my shades on, so it’s easy to ignore Blair’s wave, pretend I didn’t see it.
Instead of going over to her, I shimmy over to Tommy, who’s all but gawking at me. He’s such an easy target. He’s standing on the dock with everyone else, including Blair, and I rush over to him, throw my arms around his neck, purr in his ear: “Heeey.” I press my chest against his.
When I feel him get hard in his swim trunks, a smile tugs the corners of my mouth up. Victory.
“Well, hey, Jane,” he says, his words all awkward in his mouth.
I can feel Blair’s eyes on me, needling into my back. Still dangling from Tommy’s neck, I twist around, and sure enough, Luke, who definitely just heard me, is walking over to us, jaw squared. Blair’s got a hand planted on her hip, eyes narrowed.
Good. Serves them both.
Again, Blair doesn’t actually know that Luke and I are a thing—we’ve been so undercover—so it’s not even rational that I’m mad at her—but fuck it, I am. I hate her right now, hate the sight of her. Hate her rich-girl prissiness, hate the way she flings herself at him every chance she gets.
So I decide to dig the knife in deeper.
I dive off the dock into the chilly water, which burns my skin; it’s so cold after being out in the heat. I paddle out a little ways, call out, “Hey, Tommy, can you bring me a beer?”
I’m treading—where I’ve swum out to, it’s too deep to stand—and as I’m waiting, I eye the old metal boathouse, watch as the wake from a speedboat that just passed slaps the bottom of it.
I swim back toward the dock, rest my arms on the baking wood, watch as Tommy scrambles to fish two beers out of the cooler, grinning like a loon as he does so. He lowers himself down the ladder, passes me my beer.
“Cheers?” He grins at me expectantly, like I’m gonna kiss him or something.
I have half a mind to, and I’m sure he’d appreciate it, especially after Blair’s performance at the party last night, but I have no desire to kiss Tommy.
I’m just acting. But I do move toward him, so close that our arms on the deck are touching, close enough so that I can feel his hot breath on my neck.
I need to show Luke how it feels to be put in this position. So he’ll stop doing it. And Blair.
I love Luke so fiercely, and I’ m clinging to the dream of us in New York City together. Not about to let Blair, or anyone for that matter, get in our way.
She’s now sitting cross-legged on the dock, smoking a joint. And maybe pouting? Behind my glasses, I squint at her, but the sun is so bright, it’s hard, from this angle, to make out her expression.
In my periphery, I see—no, feel—Luke standing on the far corner of the dock by the boathouse, leaning against it. Now he’s the one sulking. Again, good.
As if desperate to reclaim the spotlight, having been out of it for precisely five minutes, Blair springs to her feet.
Walks over, begins climbing the ladder to the old tin boathouse.
Giggling as she does. Why is she always giggling?
She’s always the first to dive in from the roof; I guess she waits for everyone to arrive before she does so, just so she can have her full audience.
Once she climbs the final step, she clambers on top of the roof, looks down to make sure everyone is watching.
We are.
She raises her arms above her, sways her hips, places her hands together.
Then she jumps off the roof, diving smoothly.
It’s a good twenty feet to the water, and I have to admit, it’s a little too high for me.
To jump off, it’s fine, I’ve done that, but to dive, you need to have had real lessons, like rich-bitch Blair has all her spoiled-brat life.
Not like me; I learned to tread water, keep my head above it, in swimming holes.
Before she hits the lake, a bloodcurdling scream ripples through the air.
I look over to find Blair diving directly into the tip of an old metal canoe that wasn’t there seconds ago.
Her scream is immediately replaced by a booming thunk.