prom dress ripped slightly when she yanked it over her head. She tossed it in the corner, found a pair of jeans and a big white shirt. She buttoned it up high, just so Dillon didn’t get any ideas, and headed back out to the sound of their voices before she could change her mind.
They were in the kitchen drinking beer. Her father wouldn’t like that one bit—the boys were only nineteen and one of them would be driving. Dillon was to blame, of course. Maybe after tonight Jamie would have some kind of idea of what Nate saw in him. And if she did, maybe she’d help her parents figure out how to get Nate away from such a dangerous influence.
“That’s better, precious,” Nate said approvingly. Dillon said nothing, draining his beer.
“We’d better get going. Rachel will be pissed.”
“Who’s Rachel?” Jamie asked. Maybe Dillon had a girlfriend, after all. In fact, he was very good-looking. A polar opposite to her cousin, he was tall, blue-eyed, teenage skinny with endless legs. He had the best cheekbones she’d ever seen on a man, she had to admit that much. And the kind of mouth a susceptible girl might find attractive. If she liked danger.
“Never you mind about Rachel,” Nate said fondly. “She’s nothing serious. Just for fun.”
“Is she your date or Dillon’s?” she asked.
“Carry these.” Dillon shoved a six-pack of beer into her arms. “And you’ve forgotten. You’re my date for the night.”
She looked at him warily, not certain whether he was kidding or not. With Dillon you could never quite tell.
Her only choice was to ignore him. She wrapped her arms around the beer, hoping the white cotton of her shirt would disguise her bundle, and followed them out into the driveway.
It was a warm night in May. The peepers were in full voice, and there was a soft breeze ruffling through the bright green leaves overhead. The kind of night that always put an ache of longing in the pit of her stomach, though she never could quite figure out what she was longing for.
Dillon’s old car was parked in the driveway. There was no mistaking it—a very old yellow Cadillac convertible that he’d fixed up himself. It was fast and big, and he could outrun the police if he really wanted to. As far as Jamie knew, he’d never wanted to.
He’d always tinkered with cars. He’d been driving since he was thirteen, and she had no idea if he had a driver’s license even now. He went around to the driver’s side and climbed in, not bothering to open the door. Not bothering to open hers, either, of course.
She reached for the rear door, but Nate was ahead of her. “You sit in the front, kitten. I want the back seat for me and Rachel.”
He smiled at her, beguiling as always, and there was no way she could object.
“The doors don’t work,” Dillon said. “You’ll have to climb in. Hand me the beer.”
She hesitated. She could still go to the prom—there was no shame in going alone, and she had the dress. That stupid pink dress that she’d torn.
Safety or danger? Dillon was looking up at her, his cool blue eyes daring her. She climbed over the side of the car and slid down onto the worn leather seat of the Caddy, putting the beer beside her.
He took one, opened it and set it between his legs. Immediately drawing her attention to his crotch. She jerked her head away, staring straight forward. He wouldn’t notice the blush of color on her face. He wasn’t that interested.
He drove fast but well. He’d jury-rigged a cassette tape player into the dashboard, and he had it playing loud heavy-metal music. He finished one beer, tossed the can in the bushes and opened another, all without sparing a glance her way.
She had no idea where they were going, and the little shiver of excitement in the pit of her stomach mixed with fear as he turned down a dirt road, barely slowing the car. It sped along the rutted surface, moving deeper into the woods, until he finally came to a stop in a clearing. A battered old pickup truck was parked there, accompanied by a couple of rusting wrecks, and a narrow path led through the woods to a tumbledown building almost out of sight.
Nate had already jumped out of the back seat. “You guys stay here. I told Rachel to meet me at the house. I’ll just go get the stuff and be back in a minute.”
Dillon switched off the car, stretching out in the front seat. “Take your time,” he said lazily. “My date will keep me entertained.”
Was that excitement or dread in her stomach? Or a heady combination of both? “Maybe I should go with him…” she said nervously.
“I don’t think so. He and Rachel will want some privacy. He’ll be back eventually.”
“Eventually?” she echoed, and she could hear the panic in her own voice.
“Don’t look so terrified, sweet cakes. I don’t bite. Much.”
She was already as far from him on the wide front seat of the Cadillac as she could get. He reached between them, ripped another beer from the plastic ring and then set the remainder on the floor. Leaving nothing between them. “Have a beer,” he said. She wasn’t sure if it was an offer or an order.
“I don’t think…”
“I thought this was your big night of rebellion. Take the beer, Jamie.”
She took it. It wasn’t as if it was the first beer she’d ever had. She just didn’t like it much. However, she was so nervous her stomach was doing flip-flops, and maybe the beer would calm her down, help her to relax. She didn’t want Dillon thinking she was a total idiot. Though she didn’t even want to consider why his opinion suddenly mattered.
The beer was lukewarm, yeasty, and she took a long drink. Dillon lounged against the door, making no move toward her, watching her out of hooded eyes. “Nate will be bringing some more stuff if you’d prefer grass.”
“I don’t!” she said quickly.
“Just say no?” he mocked. “I bet you’re good at that, sweet cakes. I bet you say no all the time. Do you ever say yes?”
She didn’t answer, and he didn’t seem to expect her to. He leaned back against the seat, looking up into the darkening sky, totally relaxed, while Jamie sat miles away on the other side of the car, clutching her beer.
So he was every young girl’s secret fantasy, she mocked herself. Latter-day James Dean, bad boy with a killer smile and a mouth that could tempt a nun. And she was no nun.
“Do you want to make out?” she asked suddenly.
He turned to look at her, slowly, lazily. “Is that an offer?”
She squirmed, uncomfortable. “Well, if I’m really your date…”
“You’re not,” he said. “Much as I appreciate the offer of a virgin sacrifice, I think I’ll pass this time. I don’t make out.”
She took another swig of the beer. It was almost gone, and she wondered if he’d offer her another one. Probably not. “You don’t? Don’t you like girls?”
His
