Invitation Only (Private 2) - Page 30

“Good for Whit,” Dash said, like a proud pa­pa.

“Mov­ing on al­ready, huh, Reed?” Josh asked.

My cheeks burned and ev­ery­one fell silent for a long mo­ment. Josh's face flushed too, as if he had just re­al­ized how hurt­ful his words were, and he avert­ed his eyes.

“First of all, Hol­lis, Reed's per­son­al life is none of your busi­ness,” Noelle snapped. “Sec­ond, your lit­tle bud­dy bailed with­out so much as a warn­ing. She has ev­ery right to move on.”

“Sor­ry,” Josh said. He crum­pled up his nap­kin and threw it down. “I got­ta go.”

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He shoved him­self up from the ta­ble, shot me an apolo­get­ic look, and walked off. For some rea­son, I couldn't swal­low for a sol­id minute. Ev­ery­one watched me and wait­ed.

“Uh, hate to burst your bub­ble, ev­ery­one,” I said fi­nal­ly, tremu­lous­ly. “But Whit­tak­er and I are just friends.” I quick­ly stashed the ear­rings in the bot­tom of my bag.

“Shyah, right,” Gage said, suck­ing on his soup spoon. “ 'Cause I buy all my friends five-?thou­sand-?dol­lar ear­rings for no rea­son.”

My mind spun. Five thou­sand dol­lars. Five thou­sand dol­lars.

“Come on, new girl. Give the poor guy a shot,” Dash whee­dled, pop­ping a few grapes in­to his mouth. “He de­serves to get a lit­tle.”

Noelle whacked his arm with the back of her hand and all the guys snick­ered.

“Ha ha,” I said, pre­tend­ing to fo­cus again on my book. “Sor­ry to dis­ap­point, but we re­al­ly are just friends. It was his idea to be just friends.”

“Uh-?huh,” Natasha said un­der her breath. Her voice gave me chills. “You just keep telling your­self that.”

87

TRUE COL­ORS

“Reed.”

I kept walk­ing, duck­ing my head in­to the wind. I couldn't hear her. The wind was too loud. Let her be­lieve that I couldn't hear her.

“Reed! Reed, I know you can hear me.”

I stopped walk­ing and turned around to face Natasha. Her curls danced around her head in the wind, giv­ing her a very Medusa look.

“I know you've been avoid­ing me,” she said, hug­ging a cou­ple of note­books to her chest. “And I've let you be­cause I was giv­ing you time to do your job. So tell me. What have you found?”

“Noth­ing,” I replied.

Her eye­brows shot up. “Noth­ing?”

I sighed and looked at my feet. “I've kind of had oth­er things on my mind, Natasha,” I said, try­ing to sound an­noyed. An­noyed and un­af­fect­ed and not scared. “You know . . . school, soc­cer, miss­ing boyfriend?”

Take pity. Come on. You know you want to take pity.

"Weren't think­ing about the miss­ing boyfriend much when

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you were crawl­ing all over Whit­tak­er, were you?“ she said. ”Thomas is on that e-?mail list, too, you know. Do you want him to come back and find out what you re­al­ly are?"

My face burned with anger. “And what's that?”

Natasha took a step clos­er to me. Her eyes were amused. “A cheat­ing, drunk­en slut who's too weak to stand up and take care of her­self. Maybe he'd like to know about those lit­tle baubles in your bag as well. Ac­cept­ing gifts from an­oth­er guy,” she said, cluck­ing her tongue. “Yeah. You sure are the faith­ful, con­cerned girl­friend.”

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