Pretty Smart Girls Read online

  “I’m having fun now,” I say.

  He takes it as his invitation to maneuver his six-foot-something frame onto the seat beside me. For an unexpected moment I’m drawn in. His eyes are a mix of blue and charcoal, reminding me of liquid steel. A sharp emotion runs through me that I can’t place. He feels…familiar, but I’m certain we’ve never met. I would have remembered him.

  The closer he gets, readjusting next to me, the more I want to stare. I feel as if I could let my eyes keep rolling upward until they sink into the back of my head and I fall over. Heat rushes up my neck and the escort-girl mask is draining from my face. I blink hard. Snap out of it, Ryan. It’s not as if I haven’t sat next to good-looking guys before.

  “I’m Jett,” he says, offering his hand to me.

  Just in case he has read the materials or anything about the winning team at Michigan State, I use my last name. “Rose.” I place my hand within his. His fingers feel warm and strong as they close completely around mine, sending a tremor up my arm and into my stomach. His gaze moves over my face with admiration. He looks as if he’s inspecting me, searching for something. For a moment I think he might know I’m more than just an escort. Then again, maybe it’s just me hoping. Devi’s voice breaks my trance.

  “Daisy,” she says, shaking hands with the big happy Labrador.

  “Ben,” he replies. He’s blond with warm green eyes, and Devi’s looking at him with the same killer smile that won her the Eagle Emmy “Biggest Flirt” award our senior year of high school.

  Devi and I turn to Jade and the tall, thin boy sitting across from her. His beautifully angled features and expressive dark eyes are shaded by a fall of straight black hair slanting over his forehead. He picks himself up and eases down next to Jade. An awkward smile steals her features and then disappears.

  “I’m Vaughn,” he says, extending a hand. The corners of her mouth turn down, and she shrinks lower into the seat.

  “Jasmine,” she stammers as she takes his hand. She’s never been good at lying, and the discomfort is visible in her expression. Vaughn doesn’t seem to notice, though. He’s fixed his gaze on her eyes, a narrowed stare of inspection as if he’s trying to identify her heritage. He says something to her in chopped syllables. A faint blush tints her porcelain skin, and she responds in Chinese along with a smile. Then she remembers who she is, clears her throat, and hooks her interwoven fingers around her knees. The rest of us may not have understood what he said, but Jade clearly did.

  The limo floats down the interstate, destined for Detroit Metro Airport, and we all engage in small talk. We have about thirty minutes until we have to come clean with these guys and tell them who we really are. But before we find out if they have a sense of humor, I’m determined to have some fun at their expense.

  I take it upon myself to drill Jett for information, hoping I can pull out something valuable to use once we get to Manhattan. I ease in by asking him where he’s from and then about how his team qualified for the ACE’s Entrepreneur competition. He shampoos himself with his accolades as I watch his mouth move. I’m much more fascinated by the perfect bone structure of his jawline than his actual words. “…only child…father owns a national company…captain of the lacrosse team…president of Phi Sigma…president of Michigan’s debate team.” Blah, blah, blah. Whatever.

  I turn the conversation to something more relevant by asking him how his team members know one another and what strategies they will employ. He answers everything with over-inflated confidence. I nod my head, playing him along.

  The limo circles the exit ramp and my shoulder presses into his arm. I return the clearly interested smile he’s blazing down at me. I would never sit this close to someone who is a virtual stranger…even a virtually perfect stranger, but I remind myself: I’m Rose, the escort service girl, not Ryan Rose, MSU senior graduating at the top of her class in approximately eight weeks. For fifteen more minutes, I will set the slut free and bask in my alter ego. Too bad I’ve sworn off dating frat boys. Forever.

  I wonder how he’s going to take the news that I’ve been sitting next to him, carrying on a charade at his expense. My knuckles fold into tight fists and I bring them to rest against my mouth. I ignore the first tendrils of regret forming in my stomach. “Do you know anything about the team you’ll be competing against?” I ask, steering the conversation in a direction that will naturally lead to our reveal.

  “Some guys from Michigan State.”

  Guys? He must have read our gender-neutral names and mistaken us for guys. Laughable. Of course, it probably wouldn’t occur to him that the other winning team could possibly be composed of women. I let him ramble on.

  “Farm kids from a state college…shouldn’t be too hard to crush them. You know, we’ll be respectful and let them down easy.”

  Seriously? Is he trying to impress me, or is he really this cocky?

  “Michigan State’s not known for producing genius material,” he says, looking out the window. Jade, Devi, and I exchange eyebrow-raised glances. In a voice laced with casual arrogance, he continues his endearing tribute. “Everyone knows the only thing Michigan State has on U of M is beautiful women.”

  “Beautiful, easy women,” Ben says, and I see the corner of Jett’s mouth rise.

  Devi and Jade turn to me with stunned expressions. Of all the things they could have said, this is the worst. I have just spent the last three months of my life clearing the web of derogatory, self-centered, trophy-like treatment Phil had spun around me. Heat floods up my neck. With Samurai-like discipline, I melt my strained features into a smile worthy of an auto-show model and reply. “You forgot to say dumb.”

  “Sounds like you’ve met them then,” Jett responds, laughing.

  “Oh yes, I’ve met them.” I narrow my eyes until my gaze appears wicked and hold his expression just long enough to see a flash of discomfort disrupt his more-perfect-than-perfect features. Asshole. Any remorse that was starting to seep into my mind has been washed away by the tidal wave of stupidity he’s barfed all over us.

  I lean back and massage my temple with two fingers. Seriously? It just took me three months to get out of a relationship with a sexist, gaming frat boy—that he probably knows! And the only way I was able to get Phil to stop stalking me was to file a restraining order. He kept popping up in unexpected places on campus—telling me I “owed” it to him to hear him out and scaring the hell out of me when I refused.”

  Jesus! What do they put in the water down there? Beautiful, dumb, and easy. The words roll through my head. Trouncing them in the competition will be all the more rewarding. When I open my eyes, Jett is staring at me with an expression that tells me he’s wondering if he said something wrong.

  Sensing he’s about to reach out to me, I grab my purse and start digging through it. I pretend to look for something…like a paper bag to put over his head to dull the disappointment of the Greek God of Hotness being a complete ass. I catch sight of the limo driver’s clipboard lying by my hip. The pink duplicate itinerary reads, McNamara Terminal, Flight 1948, Departing 12:05 p.m. The inky letters turn into blurry, purple fuzz as my mind maps out a play. I pull the pen from the base of the clipboard and scratch out a note: FIRST DROP, TEAM JETT, NORTH TERMINAL. My knuckles tap the window and I hand the clipboard to the driver while the guys engage in a conversation about fantasy football picks. I lean my head back, close my eyes, and smile, reveling in my own genius. A shaving of anxiety drops into my stomach, snuffed out by the echoing replay of Jett’s voice—beautiful, dumb, and easy—each word exploding in my brain. I’ve just returned his volley with a grenade.

  The limo glides up to the North Terminal and stops on an angle between a shuttle van and a town car. “Gentlemen, we’ve arrived. Your flight leaves at 3:10 p.m. from Gate D-23.” The lie slips off my tongue like a fumbled ball, coughed up by the wear of a rough drive. “We need to sign the limo back in. If you’ll wait by the check-in desk, we’ll handle everything when we return.”

  �
��Service with a smile.” Jett beams. “Thank you, ladies.”

  The door clicks shut, and Jade’s panicked eyes turn to me.

  “Ryan, what are you doing?” she gasps.

  “Competing,” I say in an aggressive whisper. We watch as the limo driver helps the guys unload the luggage from the trunk.

  “They could miss the flight!”

  “We can only hope,” I respond coolly into her anxious stare. The trunk slams shut, and the inside of the cab gives us a quick shake.

  The limo pulls away, and Devi howls with laughter. She swings a hand randomly into the air as if she’s just swatted a fly. “They are going to be so pissed when they realize we’ve totally scammed them!”

  Jade shakes her head. “You two are evil.”

  “They deserve it,” I say, “and if they’re half as smart as they think they are, they’ll figure it out and make the flight. If not, score one for Team Ryan.”

  “We are dressed like a trio of stewardesses,” Jade offers. “I could see where they might think…”

  “Yeah, well, they’re about to have their asses served to them by this trio of stewardesses.”

  “Hail Michigan?” I lean forward and shout with a challenging tone.

  “Hell no!” Devi shouts back with a fist pump.

  She nudges Jade who repeats in a halfhearted mumble, “Hell no.”

  Chapter Two

  Jett

  “I need some Advil,” I murmur.

  “Yeah, celebrating my twenty-first birthday the night before leaving to compete”—Ben downs a handful of chocolate pellets and tips back a mammoth swig of neon soda—“was not the best plan we’ve had.”

  “I can’t believe you’re eating that crap for breakfast,” I say to him.

  “What? This?” He motions the soda my way. “Dude, it’s the sure-shit cure for a hangover.”

  Vaughn raises his head from the emails he’s scrolling through. “That girl seemed familiar to me,” he says.

  “Who?” I ask.

  “Your blonde. She look familiar to you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Just another beautiful blonde in the world of J. Trebuchet,” Ben says, kicking the back of my thigh with the flat of his foot. Vaughn turns back to his emails, and I smirk at Ben and check my watch. It’s been over an hour since the girls dropped us off.

  “So how long we gonna wait for Charlie’s Angels?” I ask.

  Ben looks at his watch. “It’s only eleven thirty, we’ve still got plenty of time. Why did we even leave this early? We could’ve slept another two hours.

  “Let’s at least check the bags. Where’s the paperwork?” Vaughn asks.

  “I never got my paperwork. It went to my home address, and I just had Sally read it to me.”

  “Mine, too,” Ben says.

  Vaughn riffles through his backpack and pulls out an envelope. “We’re flying Delta,” he says, handing me the paper.

  My eyes scan the counters in front of us. “I don’t see it. Let me go ask.” I approach a uniformed agent standing in front of a roped line. “Excuse me, can you tell me where the Delta check-in is?”

  “Delta’s in the other terminal. You’re in the North Terminal. You’ve got to go back outside and down to the big terminal.”

  I rub my fingers over my brow and walk back to Ben and Vaughn.

  “We’re in the wrong terminal,” I say, a hint of suspicion gathering in my voice. I review the printout of our itinerary. Ben and Vaughn step closer, huddling into me like my defensive line, our eyes darting over the page. We all see it at the same time: Delta Flight 1948. Departing at 12:05 p.m. I flip my watch into our sight line. 11:33. A huff of nervous laughter escapes Vaughn’s throat, and I shake my head in slow motion.

  “We are so screwed.”

  Ben wipes a hand across his lips. “Those girls…I don’t think they were with the limo company.” He shakes his head, confirming the same conclusion Vaughn and I are arriving at. We stare openmouthed at each other for a pregnant moment and then clamber to strap on our backpacks.

  “Run!” I shout over my shoulder. We scatter as if a grenade has just been tossed into our huddle. Our feet pound over the hard, tiled surface. With dizzying speed we dodge past rolling carry-ons and toddling children, around garbage cans and occupied wheelchairs.

  The only thing worse than being hungover from a post-twenty-first birthday bash is being hungover and sprinting as if my heels are on fire. By the time we reach the entrance of the McNamara Terminal, sweat is dripping a thick line between my shoulder blades.

  “Fuck!” I say as I see the security line. We bump our way through the crowd, pleading to advance with anyone who makes eye contact, until a thick-browed TSA agent calls us out.

  “Everyone’s in a hurry, gentlemen. This is an airport.”

  I give her my best desperate-sap look. “But, ma’am, we’re gonna miss our flight.”

  “And if you push in front of all these people, they’re gonna miss their flights, and they weren’t the ones who showed up late. Wait your turn.”

  While the line inches forward, I ask Vaughn for his copy of the literature on our trip. I read, “First class to La Guardia. Departing from McNamara Terminal. On Fleet Limousine Service.” The next page has our names listed beside Team Jett, University of Michigan. Next page: Ryan Rose, Devin Dalton, and Jade Song, Michigan State University. Ryan. Her name rolls off of my tongue like hot oil. I see the image of her crystal-blue eyes smiling up at me, framing delicate features, and giving her a look of wholesome innocence.

  Damn. It wasn’t just my imagination. Her expression did change when I was talking about the competition…about Michigan State…about the easy girls. I shake my head and pull my hand down over my face. This is not good. My fingers close around the page, and I hand the crumpled paper to Vaughn. “They set us up from the beginning.”

  It’s hard to fathom her taking us all for a ride, leading us on, concealing the knife she intended to twist in our backs behind a killer smile and flawless complexion. I can’t help but feel a deflating pang of disappointment. My blonde’s beauty, although as memorable as a Ralph Lauren model, may rest on nothing more than a face full of aristocratic good looks.

  I clench my jaw as I think about her smiling up at me in the limo while I rambled on…nodding and feigning interest with her mouth resting open, expressing oooo’s and ahhh’s with a demure demeanor, appearing incapable of misleading a worm.

  I pull out my cell and web search “Ryan Rose” as the security line inches forward. Ben is shifting back and forth beside me, as impatient as a five-year-old who has to use the bathroom. Up pops the picture of my beautiful blonde, along with a brief bio. I note her hometown, Holt, Michigan. I search for a phone number. Bingo. Her mom answers, and I explain we are to meet Ryan at the airport. “By chance could you give me her number?” She rattles off the number over the blast of a shrieking baby. I punch it in and kick my backpack half a foot forward.

  Her voice comes through the phone, crisp and honey smooth, “Ryan Rose.”

  “Hi, Rose. Jett Trebuchet,” I say, as if we are intimately familiar. Silence. And then more silence.

  “Yes?” she whispers in an icy tone.

  I lower my voice into a threatening sneer. “You’d better hope I don’t make it onto that goddamn plane, ’cause if I do it’s going to be the longest plane ride of your life.”

  The phone drops, and after a few fumbling seconds, soft, rushed breathing returns. She recovers and speaks. “Well, if you miss the flight you can always have another drink, Mr. Trebuchet. Perhaps you could even call Mr. Trott and ask for a new batch of escorts. Safe travels.” She hangs up on me. My blood boils, and the only thing that keeps me from exploding is the thought of what I’m going to do to Little Miss Michigan State when I catch up to her. She clearly does not know who she’s messing with.

  We burst through security. My watch reads 11:55. We run as if a tsunami is about to overtake us. The cold sweat that dried on my back heats up
again. By the time the gate sign comes into view, my thighs feel like rubber. I arrive at the check-in counter ahead of Ben and Vaughn by a stride.

  Through the beach-sized window, I see the plane sitting like an impenetrable fortress. White letters against black read, “Boarded. Gate Closed.” I turn to the attendant with a mouth poised to plead. Her face is pinched into an annoyed expression that says, “You’re not really going to ask me if I can call back the plane for you…are you?” “I’m sorry, boys, it’s already pulled away from the gate.”

  I throw out my hand. “I can see the plane. It’s right there. Come on.” Her eyes dart across the waiting lounge and the expression on her face transforms into a shudder of disgust. I follow her gaze across the empty space, almost afraid to look.

  Ben is hunched over a silver tubular garbage can, his white knuckles clinging to either side, toes rocking off the ground with every bone-jarring, gut-wrenching heave. Awwww man. Vaughn stands next to him, staring back at me with a bewildered expression, his face a shade grayer than pavement. I shake my head and walk away from the counter, disgusted with myself and my team.

  Well played, gentlemen. Well played.

  I approach the huge, picture window and let my backpack drop to the floor. Unbelievable. Ben and Vaughn make their way over. The engine ignites into a roaring hum and backs away. The plane ascends into the sky, and our empty seats float above our heads and disappear into the clouds. My mind captures a fleeting vision of the blonde laughing over a glass of champagne, tossing her hair around her first-class seat and toasting her friends to victory over the bumbling frat boys.

  I hate losing. It’s not like me to be distracted by a pretty face, even an exceptionally pretty face. Ben, yes; me, no. I console myself with the thought of what I’m going to do to little Miss Michigan State when I see her next. As if we needed any more motivation to win.

  Be ready, Ryan Rose. I am coming your way.

  Chapter Three