Her Dangerous Revenge

CHAPTER 17

Calla thought she'd rather face a thousand murder trials than go on one date with Cory Michaels.

She appraised herself in the mirror, eyes speculative. Frost edged the corner of her

window, and yet Rachel had still insisted that she wear ripped jeans.

"Turn around," she complained, peering at Calla through the phone.

Calla sighed and did as commanded, letting Rachel get a good view of her ass.

"It looks fantastic," her friend confirmed with a smug smile. She was close to

yelling, straining to be heard over the crowd of people nearby. "You'd look better in the cream sweater."

"It's cold out," Calla insisted, pulling at the green turtleneck at her throat. She

opened her sock drawer and changed the subject. She'd heard the show a little skin

mantra one too many times. "How was the game?"

"We won!" Rachel crowed. One of the Richardson brothers leaned over to stick his tongue into the frame. Rachel laughed, the bright lights of the stadium growing dim as she walked into the parking lot, following the crowd. "You should come to the

after party. Bring Cory!"

Calla tried to hide her surprise, her free hand buried wrist-deep in a pile of socks.

Her fingertips brushed something cold and hard. "You're going to a party?"

"Hello?" Rachel brought the phone so close to her face, Calla could only make out shadows. "It's tradition. "

Greenwitch seemed to have a great many traditions—each one boozier

than the last.

"Seriously, Cal." Rachel pulled the phone back to show off a pout. "Please come."

Calla should have been leaping for joy. She'd grown tired of Rachel's mourning.

Surely a party meant that her friend was finally on the mend?

She hesitated and sat on the edge of her bed, the knife she'd stowed away safely in

hand. She took care to hold it out of Rachel's line of sight. "I promised Cory a date."

"At the movies? Puh-lease. Lame." Rachel smirked. "He can be your date to the

party. Problem solved."

"Problem solved," Calla murmured, checking an incoming text. Cory, letting her

know that he was running late. "I don't know, Rach."

She tilted the knife one way and then the other, watching the light glint off its razor

sharp edges. Her educated guess had been correct; the bone white handle matched

the set from the Smith's kitchen. It wasn't often that she and Rachel went to her

cousin's, but they'd done so on occasion, running around its endless corridors as

children and then, when they were older, hiding in the upstairs rooms to pregame a dance or one of the Smith's infamous holiday bashes. Calla had actually been there the day that Raymond Smith opened this particular set of cutlery. She remembered

admiring the array of deadly weapons over his shoulder, standing at a safe enough distance so that he wouldn't notice her.

Funny. Most wouldn't consider a set of kitchen knives to be weapons. They were

meant for slicing into apples and chicken filets. Not human throats.

Rachel glanced over her shoulder while Calla admired the knife off-screen. When

she turned back around, she looked troubled. "Look. I don't want to be alone with Jess and Steph, alright? I need you. And I know you don't like Cory that much.

You've been blowing him off since freshman year."

Things change, she almost said. He has information. And information makes him

valuable. Maybe even attractive.

That had been all the motivation Calla needed to say yes to Cory's relentless

attempts to get her out of the house and into his car.

She took a peek at the time. Ten more minutes until the hour of her doom.

It doesn't have to be this painful, Calla. Take him to the party. Get your answers. And

then get out.

Cornering Cory in a room filled with her peers certainly sounded more appealing

than trying to dodge his hands in a dark movie theater. Perhaps booze would loosen

his tongue.

She would just have to be careful, lest she lose her memory and wake up with the

blood of another classmate on her hands.

"I think I can convince him," she finally told Rachel. "For you, I'll try."

Rachel squealed. "I love you!"

From somewhere off-screen, a Richardson brother mimicked her high pitched

scream.

"Shut up!" Rachel stuck out her tongue to someone over her shoulder. "Text me,

Cal?"

"Wait. Where's the party?" Calla lowered her voice, knowing too well that her mother

wouldn't approve of her change of plans.

"Trevor's place." She waved at the camera. "Bye!"

"Bye," Calla murmured as the screen went black.

She sighed and threw her phone on the bed. She ran a finger along the length of the

knife's edge, careful not to prick her finger. The sensation caused a rash of

goosebumps to crawl down her arms. She shuddered and, in a few swift

movements, tucked the knife back into the bottom of the sock drawer.

Buzzing with adrenaline, Calla grabbed her things and walked into the living room,

searching for her mother. She found her curled up on the couch, a blanket draped

over her legs and some terribly outdated rom-com playing on their widescreen.

She looked up when Calla perched on the edge of the couch. "You look pretty."

"Thanks." Calla picked at her wallet, impatient to get the night over with.

Her mother peered at her. "Who is this boy again?"

Spare me.

"Cory Michaels. His dad's a detective," she added, hoping to avoid her mother's

game of twenty questions. "He's on Tracy's case, actually."

"And what's the plan for the night?"

Rosalind would not be deterred. Calla gritted her teeth but answered with a shrug,

trying to look casual. "Midnight movie premiere."

Her mother returned her attention back to the TV. "So I can expect you home

around two?"

"I guess."

A knock on the door startled them both. Calla leaned over to give her mother the

usual obligatory hug before rushing to the front door.

"Be careful!" her mother called, a note of exasperation in her voice.

"Alright!" Calla opened the door and found Cory standing in a pool of light, a

bouquet of flowers in hand.

He gave her a guilty grin, showing off his dimples. "Do the flowers make up for

being late?"

"That depends." She stepped outside and gave him a guilty smile of her own. "Are

you the spontaneous type?"

He raised an eyebrow and leaned against the doorframe, twirling the flowers with

practiced nonchalance. "Spontaneity is my specialty."

She quietly assessed him. In dark wash jeans and a navy blue button down that

perfectly complemented his eyes, Cory could be considered classically handsome.

The dimpled smile. The tousled, sandy hair.

Definitely boy band material. Vincent's assessment had been spot-on.

He smirked at her. Calla realized she'd been staring.

"Do you want to go to the party?" she blurted out.

"Party?" He stopped spinning the flowers and gave her an uncertain look. "At

Trevor's?"

Calla closed the door behind her and began walking to his car, forcing him to follow.

"Yeah. Figured we could have a drink. Talk." She fidgeted with her ponytail, as if

fighting back nerves. "Maybe get comfortable."

Cory paused with his hand on the handle to the passenger door. His eyes slid to

hers at the words get comfortable . "I could use a drink."

And a spare bedroom, no doubt.

He opened the door and she crawled inside, accepting the bouquet of flowers as

she did so. He slid into the driver's seat and began rolling up his sleeves. "I'm a little

dressed up for a party."

"Same here." She leaned over and undid a second button on his shirt, exposing his

collarbone. He froze under her touch. She smiled at him. "There. Perfect."

He flushed and quickly turned on the air to hide his nerves. "Thanks."

Calla pretended not to notice his inquiring glances as he backed out of the driveway

—anything to avoid more interaction with him than strictly necessary. She had no

real reason to dislike Cory Michaels. His persistence was certainly admirable; she

might have been flattered had she not been so obsessed with the idea of collecting

his eyes in a jar. Or perhaps his fingers?

Eyes, she decided, staring at his profile. Definitely the eyes. Windows to the soul, and

all that.

"Favorite animal." His words shattered the mounting silence between them.

She shot him a questioning look. "What?"

"Favorite animal," he said again. "Go."

She hesitated. To tell the truth, or to lie? "I'm not much of an animal person.

Allergic."

"C'mon. Not even cats?" he hedged, assuming her dislike stemmed from the hot,

disgusting breath of canines.

She sniffed the flowers to hide a smirk. "Definitely not cats."

"You don't like cats ? " Cory protested in mock-horror.

"Nope." Calla raised an eyebrow at him, daring him to judge her.

He did. "C'mon. Cats are awesome." His eyes narrowed, the glow from the

dashboard casting odd shadows across his skin. "Do you like dogs?"

"Not really."

"Liar."

"They're loud and they smell." She smiled. "I'm guessing you like animals?"

"We have two cats at home. And a dog. And a guinea pig."

"A guinea pig? Who has a guinea pig over the age of thirteen?"

Cory pursed his lips, defiant. "Don't judge Arnold before you meet him."

"Arnold. Arnold the guinea pig." Calla couldn't believe what she was hearing.

Cory's phone buzzed before he could defend himself, rattling the spare coins in the

center console. Calla glanced down and raised an eyebrow at his incoming text.