Perilously Fun Fiction: A Bundle, Pauline Jones [top 100 novels of all time .txt] 📗

Candice, who knew she was in serious trouble, gave a high-pitched shriek that I was sure broke some glasses in the cupboard behind us. I could have pursued the inquiry, but it had all the hallmarks of a Teaching Moment. I didn’t have to do those anymore.

“I guess I’d better run them through Supercuts.”

“Good. We can hit the video store,” Candice, of the notoriously short attention span, said.

“By all means, let me reward your irresponsible behavior.” I know that sarcasm is wasted on teenagers. I just like making futile comments that fall on deaf ears. I looked uncertainly at Kel. Now that he’d checked my license to pack a glue gun, why was he still here?

“I’m game if you are.” He gave the braid stumps a friendly pat. The twins preened.

“You’re sure you don’t have to save the world or something?”

“Only from nine to five. I’m on my own time now.”

I smiled clear down to my toes. If I had to go out in public with small children and a teenager it was nice to be in the care of a highly trained, professional government agent.

Since my mother and Rosemary took her van, we had to decide whether to stuff six people into my Honda or his Porsche. Naturally the kids wanted to go in the Porsche.

“It’s too small,” I said, not without regret. It would be great to zip along in a Porsche with a spy at the wheel.

“Simone’s mother says men buy cars as phallic symbols,” Candice said, chattily.

I choked back a laugh, but had to look at Kel. He grinned.

“It’s small, but it has plenty of power under the hood.”

“What’s a phallic?” Joelle asked.

It was my turn to grin. “Man’s best friend.”

Justine frowned. “It’s a dog?”

Kel choked.

“In your dad’s case it is,” I said, unsteadily.

Kel told the body guards to stay put, then we all squeezed into the Porsche and took off. It was a rare privilege watching a government operative handle, with varying degrees of success, three children and a teenager. When we finally arrived back home, I had a feeling some nice, cold-blooded terrorists or a couple of KGB agents would have looked pretty good to him.

The brood straggled into the house, leaving us standing by the Porsche. Whatever doubts I might have had about him were gone. If he was going to kill me, he would have done it during the outing and saved himself from teenage angst. And I might have thanked him, I admitted, barely repressing a shudder at the memory of what we’d endured at Chuck E.’s Pizza. There ought to be laws against fuzzy, semi-animated singing creatures.

“That was interesting,” Kel said.

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat and shrugged his shoulders, as if to adjust the fit. I realized I’d seen him do it before, usually when our talks turned personal. That was interesting. It made my breath catch just looking at him. There was a warm feeling of rightness about the ordinary things I’d done with him. He’d injected something into my life I didn’t want to feel. Something I didn’t want to miss when the spy went back to saving the world and I went back to drawing my stupid roach.

“I’d ask you in,” I said, “but it would be cruel and inhumane.”

“Why?” He stepped closer, drawing his hands out of his pockets and putting them on my hips, urging me closer. It didn’t take much urging, though I did allow myself one nervous look back at the house.

“My mother.”

“Oh.” There was a wealth of understanding in the single syllable.

“She’s probably watching us out the window right now.”

His face lit with a smile that was slow and potent. “Then we ought to give her something to see.”

If we gave her something to see, it would give her lots to say, but even knowing I was in for a grilling and a lecture, I didn’t hold back.

I was getting used to his taste and the shape of his mouth. I was learning to read how I made him feel, to sense my own power. Heady stuff for my mother’s daughter. I ran my hands over his chest to rev his motor. He was right. There was a lot under his hood.

I was humming when he drove away. The best part? My mother wasn’t watching. She was still trying on shoes with Rosemary.

There is a God.

I gave thanks as I went upstairs to my room.

15

The blinking light on my answering machine had a peculiar insistence that dug through my pleasure. Reluctantly I re-wound the tape and pushed play.

“Isabel, Muir here—” I punched up the next message. This one was from Reverend Hilliard, reverently informing me of the time and place for Mrs. Carter’s funeral tomorrow. The last message was from the guys.

“Yo, Stanley! Jerome here. Wanted to clue you in on tonight’s happening at the Rad. It’s Dirty Dancing night, so wear something hot, okay? We’ll be out front at ten-three-o to collect you in Drum’s truck.”

A truck. Three young men. And the CIA watchdogs. Sounded like the title of a movie. A disaster flick.

After almost getting killed it shouldn’t have felt reasonable to don black leggings with lace at the ankles and an electric red silk top for a date with three young men, but it did. I felt, not Isabel-ish but not Stan-ish either, as I unbraided and brushed my waist length hair until it crackled like the pit of my stomach during Kel’s kisses. Once the tangles were out, I piled it into a decorative wad on the crown of my head.

Perhaps this was how Rosemary felt? And why she was able to be all she could be, when she wanted to. I felt alive again, filled with an anticipation I hadn’t felt since high school graduation, as if my life, and maybe even the world, was just waiting for me to jump in and experience it. I