Get Dirty (Don’t Get Mad Book 2)
Get Dirty: Chapter 17

STILL SWEATY FROM VOLLEYBALL PRACTICE, KITTY HURRIED UP the steps to the private gym. She taught volleyball lessons there every summer, and in addition to a small stipend, she received an annual pass to use the facilities. Which was unnecessary most of the time, considering that Bishop DuMaine had state-of-the-art weight and cardio equipment on campus, but today it was going to come in particularly handy. Last summer, Kitty had noticed an old classmate working out every evening around five o’clock. It was someone Kitty knew only too well: DGM target number one, Wendy Marshall.

If truth be told, Kitty had a soft spot for Wendy. Her label-shaming, queen-bee fiefdom at Bishop DuMaine had inspired Kitty to form DGM freshman year, and though the plan against Wendy wasn’t one of their finest, it still gave Kitty a special thrill when she thought about it. The first time is always the sweetest.

It had been a simple mission, and kind of stupid when she thought about it, but DGM hadn’t fine-tuned their roles yet, and hacking into the camera feed from Wendy’s online LARPing group was the best they could do. But the image of Wendy dressed as a steampunk cowgirl for online sessions with her group was amazing. Again, Kitty admired the way Wendy dove into her role with 100 percent commitment, and under different circumstances, she felt as if she and Wendy could have been friends. After all, Kitty had done her fair share of dressing up in Hogwarts robes, running around straddling a broom as she pretended to be the Ravenclaw Seeker. But after terrorizing the female population of Bishop DuMaine for nondesigner clothing labels and questionable fashion choices, Kitty was seriously pissed off by Wendy’s hypocrisy.

The printouts of Wendy in a homemade costume, posing in character, ended her tenure as queen bee once and for all.

Kitty flashed her membership card and climbed the stairs to the cardio room. One sweep told her she was in luck: Wendy Marshall was going to town on an elliptical.

Watching the petite brunette work out like she was training for a marathon, Kitty found it difficult to believe her capable of murder, arson, or the half-dozen other crimes associated with their suspect. Then again, maybe that was the key to her success—underestimation.

Wendy eyed Kitty as she climbed onto an adjacent machine, but didn’t break stride. Kitty stood there for a moment—shoes planted in the footplates, fingers gripping handles—and stared at the console. She’d never actually worked out on a cardio machine other than a treadmill, which seemed so much more straightforward than this medieval torture device. Set speed, start running. But what were all these buttons? Freestyle, CardioBurn, FatBurn.

“Push the green one,” Wendy said, panting.

“Oh.” Kitty found the green button marked “QuickStart” and the console lit up. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Okay, conversation had been broached. Now what the hell was Kitty supposed to say?

“Aren’t you Wendy Marshall?” she blurted out, as if she was a famous celebrity instead of a disgraced former mean girl.

Wendy slowed her pace. “Yeah . . . ,” she said skeptically.

“You went to Bishop DuMaine, right?” Wow, was that the best you could come up with, Kitty?

Wendy abruptly stopped her elliptical. “I did,” she said sharply. “And before you crack a joke, yes, I still LARP with the Frontier League of Peculiar Individuals.”

“I wasn’t—”

“And I’m proud of it. In fact, I’ve been selling my Frontier League fanfic for the last year. Over one hundred thousand downloads. Do you know how much money I’ve made?”

“Um . . .”

“Ninety-nine cents each. You do the math.” Wendy whipped her towel off the console and threw it over her shoulder. “So before you and the rest of those assholes at Bishop DuMaine start tossing my name around as the butt of your jokes again, think about that and suck it.”

And without another word, Wendy flounced out of the gym.

An electronic bell sounded as soon as Olivia pushed open the door of Aquanautics, the surf and water-sports store where Maxwell and Maven Gertler had found gainful employment after their “rehabilitation.”

The shop was small, but jam-packed with merchandise. Racks of shirts, shorts, and hoodies in both men’s and women’s varieties ran down the center of the room, while a large selection of shoes were displayed on the far wall. On the opposite side of the store, wet suits in sizes from toddler to adult hung from the ceiling like meat in a freezer, and TV monitors were set up throughout, displaying surf competitions at nearby Mavericks. Above her head, every inch of ceiling space was covered with surf and body boards suspended from the rafters, and a range of kayaks was tilted against the checkout desk.

The effect was homey, the store was abnormally warm, and combined with the pungent aroma of coconut and beeswax, and the pumped-in sound track of ocean waves, it gave the impression that the beach was right outside the door.

Olivia eyed the cash register at the back of the store. It was empty, which made her nervous. She would have been much more comfortable if there had been other customers around. What if the Gertlers were the killers? And here she was alone and outnumbered?

Oh, hell no. Olivia had turned and was hurrying back toward the door when she heard someone’s voice nearby.

“Can I help you?”

Olivia recognized the deep, gravelly voice of one of the Gertler twins right away.

Okay, fine. She could do this. She turned to the nearest rack of Hawaiian shirts.

“I’m looking for a birthday gift for my boyfriend,” she said, making sure she had an unobstructed path to the exit, just in case. “And I’m not sure what to get him.”

Maxwell or Maven, whichever one it was, sighed as if helping a customer was the last thing he wanted to do, and ambled over. “Is he a surfer, a skater, or . . .” His voice trailed off. “Olivia?”

She spun toward him, allowing her face to reflect confusion at first, then morph into recognition and surprise. “Maxwell?”

Maxwell beamed at her. “You’re like the only one who can tell us apart.” He reached out and gave her a hug, squeezing her tightly and allowing his hands to roam up and down her back in an almost inappropriate kind of way. “It is so good to see you.”

Olivia wiggled free, straightening her dress in the process. “So how are you?”

“Good,” Maxwell said, gazing around the store. “You know. It was kinda rough after the arrest and all. But our cousin owns this place and he basically lets us run it. Pretty cool.”

“It’s awesome,” Olivia said, trying to sound suitably impressed.

“But we’re still in the game,” he said slowly, as if speaking in code.

“The game?” What was he talking about: Murder? Arson? Assault and battery?

“Yep. We’ve got our own studio now.” Maxwell stepped back and steadied his chin between his thumb and forefinger, appraising her body from head to toe. “How old are you?”

Ew? “Sixteen.”

A sly smile crept up the right side of Maxwell’s face as he slid closer to her and dropped his voice. “Have you ever thought about modeling?”

Really? He was propositioning her? Desperate to change the subject, Olivia turned her attention back to the shirts. “I wonder if my boyfriend might like—”

Maxwell traced Olivia’s bare arm with his finger, and whispered in her ear. “You know, there’s a huge market for sexy photos of a girl like you. Europe, Asia. No one would ever know. . . .”

As much as she wanted to knee Maxwell in the crotch and make a run for it, Olivia was there for a reason. She needed to bring the conversation back to the school play.

“Funny I should run into you here,” she began, fluttering her eyelashes. “I was just talking to Amber Stevens today, and she said she thought she saw you and your brother at the opening of the school play last week.”

Maxwell snorted. “At Bishop DuMaine? I doubt it. We’re never setting foot back in that shithole.”

“Are you sure?” Olivia continued. “She seemed pretty positive that it was—”

“He said we weren’t there!”

Olivia spun around. Maven Gertler stood in the back of the store, arms folded across his chest. Where did he come from?

Involuntarily, Olivia backed toward the door. “Oh, sorry!” she said. “Amber must have been wrong.”

“She is,” Maxwell said. His congenial attitude of ten seconds ago had completely vanished. Instead his face was sharp and tense, his eyes narrowed. “We wouldn’t violate the terms of our parole by going anywhere near a school, would we, Mave?”

Maven shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

So they weren’t allowed near a school? Based on her experiences in the last five minutes she understood why, but that did give them somewhat of an alibi.

“And besides,” Maxwell added, “it’s kinda hard to see with all those stage lights in your face, isn’t it?”

Olivia froze. Stage lights? How did they know that Amber was in the play?

Suddenly, she was desperate to get out of there.

“Oh my God!” she cried, looking at her wrist that was conspicuously devoid of a watch. “Look at the time! I’m going to miss my bus.”

She was out the door and down the street as fast as her heels could carry her.