Nerve (10 page)

Ian taps his steering wheel. “If you hypothetically keep playing, do you want to ride with me?” He snaps on his seat belt, which comforts me. Do psychotic killers buckle up? Besides, riding to that part of town alone in my own car strikes me as way riskier than riding with him. And with all these Watchers around, what’s he going to do anyway?

“Sure,” I say, answering not only the question of transportation, but also of my participation in the next dare. I can hardly believe that I’ve completed a live one, and here I am about to attempt another. Me, Vee, the behind-the-scenes girl.

Ian starts the car and we both give the Watchers a thumbs-up to let them know we’re still playing. They cheer and head to their cars while I inform NERVE of my decision. What’ll the game come up with next? Behind us, a bunch of horns honk, and someone’s car stereo is cranked so high I can feel the bass.

Ian wrinkles his forehead. “Even though it would be cool to get someone besides us to document the next dare, these guys might cause more harm than good.”

A guy outside moons his friends to loud guffaws. I see Ian’s point, but ditching the Watchers means losing their goodwill. Last month, a player in the L.A. rounds kept flipping the bird at his in-person Watchers and they sabotaged his next dare, knocking him out of the game.

I say, “We can ask them to behave if they get too rowdy. Besides, NERVE’ll be telling them where our next dare is sooner or later.”

Ian has to swerve to avoid a girl doing cartwheels alongside us. “They’re dangerous.”

He races out of the lot and makes a few quick turns to separate us from the majority of the pack. A couple of cars screech behind us, but a dash through a light turning red loses them too. Who knew such a sensible-looking car could handle so well?

I understand his actions, but I feel as if I’m crossing a bridge where a cable has been cut. Did NERVE put him up to it, the way I had to ditch Tommy? If so, what else will the game ask him to do without telling me first?

I fiddle with my seat belt. “I’m not sure that losing our Watchers is such a great idea.”

“Don’t worry, it’s only temporary.” When he’s made a few more turns to make sure no one’s following, he turns on the
stereo and says, “We’ll give them some juicy footage to make up for it, I promise.”

“There’re a lot of people we’ll need to make things up to after tonight,” I say.

“Yeah. Sounds like your boyfriend’s pissed.” Is he saying that to determine whether I have a boyfriend?

“I’m sure your girlfriend wasn’t happy about getting ditched either.”

The corners of his mouth rise a bit. “I don’t have a girlfriend.” Hmm, good news is that he’s available, bad news is that maybe he can’t stick with a single girl.

“Well, Tommy isn’t my boyfriend. And he doesn’t understand why someone would put themselves out there for cool prizes.”

“People born with buckets of money never do.”

“How would you know, academy boy with a crazy-expensive phone?”

His face is hard. “I earned this phone. And the academy.”

“Really? How? I want your job.” Not that I mind working at Vintage Love. It’s just the pay that sucks.

He shakes his head with a tight smile and turns up the volume on the player. The car vibrates. Okay, he doesn’t owe me an explanation. It’s not like I’m revealing my life history either.

I nod toward the car speaker. “Who is this?”

His jaw goes slack. “You’ve never heard the Rolling Stones? Mick Jagger? They’re classic.”

“I’ve heard of them, just not this song before.”

“Then tonight’s your lucky night.”

Is he right? Is this my lucky night? Less than two hours ago, my best friend moved in on the guy I’d liked for the past month. Yet now I’ve won an amazing pair of shoes and a makeover. Plus, I’m riding with a smoking-hot guy. Granted, we’re headed toward the skankiest part of town, where I’ll pretend to be a hooker. And maybe get beat up. Or worse—everyone knows that prostitutes’ lives aren’t like
Pretty Woman
or
Gypsy
. But I’ll just be pretending. So, all in all, my luck is probably breaking even.

We park a couple of blocks away from the area on NERVE’s map, and I dab on some lip gloss while I consider my costume options. My outfit and ballet flats are hardly prostitute material, but maybe I can go for a slutty schoolgirl look. I pull down my T-shirt to let my bra straps peek out, hike up my skirt, and put my hair into pigtails with a couple of elastic bands I find at the bottom of my handbag. If only I had a lollipop.

Before we get out of the car, we decide that my purse will be safer in the glove compartment than on me, which makes my stomach twist even more about hanging out in this part of town. But at least I’ll have my phone. No way I’m leaving that.

Outside the car, Ian points to my campaign button. “You might want to take that off. I don’t think it’s wise for people
in the, uh, entertainment industry to take political sides.”

“I doubt most of the guys out here even know who Jimmy Carter is, but you’ve got a point.” I remove the button and stick it in my pocket.

Okay, time to get into character. Syd says it always starts with your posture. Trying to channel any diva genes I might possess, I strike a pose. “Hello, Seattle, new flesh for sale!”

Ian spends a long moment looking me over from head to toe. “Bet you get propositioned in ten minutes. Creepy guys strolling for prostitutes probably love gorgeous brunette, blue-eyed girls who look like they’re in middle school.”

“Um, thanks.” The
gorgeous
and
middle school
kind of cancel each other out, but I think he meant it as a compliment.

I rub my hands along my thighs. “Wish I brought some more makeup, though.”

He gives me a lingering gaze that sends shivers down my shoulder blades. “You know that prostitutes were some of the first women to wear lipstick?”

“Makes sense. They’d want to look pretty to attract clients.”

“Sure, they used it to attract clients, but it wasn’t so much about looking good as about advertising that they offered special services, of the oral variety.”

“Oh.” I squint at him. “First the abstinence research, then hooker pricing, now ancient prostitutes. I’m learning a lot of sex stuff from you tonight.”

He pulls out his phone. “We can talk about non-sex stuff
too. Like, did you know there are cultures where they think having your picture taken steals part of your soul?”

“I thought that was an urban legend people tossed around when they were having bad hair days.”

He aims the phone at me. “Suit yourself.”

I give him my best supermodel pout while he takes my picture. How many photos of me does that make so far tonight?

He runs a hand through his hair. “Guess we’d better get started. It won’t be easy convincing a busy lady to offer me a freebie.”

With those dark eyes and knowing smile, I bet he’s used to receiving tons of offers. “You’ll be great.”

We move briskly, which suits me fine, partly because it’s chilly, partly because I hope to ease the jitters in my chest. Still, I have to work to keep up with his long strides.

When we reach the main avenue, he slows to a stroll. “Why don’t you walk ahead of me? I’ll keep the video chat open to NERVE. Stay under the streetlights as much as you can.”

That’s all the plan we come up with for now. With a wink and a wave, I’m on my own, sashaying my hips in an attempt at a boldness I don’t feel, especially with the icy air numbing my butt cheeks. The sidewalks swirl with people from all parts of society—frat boys carrying bottles of beer, couples arm in arm, grizzly guys in five layers of clothing who ask passersby for “food” money.

The college boys laugh and burp. Charming. As they
stumble by me, I cross my arms over my chest and look away. Working retail has taught me how to distinguish a potential client from a looky-loo.

“Hey, baby, how much?” one them calls out.

“More than you could afford,” I snap, getting into what I hope is a streetwalker groove. Although I’ve helped Sydney rehearse parts from Liesl in
The Sound of Music
to a ninja princess in a
Crouching Tiger
tribute, she’s never played a hooker, so I don’t have much to draw upon.

I strut away as the college guy’s friends taunt him. Fortunately, he doesn’t follow me in an attempt to prove his manhood.

I’m so focused on the boys that I don’t notice I’m in the path of two girls, one light-skinned, wearing Day-Glo colors, the other dark-skinned, wearing metallic. Both look my age, except for eyes that appear more tired than my mom’s. Their skimpy camisoles reveal mounds of jiggling flesh to the icy night air, causing me to shiver in sympathy.

The one in Day-Glo snarls, her gold tooth flashing. “What’re you doing here?”

“Just walking.” I pull my jacket tightly around myself, covering what was supposed to pass for cleavage, but now seems like wishful thinking.

The girl in metallic points a finger at me. Her nails must be an inch long, painted in a dark shade. “That’s all you best be doing.” She and her friend move in closer.

I try not to imagine the damage their claws could do, but it’s hard not to envision jungle cats disemboweling their prey. This dare sucks. Even more than the last one. But I’m not totally alone; Ian has to do a difficult one too. That’s when I get an idea.

I will myself not to take a step backward, the way the rangers teach you to do at Yellowstone if a bear sniffs around your campsite. When the girls are almost within striking distance, I say, “There’s a musician who’s supposed to be here after his concert tonight. Maybe you’ve seen him?” I try to smile, girlfriend to girlfriend.

The lighter-skinned girl licks her lips. “Musician?”

I bounce in my flats, all groupie-like. “Yeah. His name is Ian, uh, Jagger. His dad is in the Rolling Stones? They’re an old rock band? So it’s like father, like son. Cool, huh? Anyway, Ian’s band had a show in Seattle tonight. I saw on his fan page that he’ll be looking for company afterward and he mentioned a bar near here. You know The Flash?” That’s the name of the club where arrests occur every weekend, right? I have to take a few breaths after this speech to avoid hyperventilating.

The girl scowls. “Why would he go to a lame-ass place like that?”

I scan the street and do a theatrical double take when I spot Ian about twenty feet away. “Oh my God!” I rush up to him with the girls jingling close behind.

I grab his arm. “Ian Jagger! I love, love, love your songs!” My panting doesn’t need to be faked.

Ian hides his surprise with a big smile. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

The girls, reeking of perfume and cigarettes, push me aside. How do they expect to attract business smelling like that?

“Hey Ian,” the darker-skinned girl says, “I’m Tiffany. You really famous?”

Ian shrugs and smirks in perfect rock star style.

The other girl announces that her name is Ambrosia. “Damn straight he’s famous. I recognize his face from the magazines.”

This is going better than I thought it would. Does Ian realize what a huge favor I’m doing him? And how much he’ll owe me in return?

He gives an
aw shucks
smile that brings out those killer dimples. “We’re only in town for the night. Don’t suppose you know where I could go for a little fun?”

“Oh, I could show you some fun, baby,” Tiffany says.

Ian passes me his phone. “Hey, princess, can you get a shot of me and these lovely ladies? My label likes to see what I’m up to in different cities.”

I take the phone and point it. “Sure, but I can show you more fun than these girls, and I won’t charge anything.”

Tiffany balls her fists as she takes a step toward me, “Who said anything about charging, bitch?”

Bingo. “Sorry, I just assumed…”

Ambrosia, hands on hips, stomps forward too. “Don’t assume nothing, slut.”

Ian steps in between the girls and me. “Hey, forget about her. So you both wanna hook up with me? No strings attached?”

Tiffany says, “Sure. You gonna post our pictures on your fan site?”

He smiles my way. “Your faces will be all over the Web. I promise. That’s why I gave the scrawny-ass girl the camera.”

They both give scrawny-ass me a triumphant look down their noses and ask Ian where he’s staying and whether they can order room service.

That’s when a huge white guy wearing a fedora approaches us. A fedora? Is he kidding?

His hands are shoved deeply in the pockets of a trench coat, which really should have a leopard collar if he wants to complete the look. “Tiff, Am, this guy giving you any trouble?”

Tiffany and Ambrosia almost trip over themselves scurrying to the guy. Each girl takes one of his arms and whispers in his ear.

He frowns at whatever they’re telling him. “I’ve never heard of no Ian Jagger.”

I hold the camera at my chest, hoping the guy doesn’t notice me. His eyes narrow in Ian’s direction. He pushes the girls aside and approaches him. “I said I never heard of you.”

Ian shrugs. “We play mostly emo.”

“Homo? You play homo music?”

“No, emo. It’s kinda punk, kind of angsty.”

He keeps approaching, hands still in pockets, stopping a couple of feet in front of Ian. “You play like a punk, huh? Where’d you play tonight?”

Ian swallows. “At a small venue. You probably never heard of it.”

“I asked, where’d you play, Ian punk homo Jagger?”

The guy moves a step closer to Ian so they’re only inches apart. Ian swallows. I keep the video going even though I think we’ve got what we needed. It’s like I can’t get enough. Tiffany and Ambrosia huddle behind their pimp, exchanging wide-eyed glances that make them seem years younger.

The pimp says, “Seems like you were interested in spending time with my girls.” His voice has gotten lower.

Ian smiles. “We were just chatting. They’re awfully pretty.”

The pimp pulls one hand out of a pocket to rub his stubbly chin. “That they are. Tell you what, I’m fun to chat with too. Why don’t we walk a little, and chat?”

“That sounds cool, but I should get going. My band mates are probably wondering what happened to me.”

The pimp whispers, “I ain’t asking.”