We Own the Night by Ashley Poston

We Own the Night by Ashley Poston

Author:Ashley Poston
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
Published: 2016-08-29T04:00:00+00:00


Chapter Twenty-One

“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” a voice asks beside me.

I jump, but it’s only Billie. He has his hands in his pockets, a yellow button-down stretched over his broad shoulders, and a black tie. And pink hair. Like pastel pink. Cotton candy, the kind you buy at the fair that tastes like it was pooped out of a unicorn.

“Oh bless,” I mutter.

He rubs the back of his neck bashfully. “Don’t get too used to it.”

“What—how—did your mom . . .”

“I, er, I sort of left the dye in too long.”

“Left the . . .” I begin to repeat, and then realize how that happened. “Oh my God, when I saw you Saturday?”

“It’s ridiculous, and I’ve gotten shit all night from it,” he adds, jutting his chin toward his former football team at the gazebo, all paired off in yellow dresses and clean button-down shirts. Mike glances over and sneers at us, and I quickly look away.

“Well, it could be worse.” I pull my cardigan sleeves down over my hands nervously, unable to forget that moment in the record store, his hands over mine. And on the living room couch at LD’s house, our lips so close they almost touched. I wish I could forget. Then my heart wouldn’t be beating so fast.

“I could’ve fried my hair off,” he agrees, and motions to my cardigan. “That’s . . . cute.”

I tug my sleeves down harder. Is that a compliment? “I—ah—it matches.”

“I’d take ducks over this.” He points to his own hideously yellow button-down and tugs at his collar. “Yellow can’t look good on anyone. Yellow and pink? Christ I’ll never get a dance at this rate.”

“You just don’t have the flare to pull my ducks off,” I say before I can stop myself, and then bite the inside of my cheek.

His grin widens. “Is that a challenge?”

“Wouldn’t want the golden boy to look silly.”

His eyes flicker with annoyance, but it doesn't reach his mouth. He must be practiced in keeping grins steady. “You of all people know I’m not golden all the time.”

“Only when people are around,” I mock whisper. “Don’t want to ruin your image.”

“Oh no, that would be scandalous,” he mock whispers back. “Besides, you’re just scared I’ll rock it better than you.”

“Am not!”

“Are too.”

“Am not. Stop putting words in my mouth.”

“Are too. Then give me that cardigan.”

My rebuke turns cold in my mouth. My cardigan? I swallow. “Um . . . you’ll . . . you’ll stretch it out.”

“You’re just afraid my big, broad shoulders’ll make that cardigan killer,” he rebukes, grinning. “C’mon, North. Just a minute.”

I hesitate, but then I slip it off, one arm and then the other. The cool air clings to my skin. I wait a moment, then another, for people to start staring—but no one notices. No one even cares. I offer it to him. “Don’t ruin it—I know where you live!”

He feigns hurt. “Never!” He shrugs it on, making sure to unroll his button-down at the sleeves. The cardigan stretches too tightly over his arms, showing every shirt wrinkle and toned arm muscle.



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