“Oh, your love is never good enough. Oh, your love is lost on me…” –Milo Greene, What’s the Matter

“C-Camila?” The voice was whispered and soft, the stutter of someone still totally unsure of what they were doing there and why they’d appeared in the first place.

I felt a jolt of irritation at having been interrupted from my nice nap. My face, which had been previously turned to the mellow sun as I’d lounged on the park bench, swiveled, and one of my eyes popped open to glare at the perpetrator.

Technically it was the period after lunch, but since I’d had a freebie, I’d chosen to take my free period out by the benches near the parking lot. As a rule at my school, all students with a free period were supposed to either be at the study hall or in the library, but since I’d never been fond of either of those places, I’d chosen to take a little nap out by the sun. It’s not like a teacher could punish me, anyway. They had way too much at stake, considering the secrets I held to do with them. And, really, teachers had the best secrets, like scandals and drugs and alcohol problems. They also were so desperate to stay in a job that they pretty much do whatever you ask—including allowing you to have a nice kip in the sunlight. See? It’s not all bad.

My eyes appraised the girl in front of me, whom was small and svelte. She had curly strawberry-blonde hair framing a heart-shaped, freckled face. I recognized her instantly as Natalie Clavera, my biology partner from last year. Other than that, we hadn’t spoken much, and I was surprised to suddenly come into contact with her after a year of silence.

“Natalie,” I said, caught off-guard. “What can I do for you?”

She sighed and cast a wary glance over her shoulder, as if we were making a questionable drug deal—which was a job I certainly didn’t dabble in during my spare time. I wasn’t exactly innocent, but I didn’t mix with the junkies, either. I had morals.

“I—I need your help,” she whispered, her green eyes meeting mine with a surprising amount of courage.

I sat up and adjusted my position on the bench, before placing my elbows on my knees and cupping my chin to look up at her. “What can I help you with, Natalie?”

“I wanna make a deal.”

Immediately I felt my stomach plunge. There were a select few students at Leighton Fields High that I expected good things from. The kinds of people who kept their heads down and stayed the hell away from deals and drama and the stupid popularity food chain. Natalie Clavera, of course, fell into that category.

“Nat…” I started unsurely, picking at one of the distressed holes in my jeans.

“You don’t have to give me the whole warning spiel,” she told me, her voice holding more verve than I’d ever heard before. She was normally a quiet, mousy girl, not a girl with a take-charge attitude. “I know the drill. Secrets for the favor, right?”

“Right,” I affirmed, biting my lower lip and fiddling with one of the many useless buckles on my combat boots. “But, really, are you sure about this? Because I can promise you, whatever you want is not worth it. The minute you sign up to this… there’s no backing out of it.”

She nodded resolutely; a girl on a mission. “I know. But I want to do this. Please, Cam. Please help me out.”

I sighed, but relented. It was her own grave she was digging. Sure, I was practically handing her the shovel and directing her on where to dig it, but she was making her own choice.

“All right,” I told her calmly. “I’ll do it. What do you want done?”

“There’s a new guy at Leighton Fields. His name is Zach Templeton. And I… I really like him, Cam. I wanna know more about him.”

I rolled my eyes. “Really, Nat? All of this for a boy? I thought better of you. Now, a loan for AP textbooks, I could understand. But a boy?”

“Doesn’t really matter what I want, does it?” she snapped, as if she’d considered the same thing herself multiple times, and didn’t like being reminded of her questionable decision. “You get your payment, I get what I want. It doesn’t matter what the business transaction is about, so long as we both hold up our end of the bargain.”

I whistled, impressed. “Wow, who knew you had such a sassy attitude, Miss Clavera?” When she cocked an eyebrow and remained unmoved by my attempt at humor, I nodded my consent. She was all business, no play. Boring. “All right, you win. What do you want? Simple things like zodiac sign, birthday, fears, number of puppies, et cetera? Or more in-depth?”

“How in-depth are we talking?” she asked, pushing her hands into the pockets of her ratty jeans—and not the good kind.

“I can follow him; find his routine, family members, relationship with peers, et cetera. Or I can find the average things you’d find on a speed dating website, like favorite color. Name your desires. I am here to please, after all.”

She sighed. “If I’m going to do this, I want the full thing. I want the former option.”

“All right, but it’ll cost you.”

“Name your price.”

I raised my eyebrows, impressed by her attitude. Really, she’d kind of changed in my eyes. She’d gone from a studious bookworm to a strong, independent girl intent on what she wants. But still, she was the friendly girl who’d helped me through finals junior year, so I supposed I owed her a little bit of leniency in return for her help.

“One secret,” I decided, holding up my index finger. “But make it extra juicy.”

I couldn’t see her having that many bad secrets under her belt—she was just an average geeky science freak, after all—but I was surprised at how speedy her reply was, and how confident she uttered it.

“My family isn’t rich at all. In fact, we’re actually broke because of my dad’s gambling habits, and the only reason my landlord is letting us keep the house is because my mom’s sleeping with him.”

My jaw damn near dropped at her rushed reply, and she was no longer the stammering, scared little girl I’d had her pinned as five minutes ago. She was suddenly a scholarship kid trying to keep up appearances and keep her head down.

Of course, I didn’t feel any remorse for her family’s situation—remorse was a very difficult feeling for me to process—but some part of me still felt a twinge of sadness for the burden put on this kid’s shoulders—and the fact she knew of the extent of her parent’s marital problems. It reminded me of myself, just with a girl much less well adjusted.

“That’s fair,” I said evenly, nodding. “And, congrats, you’ve earned the full tour. I’ll start this afternoon—I overhead him by his locker talking about football tryouts after school. I’ll have a full report between now and next week of everything you need to know.”

She nodded, but didn’t bother thanking me. I supposed this conversation didn’t really call for pleasantries. “Okay.”

She stayed still, obviously waiting for a further instruction that would never come. I raised an eyebrow and shooed her like a persistent dog. “That’s all. You’re free to leave now.”

She jumped, as if she’d been shocked, before nodding and scurrying off like a frightened mouse. I sighed and looked disdainfully at the football field, which was lush and green and… dirty.

“Damn it,” I whispered, pouting as I stared at my shiny combat boots. “And I just got new shoes.”

~          *          ~

LIST OF PROS AND CONS OF MEETING WITH ZACH AT THE FOOTBALL TRYOUTS.

Pro: The boys all looked totally cute in their football gear (which even I could admit).

Con: They were totally sweaty and gross right now.

Pro: The boy you’re about to interrogate is also extremely cute.

Con: The football field is really dirty right now and it’s totally ruining your new combat boots.

Pro: The amount of wolf-whistles and appreciative glances you receive from the majority of the football team can really work wonders on your self-esteem.

Con: Some of them come from… not-so-nice people.

Pro: Have I mentioned the guy I’m about to interrogate is totally cute?

~          *          ~

“Hey, there!” I called sweetly, appearing beside Zach Templeton, who was seated at the bleachers and staring out at the practicing football team.

He looked up and squinted against the sunlight, and I arranged myself in a more sweeter, nicer way. I’m sure the punk clothing, combat boots and cropped band singlet kind of took away from the cutesy appearance, but, hey, on the plus side, at least my hair looked nice.

“Hi,” he responded, and I was surprised by how deep his voice actually was. He had the soft, sweet, boyish features that were very handsome, but his voice seemed almost not to match his face.

Of course, I could see his appeal to Natalie. The guy was muscular and built, with an easy smile, cropped hair caught somewhere between blond and brown, and soft green eyes. Really, the dude was a catch, and his nice persona only added to the charm.

I gestured to the free seat beside him. “Mind if I sit?”

He looked around, obviously spotting the hundreds of free seats. “Sure. I mean, I’m pretty sure there are at least two hundred other free seats, but if you wanna take the one next to me, I guess that’s okay.”

I smiled demurely as I sat. “What can I say? The company over here is looking much better.”

He grinned at my flirty tone, but I wasn’t in the mood for games. This was the only way to get information from him, and since torture probably wouldn’t work—well, it would, but I’d probably be sent to jail, manipulative connections or not—I was going to have to take the sweet, girly approach. Ew.

“So, trying out for the football team?” he joked, and I couldn’t help but laugh.

“Sure,” I said, touching his shoulder pads with a wink and a saccharine smile. “I hear the uniforms are quite figure-flattering.”

“Don’t worry,” he replied easily. “I think you’ve already got that down.”

            “Smooth,” I answered. “Tell me, what’s your name, handsome?”

Really, I wasn’t much of a flirter, but since my best friend, Perrie, was used to flirting her way out of any situation, good or bad, I’d picked up a trick or two in my time. Anything to get the job done, after all. Turns out pretty girls and prettier comments work better than almost anything else. A guy’s boosted ego can do wonders.

He grinned, and I noticed how straight and white his teeth were. A definite plus, if you ask me.

“Zachary Templeton,” he told me effortlessly. “But you can call me Zach. What about you, huh? Got a name?”

I smiled. “Camila,” I told him. “Camila Stryker.”

“Sophisticated.”

“If you ask me, I think my parents lost a bet.”

“At least your middle name isn’t Wolfgang,” he said.

“No way,” I responded with a laugh, though internally I was checking off the list of information I’d been trying to gather. “How historical.”

“Well, my parents are philosophers, and for some reason they decided Wolfgang would be a totally amazing name that I’d never get picked on for.”

I grinned. “So, what brings you to Leighton Fields?”

“My parents are on sabbatical,” he answered. “They’re taking a year-break, and then they’re going to start teaching philosophy at the local college.”

“Wow,” I replied, even though that tidbit of information held no appeal for me whatsoever. I hardly even knew what philosophy was. “And how are you liking Leighton Fields so far?”

“Better now that I’ve met you.”

“I have that effect on people,” I responded with a wink. “But, you know, if you ever need a special tour of the place, I’d be happy to show you some of the highlights.”

He smiled slyly. “I have a feeling I’d really like that.”

I’d never had a need to flirt before. I wasn’t really interested in finding a boyfriend. When you’re running such a business, it can be hard to find time to fit in a love interest, or even find a willing partner who wasn’t scared of you. But now, talking so jokingly with a handsome member of the opposite sex, I could see why people were so interested in it. It brought a sort of spice and excitement to a conversation.

“Templeton!” Coach Barnett called, turning towards our general direction and gripping his clipboard tightly. “Stop flirting with the girl and get over here.”

“Coming, Coach!” Zach called, before standing up and starting down the bleachers. I cocked my head and watched him leave, taking note of the easy stride and general exuberance in which he carried himself.

“Zach?” I called, standing up and praying my boots weren’t too far-gone for a little polish and general cleaning.

He turned around expectantly. “Yeah?”

I smiled. “If you ever need anything—and I mean anything at all—let me know.”

I turned around and started for the edge of the bleachers and towards my car. “Cammie!” he called, and I froze. No one had ever called me Cammie before. It was always Camila or Cam, but never Cammie. It was unexpectedly soft, and the way it rolled off his tongue made it sound pretty and unique.

I liked it.

I spun and cocked an eyebrow, and watched as he winked at me with a confident smirk that told me he’d done this a million times, and was used to charming the ladies. “Be careful. I might actually take you up on that.”

I spun around wordlessly and continued on my way, feeling like my veins were filled with fire. I felt like I was having hot and cold flushes, and, if I wasn’t mistaken, I was actually… blushing.

I was also smiling, which was a creepy feat within itself.

Weird.

~          *          ~

It took approximately one hour, forty-seven minutes and eighteen seconds after that moment that it happened. I was generally a patient person, but, man, that time was making me seriously rethink it.

That’s how long I lounged in my car listening to music, eating potato chips and waiting for Zach to finish his football tryout and start towards home.

I almost died of relief when he appeared, and started trekking across the lot towards his car, which was a rusty red pickup that had obviously seen better days. Compared to the leftover fancy cars still in the lot, it stuck out like a very sore, very rusty thumb.

I lowered myself down in the seat and watched him with critical eyes as he said goodbye to a few of his football cronies and dug around in his gym bag until he retrieved the keys. I assessed the way he moved, and found that he was left-handed, had a scar on his thumb, and talked to himself. Interesting observation.

After he’d made it into the cab of the truck and started out, I waited thirty seconds and started my own car, which was a lot less worse for wear. I followed him at a casual pace; taking turns forty-five seconds after he did, driving at a comfortable pace, and doing everything I could to retain a casual composure.

We moved further across town, before he suddenly threw a turn into a very suburban street filled with large elm trees, tire swings and little kids on bicycles. I idled on the curb for a second, watching him make his way further down the street and almost out of sight, before hitting the indicator and easing onto the tarmac.

Even as he stopped and pulled into the driveway of a stout blue one-storey with slightly overgrown grass and white shingles, I continued on my way as if that had been my intention all along, even as my mind ticked over. So his family were well-off, but not that rich. He was a careful driver, but took turns far too quickly, meaning he was intelligent and meticulous, but could rush into potentially dangerous situations. Every move you make, subconsciously or not, can mean something very important about your character, whether you are aware or unaware. That’s what I loved about the human body.

I pulled the car to the curb about five houses down—not too close, not too far—and then hopped out, locking the door, untrustworthy of the kids in the neighborhood.

Then I walked down the path, careful to keep my mood light and unsuspicious and my footsteps airy. Believe it or not, following someone in such a manner is a lot harder than it looks. You have to constantly observe, while looking like you’re unaware of your surroundings. Seemingly totally nonchalant even as you practically stalk a poor boy.

Once I reached his yard, I stared at the front of the house, and assessed the front. The front held the living room, which seemed to connect to the kitchen where I could see a woman with graying blonde hair flit around in an elegant manner. The other one seemed to be a study, and so I crept along the gate and pole-vaulted my way over the wooden gate.

As you can probably tell by now, this wasn’t my first rodeo. I’d done my fair share of tree-climbing, gate-jumping, breaking-and-entering mayhem in my eighteen years. If you learned to be stealthy and quiet, no one was ever worse for wear.

It took me three different windows before I located his. First I peeked in on a bathroom—which, thank God, wasn’t occupied—and then a younger sister’s room covered in frills and pink, before I managed a peek above the sill and spotted him standing by his desk, scribbling something on a lined notepad.

The bed was your typical male’s bedroom, with coffee-colored walls, clothes messily thrown around the room, band and car posters on the wall, and an old letterman jacket thrown carelessly over the back of his desk chair.

So he liked cars—most were in black, so I was going to go out on a limb and say black Italian cars—and he scrubbed his jaw when he was in deep thought.

And he was now taking his shirt off.

I eased further down until my eyes were in line with the sill, and watched as he tore off his sweaty—but not too sweaty, thankfully—shirt and threw it in a wicker hamper, leaving his shining body on display.

Okay, I’ll admit, the dude was fit. He didn’t have that impressive six-pack girls constantly fawn over, and it wasn’t the roasted golden perfection of a Greek god, but, damn, he still had it going on. Definite plus for Natalie if she were really on the hunt for this guy’s attention.

I still wasn’t sure why she really wanted this information, but in my line of work, it was not up to me to ask questions. Instead I pulled out my phone and snapped a silent picture, before watching him leave the room and start towards the shower in his en suite.

I know what you’re thinking. Your job is done, time to get the hell out of there and get the hell home. I’d done enough work for tonight, and there was nothing more to be accomplished.

And you’re totally right. I probably would have gone home.

Except for the fact his father chose that exact moment to announce to his wife from somewhere inside the house that he was taking the trash out.

Now, this may not have been a problem, had the bins in question been situated on the lawn in the front yard.

Except they weren’t.

Because they were right next to me.

“Shit,” I whispered, looking around for help. There was the backyard, but that was pretty much in clear view of the trashcans. There was no going back now, since that meant I’d surely run into Mr. Templeton, and we can all imagine how that would go down.

Oh, hi, Mr. Templeton. No, I’m not secretly spying on your son through his open bedroom window. What are you talking about? Hahahaha—

Wait a second! His bedroom window was open!

Despite the fact I knew I was gonna get into serious trouble because of this, I still slithered into his room and dropped onto the beige carpet, keeping still until I heard Zach’s father walk past the window, whistling to himself as he threw the bag into the trash can.

Mere meters away from me, I could hear the shower running, and as Mr. Templeton walked away, I took this opportunity as a chance to just peruse his room a little bit—you know, just to be thorough for Natalie.

I stood up and ran to his desk drawers, riffling through. A wallet, breath mints, a questionable piece of bubblegum, a magazine (and not the sporty kind), a pen, and some leaflets of paper. Okay, not bad. I could deal with that.

I moved to his chest of drawers, but found nothing but the usual array of socks, boxer shorts and clothing. Pretty bare. A few loose pieces of change and a couple photos, as well as a random, garish yellow shirt button.

Finally I searched the drawers of his bedside table, where things got interesting. Inside, I found a picture of an extremely pretty girl with light red hair, blue eyes and a large smile, and she was curled into the arms of none other than Zach, who was kissing her cheek while she giggled. I turned it over, and was surprised to see small, cursive writing on the back written in black.

Z, it read. Remember when we went on our first date to the football field and not only did it storm but we also got caught? It wasn’t funny at the time, but even now thinking about the look on your face makes me smile.

That moment wasn’t perfect, but seeing you there shivering in your t-shirt and trying to pretend you were totally fine…. Now, that was perfect.

            So are you.

Love,

Katie.

I put down the photo and rummaged through the drawers, but there was nothing as interesting as that love letter had been. Hm, seemed he still had a sweetheart back in his hometown. How adorable. Not.

Suddenly I heard the pipes clang as the shower turned off, and I swore once again, glancing around the room.

And then, on the edge of the bed, I spotted a gray t-shirt and plaid pajama bottoms.

Meaning I had probably a three second window of opportunity before I got caught.

The window was out. Getting in had been enough trouble, and I certainly didn’t have time to stage another prison break. The house was a no-no, too.

The shower door opened, and I heard him singing something to himself under his breath as he began to open the door.

Which meant I had no choice but to dive under the bed, in the most clichéd position known to man.

Underneath the navy coverlet I watched him appear from the bathroom in a haze of smoke, only wrapped in a towel, his chest still glistening and his hair dripping water onto his shoulders.

Okay, this was weird, even for my standards. Spying through his window was one thing (it was for research, after all). I could even handle diving into his room (because what girl doesn’t want to have an old-fashioned snoop at a hot guy’s bedroom?) But watching him emerge naked from the shower in a revealing towel?

If I were caught, that would cause some major problems.

He walked towards the bed, and I thought for sure I’d been caught. I maintained even breathing and a cool exterior. Being caught wasn’t a big worry. I could pretty much flirt my way out of the situation, lie through my teeth or, if all else failed, blackmail my way through.

But, still, no one wants to get caught under a guy’s bed, which smelled very badly of dust motes and mothballs.

Ew.

That was until he stopped at the bed, and I realized he hadn’t seen me at all. No, he was getting dressed.

My jaw unhinged itself as the towel dropped to the ground, right near my face, and he started dressing.

It wasn’t like I’d never seen a guy’s body before—which, thankfully, I still couldn’t, since all I could see were his feet, ankles and shins—but it was more the freak-out factor that I was in a guy’s room, centimeters from him and viable to get caught at any time, and, oh, yeah, he was totally getting dressed in front of me.

“Zach!” someone called, and I could already tell from the sweet, clipped tone that it was his mother’s voice. “Dinner’s ready!”

He pulled on his shirt, and then turned for the door. “Coming!” he called, before making his way across the room and out the door, leaving me alone in silence.

I sighed and dropped my head to the floor, breathing a small sigh of relief.

But there was no time to waste, so I quickly got out of my hiding spot and made for the window.

After that, you better believe I got the hell away from that house.

~      *      ~

Here's the next chapter of Dirty Little Secrets! :)

Merry Christmas, everyone! Hope everyone has a fantabulous one filled with laughter and happiness and good times :)

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