The Dare

It was past midnight. The house was quiet. The screen of my cell phone glowed in the dark, but I wasn't really looking at it. In my mind, I replayed dinner over and over again—every glance, every word, every stupid throb in my butt.

I had embarrassed myself. Again. After that, he had barely looked at me.

Then I heard soft footsteps on the old floorboards in the hallway. They stopped outside my door. Knocks. Before I could answer, the door creaked open.

Lisa!

She was wearing nothing but a long T-shirt—I couldn't tell if it was hers or maybe one of David's. It was loose, thin, and casual. She wasn't wearing a bra underneath, that much was clear. Her hair was so tousled, it looked like she had deliberately messed it up. She was holding a glass of wine in her hand.

“Are you still awake?” she asked.

I sat up. “Obviously.”

Without waiting for an invitation, she came in, closed the door behind her with her hip, and plopped down on the edge of my bed as if it were her own.

“I couldn't sleep,” she said. “Can we talk for a minute?”

I didn't answer. If my looks could kill, she wouldn't have survived that moment.

She took a sip.

“You were funny tonight,” she said. “I didn't expect that.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Thanks. I guess?”

Lisa grinned. “Don't worry. I like girls who can bite.”

I felt the anger rising in my head. “I didn't bite. I just talked.”

“Oh no,” she said, swirling her glass. “You put on quite a show. For David.”

She said his name as if it were a riddle only she could solve. I looked away. Lay back down.

She leaned over me. I could smell the wine on her breath, her hair, the exciting scent of her shower gel.

“You're not used to competition, are you?” she teased me.

Ouch, that hit home. “What about you?” I snapped back.

She laughed brightly. “Honey, I am the competition.”

I wanted to yell at her. Or slap her. Or kiss her.

Instead, I crossed my arms defiantly in front of my chest and asked: “What do you want from me, Lisa?”

She tilted her head. “A competition.”

I looked at her in surprise. She leaned toward me, her mouth very close to mine.

“Whoever makes David do something naughty first wins.”

I blinked. “You're not serious.”

“Oh yes, I am,” she said, placing her wine glass on my bedside table. She lay down next to me, snuggled up close, and stroked my hair. “But relax. It's not really about winning. It's about playing.”

I lay there in the dark, my teeth clenched, my fists balled under the covers.

Let the games begin.