“I like the tennis skirt,” David said, grinning, staring down at Amber’s thighs.
“Pervert!” Amber whacked his shoulder. “I’m sixteen and you’re what? Thirty-eight or some fossilized number? Gross! You’re worse than a barrel full of smashed assholes.”
“Pervert!” I said, chiming in. “And actually, I think the boy is thirty-nine.”
“What, so you don’t look at her legs?” he asked, sneering at me.
“It’s Amber!” My mental goalie searched for something clever to say that wouldn’t incriminate me.
“What, so you don’t look?” she asked. They both stared at me.
“Of course.” I playfully chucked the bill of her hat.
“Well, that’s okay. You’re allowed. Just not David.” She took off her cap, slammed it over the top of his head in disgust, and fixed it back atop her head. “Ben’s practically my father.”
“Oh. Yes. That makes it so much better,” David said.
. . .from the forthcoming novel, Dreamers on the Rise