Free First Love by James Patterson Page B

my leg. “Did you know that dead squirrels can eat you? They have very sharp teeth. Dead squirrels are cool. Also dinosaurs are cool, and Batman, but Spider-Man is better because he got bitten by a spider.” Mason began hopping up and down, narrowly missing my foot. “Superman can go into space because he can fly, but not Spider-Man because he needs a web and he can’t shoot it in space because there’s no buildings up there.” His hopping had progressed to a wild bouncing.
    Chrissy giggled. “I swear I don’t give him coffee.”
    “He’s charming,” I said—through gritted teeth.
    “I’m not charming. I’m starving!” Mason said.
    I took a step forward. “Will you let me cook breakfast?” I asked. “So you can relax?”
    Chrissy looked at me in surprise. “Uh… okay.”
    “You took us in—it’s the least I can do.” The fact was, I didn’t know what to do with my hands, and cooking would calm me down. So I made omelets for everyone, with cheddar cheese and snippets of chives from a pot that Chrissy kept on her windowsill. I thought about undercooking her omelet and putting bits of eggshell in it, but I reminded myself that she wasn’t really the wrongdoer. I’d told her Robinson wasn’t my boyfriend, so as far as she knew, he was available.
    Not that I totally forgave her.
    “Wow, I lucked out bringing you two home,” Chrissy said, her mouth full of eggs. “This is the best omelet I’ve ever had.”
    “I’ve made a lot of them,” I said. “I’m no gourmet or anything.”
    Robinson pointed his fork at me. “Not true. She can cook anything. She’ll make someone a good little wife someday.”
    “Watch it,” I warned.
    “It’s a compliment,” Robinson insisted.
    “I didn’t take it as one,” I said.
    “You guys bicker like a brother and sister,” Chrissy said, giggling. Then she looked serious again. “Do your parents know where you are?”
    I turned back to the stove. “We plead the Fifth.”
    “We’re on vacation,” Robinson said.
    Chrissy sighed and leaned back in her folding chair. “Okay,” she said, “I won’t pry. Everyone’s entitled to their secrets. But here’s a piece of advice: get out of Las Vegas, okay? Because you come here and you just get stuck.”
    She gazed toward the window then, the one that looked out over the Neon Boneyard, where old signs go to die. Something told me that getting stuck was exactly what had happened to her.
    I looked at Robinson, who was dumping sugar into his coffee. We’d never get stuck anywhere, not even if we wanted to. There was an undeniable reason for that—but it was one of our secrets.

20
    “I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT. ”
    So said Robinson when I asked him what he was doing tonsil-diving with a Las Vegas stripper at nine o’clock in the morning. (As if it would have been just fine later in the day.)
    “Well, I want to talk about it,” I said. I had dragged him and our few belongings outside as soon as breakfast was over, trying to avoid giving Chrissy a chance to ask us to stay.
    Robinson looked at me for a moment, his expression unreadable, and then he turned and walked away. He wound through the cars parked near the Neon Museum, shaking his head and seemingly talking to himself.
    I felt so helpless. Was I crazy? Had I imagined the romantic tension between us? What if Robinson had never wanted anything from me but my friendship? If that turned out to be true,then it was too bad Chrissy wasn’t actually an ax murderer—because I was going to die a long, slow death of humiliation.
    I wiped a bead of sweat from my lip. It was 10 AM and already hot. I sat down on the toe of a giant metal high-heeled shoe, which used to be part of the sign for the Silver Slipper Saloon.
    I
hated
Las Vegas.
    “What are you doing?” I finally called to Robinson.
    He didn’t answer—he was still pacing. I wasn’t about to follow him up and down the street, so I stared at all the dead signs. There was one that said WEDDING