Free Cruel Summer by Kylie Adams Page A

Finally, nosebleed sandals still in hand, she ducked out into the warm night to wait for Max.
    The moon was out, lighting up the blackened blue of the sky and painting the palm trees in its glow. Pippa basked in the peaceful moment, alone here in the darkness, dreaming dreams as the fireflies twinkled. She shifted her bare feet, and a loose stone from a deep crack in the concrete lodged into her tender heel. Wincing at the pain, she slipped into her Manolos, a precious item she held back from those bitches who’d attacked the Keith family rummage sale like bloody vultures. Oh, God, she wanted money again. Fistfuls of cash. It’d make everything so much better.
    From a distance, she heard the low rumble of Max’s Porsche. The sound triggered a flicker of disappointment. Secretly, Pippa wanted to be by herself for a bit longer. But that wasn’t in the cards. As every boy racer’s auto fantasy approached, its headlights went dark, and the sports machine coasted to a stealthy, silent stop in front of her poor, pitiful shack. That’s when a ripple of excitement did a somersault inside Pippa’s stomach, telling her why she did the things she did. It was her own Girl’s Guide to Getting Over a Family Holocaust.
    Sneaking out.
    Having a laugh.
    Cockteasing boys.
    Getting trashed.
    Forgetting the past.
    Pippa slid into the passenger seat, experiencing a sonic assault of “Pimpin’ All Over the World” by Ludacris and Bobby Valentino. The interior cabin light was on, providing just enough illumination to give Max his thrill and to secure her credit line for the night.
    Straps off. Dress down. No bra. Full view.
    Max threw back his head in complete astonishment, staring at her perfectly proportioned beauties as if they were the unofficial eighth wonder of the world. Then, as if spellbound, his eyes lingered on the starfishlike scar a few inches underneath her left breast. He swallowed hard.
    “Okay, show’s over,” Pippa chirped, pulling up her dress.
    “How’d you get that scar?” Max asked.
    “When I was born, my esophagus wasn’t connected to my stomach, so I had to be operated on at two hours old,” Pippa answered, feeling no shame or self-consciousness. The distinguishing mark belonged to her, and she was right proud of it.
    For a prolonged moment, Max gazed at her with genuine fascination and obvious lust. “Goddamn, that’s hot. It makes me want to nail you even more.”
    Pippa laughed. “Stop being such a perv and drive!”
    Max wiggled his eyebrows and floored it, roaring the Porsche engine to maximum revs.
    Pippa glanced back, half wondering if the ruckus had been loud enough to wake up her mum, then dismissed the thought altogether. Too late now anyway. Tomorrow she’d deal. Tonight she’d party.
     
    “We were just here,” Pippa whined, as Max led the charge toward the door police at Mynt.
    She wanted desperately to hit B.E.D., a club with loads of mattresses. A girl could just lie about and get waited on like a princess. And if she felt like snogging a dreamy lad, then she could do so to her heart’s content behind the billowy white curtains. Total heaven.
    “Every night here is different,” Max informed her. “And it’s only our first stop.” As he approached a bulky bouncer, Max offered him a cool nod, then watched the man work fast to remove the rope barrier, his free arm splayed out wide to separate the son of a famous movie star from the nobodies lined up with hopeful dreams of getting inside.
    This made Pippa wonder if Max Biaggi Jr. had ever waited for anything in his life. And a gut instinct told her that—besides a shag with her, for which the bloke would be waiting forever—the answer was no.
    Max walked in, cruised in, strutted in. He gave off nuclear attitude. Like he owned the club lock, stock, and liquor supply.
    From the power speakers, Mariah Carey cooed a lazy hiphop groove, telling the party crowd to “Shake It Off.”
    Pippa scanned the long, narrow hot zone, her eyes