Free Eye Candy by R.L. Stine Page A

said.
    â€œHow?”
    I snickered. “I don’t want to say.”
    She got my meaning. She laughed. “Poor boy. I could rub it for you. I used to do massage. I’m licensed and everything.”
    This was starting to get interesting.
    I took a real chance with this one. Her photo was so dark and out-of-focus in her ad, I thought maybe she was ugly or something. I mean, why put such a bad picture in your ad unless you’re trying to hide something?
    But her name was Chloe, and I’m a sucker for French names like that. At least, I think it’s French. Her ad said she liked to cook, and dance, and stay out all night and be really evil, if provoked.
    I remembered her ad word for word.
    â€œFive Things You’ll Find in My Bedroom: ‘Happiness with four exclamation points.’ ”
    That’s pretty clever, don’t you think? I mean, it got my attention.
    â€œMusic That Gets Me in the Mood: ‘Music.’ ”
    That’s all it said. Just
“Music.”
Ha ha. Chloe knew how to write good copy. I was getting a woody just reading her ad.
    So I decided to overlook the bad photo and take a chance. She didn’t turn out too bad. I mean, she’s no beauty. Her face is kinda long and rectangular. And even with the blond streaks, her hair is bad news.
    But she has nice eyes, very warm and inviting. And lovely, pale white skin, like a swan, and smooth as baby skin. I wanted to touch it. I could barely keep my hands away. All through dinner, I kept staring at her throat— the smooth skin just glowed.
    I don’t think she noticed my stare. She kept talking and laughing and reaching over to touch my hand. Yeah, she talks too much. But she has a soft, sort of whispery voice, so I didn’t mind it. No matter what the fuck she’s yammering about, she whispers it like she’s telling you intimate secrets.
    What was she talking about?
    I wasn’t really listening. Something about her sister. She has an audition for one of the ballet companies in town. Chloe is really jealous because she always dreamed of being a ballerina, too. But the sister has all the talent.
    Maybe I should get the sister’s phone number. Ha ha.
    I like the little, skinny dancers who walk with their backs so straight and their toes out. Sometimes I see the ballet dancers walking in groups near Lincoln Center, probably going to class or something, and I get so hot just watching their little asses and thinking about them in their tights. And out of their tights.
    I listened to what Chloe was saying about her sister. And I tried to picture the sister, a hot little thing with really powerful legs from all those ballet workouts, powerful legs that would be so good in bed. Stamina, that’s what she’d have, the sister. You couldn’t wear her out, I’ll bet.
    And I really did want to get the sister’s number. I’m sure
she
didn’t have to put an ad on a Web site to get guys. But how can you ask?
    Besides, Chloe wasn’t bad, whispering like that and touching my hand all the time, like she just couldn’t wait to get to my bod.
    What else did we talk about? The stock market, believe it or not.
    She said she got some stocks as a present when she graduated from college. And at first, they went way up, but she didn’t sell them, and now they’re way down, but maybe starting to go back up, and she doesn’t know what to do.
    Who gives a shit?
    That’s what I wanted to say. But, of course, I smiled and pretended to listen, all the while staring at that beautiful, shimmery skin, that long, fine neck like a swan. Yeah, a swan. She reminded me of a fine, delicate swan. Until she stood up, that is. But that didn’t happen until after dinner.
    â€œWhat do you do?” she asked me, sliding a french fry into her mouth. She didn’t wear lipstick or anything. Her lips were nearly as pale as her skin.
    Maybe she was hoping I was a stockbroker. Then we