Brazen Girl by Ali Dean Page 0,72

like that.

Dave’s a multi-colored, short-haired mutt I adopted pretty much by accident last year – I simply wasn’t capable of ignoring the “free puppies” sign. Clearly, despite his lack of pedigree, he’s far too good for the Madeline Brescolls of this world.

Madeline’s family owns one of the largest breweries in the nation. She goes to Lincoln Academy, the private school in town. And along with the rest of the female population in Brockton, she wants Jace Wilder.

Admittedly, Madeline has actually succeeded to some degree in her efforts to get him. Jace sleeps with her more regularly than any other girl and, according to the gossip, she’s the only girl he’s been with in his grade. Apparently Jace only hooks up with older girls these days; I imagine that will change now that he’s a senior, unless he moves on to college girls.

I shake off my thoughts as I stretch my hamstrings. I’m determined not to let boys, or one boy in particular, ruin the buzz from my morning run. High school drama isn’t something I’ve let invade my life in the past two years, and junior year won’t be any different.

It doesn’t matter to me who our class officers are, or who won Homecoming Queen - my life revolves around running, and all my friends are runners except for Jace. It’s the one thing I have where I can stand out. I’m not an amazing student. I’m not popular. I’m not in band, on debate team, or dating anyone, let alone the starting quarterback (that would be Jace, by the way). Running is my thing. And this season is going to be epic.

I jog up the stairs to the second-floor apartment I share with my Gran. She’s singing along to Aretha in her bedroom, meaning she’ll be out soon and looking for her coffee, so I hit the kitchen before the bathroom. I don’t drink the stuff myself, but Gran’s an addict and I know she’ll want some any minute.

Ten minutes later I’m out of the shower and tugging a brush through my wet hair when I hear the unmistakable sound of Jace’s voice in the kitchen with Gran. I quickly clasp my favorite purple bra behind my back and pull on a pair of red cutoff jean shorts from my closet floor. I’m pushing my arms through the holes of a snug grey tee shirt when I hear Gran in the doorway to my bedroom.

“Nice bra, Pep. You got matching undies?” She grins and wiggles her eyebrows.

“I’m going commando today, Gran,” I tease.

“Not in those short little shorts you ain’t. I can practically see your butt cheeks hangin’ out.” She waves her index finger in mock disapproval. “Not that you got much in the way of butt cheeks, but if you did, they’d be hangin’ out of those little scraps of fabric.”

I make a face in response. “Whatever, Gran, I have to race for twenty minutes in front of hundreds of people in a uniform that covers less skin than these, and it’s required by the school. And I am wearing underwear.” I pull down the shorts a bit and pull up my polka-dotted panties. “But they don’t match the bra. Sorry to disappoint.”

“Can I see?” Jace peeks over Gran’s shoulder into my bedroom.

“Young man!” Gran elbows him away and we follow her down the hallway. Her piglet slippers oink with each step as she patters towards the kitchen. Gran’s looking her usual snazzy self in a butterfly-patterned pajama set, her wiry grey hair sticking out in all directions.

“Happy birthday, old lady.” I wrap my arms around her soft little body and rock her back and forth. “Love you, Gran.”

She pats me on the back. “I know you do, hun. Now, eat a few donuts. You need some butt cheeks.” She pushes a box of a dozen donuts in my direction. “Jace brought over a good selection.”

I glance in his direction and raise my eyebrows. He must have stopped at the donut shop with Madeline. After a sleepover at her place, I presume. Jace shrugs and takes a giant bite from a jelly-filled one.

I let my eyes linger a moment. I haven’t seen him in a couple of weeks and his olive skin has turned to a dark tan. His jet black hair is ruffled in a messy fauxhawk. He’s had the same haircut for long enough that it falls into place without the need for styling.

Jace takes a seat at our dinner table. At six feet three inches,