The Liberator (A Dante Walker Novel) (Entangled Teen) by Victoria Scott Page B

one look at me and remember it’s what’s inside the car that counts.
    When I’m only a few yards from the door, I stop and throw the car into park. It only took about six and a half hours to get this hunk of metal from the iron gate to here, so I’m feeling pretty good about myself. After grabbing my chocolate-brown corduroy jacket from the seat, I kill the engine and step out. I’ve put zero thought into how I’ll recognize this girl, or what I’m going to say when I meet her, but I’m a master at winging it, so whatev.
    Walking toward the entryway, I square my shoulders and run a hand through my hair. It’s showtime.
    I put a little swag in my step—and stop when the front door flies open.
    A girl my age bursts into view and rushes down the sidewalk. We’re more than twenty feet apart, but I can see her clearly. She’s got long black hair and fair skin. Her body is fuller than Charlie’s, and she’s taller, too. There’s an alarming gracefulness in the way she moves. Like a serpent , I think.
    She dressed in a long black coat, yellow leggings, and black ankle boots—a fashionista with a touch of Goth. A man appears in the doorway, and when she turns and flips him the bird, I notice her hands are covered with black fingerless gloves.
    “Get back here,” the man yells. “Aspen, this is the last time. I swear to God, this is it.”
    The girl, Aspen, throws her head back and laughs. Then she turns and rushes toward the driveway. When she finally notices me, her wild green eyes spark like they’re lit from within. She stops, looks me up and down. Then she glances over my shoulder.
    “That your…car?” she says, punching the last word with what sounds like repulsion.
    “Sure is,” I say without missing a beat. “Want to get out of here?”
    Aspen glares back at the man, who I decide must be her father, and cocks her head toward the Kia. “I’m driving.”
    I toss her the keys and climb in the passenger seat. Then I grab hold of the oh-shit bar and hang on as she screeches away from the house. Glancing over at Aspen driving my car like she’s in a freaking video game, I decide “winging it” still works. And that maybe I should write a book for all those uptight managers with their pocket planners and pinched assholes. “Where we going?” I ask.
    Aspen digs a pack of cigarettes out of her jacket pocket. She lights one and searches for the button to roll down the window.
    “It’s manual,” I tell her.
    She jerks the cigarette out of her mouth. “What the hell does that mean?”
    “Means you have to crank it with that handle. Are you serious?”
    Aspen spins the lever in a circle until the window inches down. Then she looks at me. “Who are you? What were you doing outside my house?”
    My mind spins. I’m not prepared for these questions, but it’s cool, ’cause I got an answer that always works. Cocking my head, I give her my best sexy eyes, complete with a lazy half-smile. “Do you care?”
    Her eyes run over my face, my body. She shrugs. “Not really.”
    I expect her to swoon, to get all girly on me. Not that I’m trying to go down that road. I would never do that to Charlie. Ever. But it’s just my look usually garners a certain reaction. And Aspen, the way she said “not really” was more like she doesn’t care about anything .
    A few minutes later, we pull up to what seems like an apartment building, but it looks too nice for that, so I decide maybe they’re condos. The walls are made entirely of uninterrupted glass, and the building is about ten stories high. Aspen parks and gets out of the car, tipping her head for me to follow. When she does, I notice there’s a small diamond stud in her nose. Classy.
    We walk through a long hallway, mirrors and crystal-covered light fixtures sprinkled throughout. When we step into an elevator, Aspen pushes the button for the ninth floor. Then she looks at me, cigarette smoke swirling around her black hair in a halo. “Tenth floor is