The top was too low-cut to allow a regular bra. The breast cups were also sized larger than I was. They would be a constant invitation for anybody with an angled view, or for side-boob aficionados.
“Not even panties?” I asked.
“Panties are for teenagers. You’re twenty, now.”
* * *
Dean’s mood was only slightly improved by the time we rolled up to Jack’s dormitory.
Jack was pacing the sidewalk. He rushed over when he saw me through the passenger window.
“Are you okay?” he asked quietly.
“Don’t talk to Lorelei when I can’t hear,” Dean said. “If you whisper to her again, I’m putting a bullet through her brain. And then yours.”
“Don’t mind Dean,” I said quickly, trying to smile. “You don’t have to come, Jack. I know it’s last-minute. I’ll talk to Dr. Redwhiler and explain that something came up. You should stay.”
“I think I should come.”
“No,” I said, holding my smile. “You stay. For reals. I will call you in a few days. I know I will.”
Jack wavered.
Dean started snapping his fingers. Oh crap.
“Like my dress?” I asked quickly, for something to say.
Dean slapped the dash and we all jumped. “Is everybody fucking with me today? Because it’s the wrong fucking day to fuck with me.”
Jack gave me some kind of look and slid into the back seat.
“Jack,” Dean said quietly, “some people are on a schedule.”
“Yes, Dean,” Jack said. His face was gray.
“For this last adventure,” Dean said, “we’re going on the road. Get it? On The Road. I’m Dean, that’s Jack. Lorelei, you’re Marylou.”
I’d read that book for a class last semester. I’d been curious because I knew it was Dean’s favorite, and I thought I could get a glimpse into his pathology. I couldn’t. It was all aimless wandering and misogyny.
“Marylou, you whore,” Dean said. He laughed.
Our white ’88 Chevy Cavalier screeched out of the parking lot, out of Indiana State, and into the endless fucking fields where Dean could do anything he wanted.
* * *
I was all business.
With a glance at Jack I knew he wouldn’t decipher, I started on Dean. I leaned close and curled my arm around his neck. I worked his ear with my mouth, always aware of Jack’s face turned toward us. “Dean, baby. Let’s just raincheck this whole thing. I learned some new tricks.”
He pushed me away like I was an overly affectionate dog.
“Where did you learn new tricks from, whore?”
“My regular fucking around,” I said, flicking a look at Jack. He was watching me with pity, and something else.
A girl had to do what she could to keep everybody safe.
I crept back to Dean. I knew I looked like the chick everybody felt sorry for, the one with the asshole boyfriend and the raging case of Stockholm Syndrome. “I fucked so many guys last week that I learned new tricks. Fucking is the one thing I’m good at.”
“You said it,” Dean crowed. “Jack, can you believe this whore?”
“I can’t,” he said flatly. “I can’t believe her.”
We veered onto the highway, pressing aside traffic and nearly clipping a motorcycle.
Dean watched Jack steadily in the mirror. “So, Jack, you’re saying that Marylou is a liar?”
“Nope.”
Jack was being strong, and I didn’t want him to be. No one could be stronger than Dean, and there was just no upside to standing up to him. I’d learned that years ago, and I was sorry Jack would learn it too.
“Let me try to understand, Jack. You can’t believe Marylou, but she’s not a liar?” Dean’s voice was smooth and casual. Building up. “How does that even work, Jack?”
“I don’t know,” Jack grated. He wanted to glance at me. I willed him not to.
“Are you… are you surprised to learn she’s a whore?”
Jack was very still. He was thinking so hard I could see the air sizzling above his head.
“Well,” he said finally, “It’s obvious that Marylou is a whore. But I can’t afford her, so I don’t know if she’s ‘only good at fucking.’”
Dean pounded the steering wheel and roared with laughter. It welled from some ecstatic, unwholesome place inside him. “Now you’re playing, Jack-o. Today’s your lucky day.”
Jack forced a smile and waited.
“I have complete power over this whore. I know what she wants, I know what she’ll do. Isn’t that right, Marylou?”
“Yes, Dean,” I said. Because, fuck it, he did.
Dean’s scruffy face was dangerous and knowing. His expression was taunting, as if he had some kind of foreknowledge about what I would do. When a guy knows me like that, it’s Spanish Fly. I’m too damn easy that way, a sucker for confidence, or madness.