Page 31 of Airhead

For someone who never stopped talking about this stupid car that he loved more than Connie, The Creep didn't care enough to hit the door locks.

Serves you right, Creep.

If she had a Pink Ladies’ satin jacket right now, Katie would have flipped the collar while smacking her gum. Instead, she just pulled the Snickers out of its wrapper and dropped it smack dab in the middle of the driver's seat. Then, she reached into her bucket and started chucking popcorn, M&Ms, and melted butter into the car. After that, there was only one thing left to do. She shook up the can of Tab and pointed it at the inside of the car, making sure to avoid the radio. (Because having to clean up the seats was one thing, but actual unfixable damage was something else.) She paused for a second, asking herself if this was really the right thing to do. Then she remembered all the times The Creep had belittled Connie, told her she was lucky to have gotten a job at his dad's car dealership instead of Radio Shack even though she had gotten straight As and a full ride to college. She thought about how he'd yelled at Connie if she even looked at another guy while he was fucking his way through Waterbury. Katie focused on the way her sister seemed a little less happy every day she'd been with The Creep.

Fuck. Him.

What she was doing was probably wrong, but it was right in the ways that mattered. The Creep was heinous to the max, and it was time for some righteous payback.

She popped the can's top. Soda streamed into the car, guaranteeing it would mix with the melted chocolate and buttery popcorn to make a sticky mess that would take hours to clean.

Mission accomplished, she reached up and pulled the doors down, careful to use the right technique. If Katie had a dime for every time The Creep had lectured her sister about how the doors could get stuck in the upright position if she didn't close them right, Katie's students wouldn't have to depend on her dumpster diving for science experiment supplies.

"Hey!" A man's deep voice boomed across the parking lot. "What are you doing to my car?!"

Still high on vengeance, Katie's pulse didn't even give a hint of an uptick as she turned around, a cocky grin on her face, ready to face The Creep and give him a piece of her mind.

There was just one small problem.

The man coming her way was not The Creep.

It also wasn't a cop, which, to be honest, would have been better than the reality of the situation. Yes, being arrested, booked, and having her parents—or worse, her brothers—bail her out would be the seventh level of hell bad, but this was worse.

Way worse.

It was six feet, six inches worth of hard muscle worse. It was a redheaded guy who was good at all of the ways a mouth could be used worse. It was a man who had dozens of cupcakes, pans of ziti, and once a full five-course dinner delivered to him at the firehouse by women who thought they were the ones who could make him settle down worse.

"Fuck me gently with a chainsaw," Katie muttered as her gut dropped low enough to go swimming in the Waterbury sewers.

His car?

This could not be happening.

There was no way.

Not him.

Not after what had happened at Marinos. Thank God he didn't know she'd spent the following two weeks—and a lot of nights since then—getting off every night to the memory of coming on his dick.

Heart hammering so hard it was about to break through her ribs, she pressed a hand to her stomach to quell the rioting butterflies and sent up a quick prayer.

Please, God, let the car belong to anyone but him.

God didn't need a reason to ignore panicky prayers, but He didn't answer. That was probably because of her one-night stand with the one firefighter in all of Waterbury she never ever ever should have banged in a bar supply closet.

Somewhere out there, Sister Mary Michael was having a told-you-so laugh. The snarly old nun had declared, years ago, that all of the Madigans were nothing but trouble, and she wasn't wrong. She, and all the other nuns at St. Bernadette's, had tried their best to get the three Madigan girls not to roll up the waistbands of their plaid skirts, sing/moan all the lyrics of Donna Summers' Love To Love You Baby or sneak out of fifth period to meet up under the bleachers with the boys from St. Paul's.

None of their efforts had been successful, which the penguins were still bitter about. And that was just for the girls of the family. Whenever the Madigan brothers passed them on the street, the nuns sucked their teeth and blessed themselves while watching what could be confused for a professional football team pass by.

So yes, Katie fully admitted to God and man that she was a Madigan and therefore, trouble. But did she really have to pay for her many personal sins by having to make nice with Frankie Hartigan, whose car she'd just mistakenly vandalized?

And if so, how in the hell was she supposed to do that without ending up half-naked in a supply closet with him again?

Shit. Shit. Shit.

She was big-time going to need the strength of Stephanie Zinone and all the other Pink Ladies to ensure that didn't happen.

Chapter Sixteen