Read Online Creeping with the Enemy by Kimberly Reid - Free Book Online Page A

thinking when I ring Bethanie’s doorbell. Her mother answers after a few minutes, and it’s obvious I woke her. Her hair’s smashed in on one side and she hasn’t done her makeup yet. I have never seen Mrs. Larsen without full makeup. No matter the occasion or time of day, she looks like the victim of an overzealous cosmetics counter lady who is a frustrated makeup artist for a reason. I also have never seen Mrs. Larsen without at least one item of animal print clothing on, and this record still stands.
    She is holding together her leopard print robe to keep from revealing the zebra print pajamas underneath. Animal print is great, but even fashion-challenged me knows head-to-toe is a definite don’t. When I first met Bethanie, I couldn’t figure out why she had so much money and wanted so desperately to fit in with the Langdon rich, but could never quite pull off that effortless style and snobbishness that the born rich must have stamped on their DNA. Until I met her parents, saw her house, and learned about their lottery fortune. Then it all made perfect sense.
    â€œHoney, do you realize how early it is? Something better be on fire for you to get me out the bed this early on a Sunday morning.”
    â€œSorry, Mrs. Larsen. I thought it would be okay. Most people are up by now.”
    â€œMost people have jobs or religion. I ain’t got either one. Bethanie is asleep, but you’re welcome to go up and ruin her morning, too.”
    Then she left me standing in the door and went back upstairs, all that animal-printed polyester flowing behind her. If they ever made a Real Housewives of Denver , Mrs. Larsen would totally get the part of rich-but-tacky-diva-you-best-not-piss-off.
    â€œWake up, Bethanie.”
    My command is met with silence. I try again and see some progress because this time she grunts.
    â€œLook, I brought your favorite chai from the coffeehouse. I had to get off the bus two stops early for that, Bethanie.”
    â€œWhat the hell are you doing here? And why are you calling me that?”
    â€œBecause it’s your name,” I say, though I’ve always figured it was an alias. I’m hoping in her semiconscious state she’ll prove me right, but I’m not that lucky.
    â€œWhat are you doing here so early?” she asks, sitting up.
    â€œI thought you might want to talk some more about dinner last night.”
    That gets her attention and she pops up as though she’d never been asleep. She looks a hotter mess than her mom did. Of course, no one looks good fresh out of a deep sleep, but I’ve never seen her looking anything but magazine-cover ready. Even if her style is a little much, Bethanie is really pretty. She’s got that whole exotic-girl look the magazines like. You know, when they want a black girl for diversity but they don’t want her to be too much of a black girl—full lips but not too full, wide nose but not too wide , brown skin but not too brown. I’ll never be on anyone’s cover because I’m too all of that, plus some. That’s fine by me because I think I’m kinda cute, which is probably far less expensive and worrisome than being beautiful.
    But now Bethanie looks like a mere mortal, like the rest of us. I must not hide my shock, because she tells me not to go anywhere and heads for the attached bathroom. I thought she’d just brush her teeth and splash some water on her face, but when I hear the shower go on, I’m glad for the opportunity to snoop.
    I have limits—no drawer opening, no diary reading, but anything in plain sight is fair game, which is how I learned her dad is not really a rich oilman like the Larsens play off to the rest of the world. I saw a letter from the lottery commission on their kitchen counter and called Bethanie on it. It was weird. She got mad when she realized I knew the truth about her family (or some of it), but then we actually became better friends. She