Read Online Randall #01 - The Best Revenge by Anne R. Allen - Free Book Online Page A

of something edible. After gobbling some stale Wheat Thins, she turned to survey the crowd. She didn’t recognize one person.
    But with dawning horror, she realized she was terribly overdressed. In fact, hers was the only actual dress to be seen, and—except for Wave’s gym shorts and the vintage pinstripes worn by Jimmy the garbage man—the only outfit not made of denim.
    She wondered if she should attempt the journey back to her room to change, but by now the crowd was impenetrable. She tried to look busy rearranging empty beer cans on the counter. Behind them she found the avocados from the hot tub as well as several others that had been sitting on the counter for days. No one had made the guacamole. She looked in the cupboard for a bowl. She had never made guacamole, but she had watched Wave whip up bowls of it many times, and it didn’t look very hard.
    ~
    Camilla’s fingers were coated with green slime, and she was trying to mash the lumps with a bent fork, the only utensil she could find, when a deep voice spoke close to her ear.
    “Guacamole?” the man said.
    “Guacamole,” Camilla replied
    “You must be Camel.”
    “How do you know that?” She turned around to look. He was a thirtyish man of medium height with sandy-colored hair and bloodshot blue eyes. He needed a shave.
    “Jennifer told me your name,” he said, leaning on the counter dangerously close to the green slime. “I asked her for the name of the lady with the nice cleavage.” He spoke with a lazy boredom, as if he were commenting on the weather. His eyes focused on the neckline of the Bob Mackie.
    “I’m aware that I’m over-dressed,” Camilla said. “We dress differently for parties in New York.” She turned to resume lump-squashing.
    “Yeah. Jennifer said you were from back east. Me too.” He stuck a finger into the green mush and tasted it. “Needs hot sauce,” he said.
    “Of course it does. I haven’t seasoned it yet.” Why did men think that making critical remarks was attractive?
    “Did you know that if you leave in a pit or two it won’t turn brown?”
    “No, I didn’t.” She unearthed a bottle of Tabasco sauce from the cupboard.
    “Here.” The man fished one of the pits out of the mess in the sink. He dropped it into the bowl. With a plop, it sent out a spray of green blobs. One hit Camilla in the mouth. He wiped it off with his finger.
    “You have nice mouth,” he said, licking his finger. “Luscious.”
    “The guacamole?”
    “Your mouth. Haven’t you ever been told you have a luscious mouth?”
    “As a matter of fact, I have.” She shook the bottle of hot sauce with vehemence at the thought of the Guardian article and the odious Jonathan Kahn. Unfortunately, the top shook right off and the entire contents poured into the bowl.
    Just then, a skinny woman with deathly white skin and purplish-black hair emerged from the crowd and draped an arm around the man.
    “Jon-Don, babe, we’re all out,” she said.
    Jon-Don. The star himself. Camilla hid her burning face by busying herself with extricating the bottle top from the red and green goo in the bowl. She’d just made a stupid mess in front of the famous Jon-Don Parker. She stirred the bowl’s contents with the bent fork. It turned a repulsive shade of gray.
    “Really into the hot sauce, huh?” Jon-Don said. The black and white woman seemed to have evaporated.
    “I think I ruined it,” she said. “But maybe I can save the pit. I could stick three toothpicks in it and let it rot in a glass of water while I pretend it’s going to turn into a plant. I had a counselor at summer camp who used to do that.”
    Jon-Don laughed. Now she could picture him in his pink linen jacket.
    “You’re all right, Camel,” he said, patting her shoulder. “Hey, is there somewhere we can go and talk? It’s awfully noisy in here.”
    “OK.” She was happy to move away from the disaster in the bowl on the counter. After that mess, it was probably OK for him to see