Twice Kissed - Lisa Jackson [37]
“I was telling you about this kind of surgery to make ’em bigger.” She pointed to the model’s enviable chest. “It’s called breast enhancement or something. Linda Stone’s mom had it done a couple of years ago.”
“How do you know?”
Mary Theresa tossed her a look that silently called her naive. “Linda said, and if you look, you’ll see that she’s a lot bigger than she used to be.” Her eyes narrowed on the picture. “I can’t see any scars.” Mary Theresa’s eyebrows drew together thoughtfully as she studied the photograph.
“Ick. Who cares if there are scars?”
“I care.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. But it seems important. Boys like big boobs.”
“Would you ever have it done?”
“Maybe.”
“Well, I wouldn’t.” Maggie shook her head. No way would she have some doctor cut her open and…and do what? She didn’t want to know. “Besides, boys are stupid.”
“I know.” Mary Theresa smiled. “Real stupid. But they like big tits.”
That statement seemed profound today, Maggie thought as the lazy-afternoon sun dried the drops of water on her body. She watched Mary Theresa stretch out on the chaise again, perfect, nonsurgically enhanced breasts overflowing from the top of her neon orange bikini.
Toweling dry her hair, Maggie stood, her shadow daring to cross Mary Theresa’s legs.
“Careful,” her twin said. She felt Mary Theresa’s restlessness, knew that she was annoyed that Maggie had disturbed her. “Don’t you have something to do?”
“Don’t you?”
Mary rolled over and sighed in disgust. “God, you’re pathetic.”
Maggie wanted to chime, I know you are, but what am I, then decided that would sound far too childish, only driving Mary Theresa’s point home.
She didn’t bother to say goodbye, just walked into the cool house, changed, and badgered her mother to let her borrow the car so she could drive to the horse barns where her mare, Ink Spot, was leased. She spent the rest of the afternoon riding through the connecting paddocks of Rio Verde Canyon and relaxing. The sun was hot, heating her crown with lazy rays as it slowly disappeared into the western horizon.
Hours later Maggie stopped at a local drive-in, where she ordered fries and a Coke. She hung out with some kids she knew from school for a while, then, knowing she was late, pushed the speed limit on the way home and parked her mother’s car in its spot in the garage.
Her dad’s Mercedes was missing, thank God. Maggie smiled to herself as she pocketed her keys because she’d lucked out and avoided a lecture on coming home late. Obviously her parents were gone, out for the evening.
The house was dark, only the exterior lamps lighting the way to the front door, but Mitch’s Mustang sat in the driveway, its paint polished to a sheen that looked almost liquid in the lamplight.
Intent on swimming a few laps under the stars, Maggie sneaked around the outside of the house, avoiding the pools of light cast by the exterior lamps. She’d just cool off, swim three or four laps, then call it a night. She was rounding the corner and struggling to pull her T-shirt over her head at the oleander hedge when she heard the noises: the notes of a piano and Elton John’s voice singing a song Maggie barely remembered, soft, happy giggles and splashes of water over the gurgle of the hot-tub jets.
Maggie froze.
“Don’t!” Mary Theresa ordered, but her voice was playful, teasing.
The hairs on the back of Maggie’s neck raised slowly, one by one, as a deep male voice rumbled in laughter.
It wasn’t much of a surprise really. Mary Theresa attracted a lot of male attention; she always had a date.
“Why not?” the guy asked, and Maggie’s gut clenched as she recognized the voice.
“I said—oooh!”
Maggie’s stomach turned