The Good Girl. Christy Barritt

I took another bite of egg and realized it needed some salt. I quickly remedied that problem. “What kind of stuff do you do on the Internet?”

      “I’ve done lots of stuff, but I’m mostly known for doing parodies and man-on-the-street interviews. I’ve organized two flashmobs. My blog and YouTube channel are called iCandy.”

      “I’ll have to check out some of your stuff sometime.”

      Candy studied me for a moment as she tore off a piece of her bagel. “Your sister said you’re a blogger too? Something about ten-thousand followers or something. Not bad for a novice.”

      “I used to be a blogger. Not anymore.” I’d taken the blog off-line, and, most likely, I’d delete it completely. I just couldn’t bring myself to do that yet. That blog had been my masterpiece, my legacy. At least, that’s what I’d thought at one time.

      Someone stopped beside our table. I looked up, expecting to see our fifty-something waitress standing there. Instead, my gaze continued climbing upward at the six-foot-plus man standing there with a broad grin across his face. And he was staring at me.

      Candy slapped her hands on the table and stood. “If it isn’t Mark Champion.”

      “Hey, sugar.” He gave her a hug, but his gaze lingered on me. “Who is this fine piece of work with you?”

      “This is Lana’s sister, Tara. You gotta remember Lana telling us that she was coming.”

      He stepped back and extended his hand. “I’m Mark. Pleasure to meet you.”

      Fine piece of work? Was that a compliment, or had the women’s movement just traveled back in time several decades? I reached for his hand, fussing at myself for the flutters I felt in my stomach.

      Mark Champion. The man Lana wanted to fix me up with. He was certainly handsome enough in a big, overblown way. Meaty muscles, tight T-shirt, gelled hair, a smile that I was quite certain showed off veneers. I cleared my throat. “Same here. Nice to meet you also.”

      He nodded with approval. “Tara. I like that name.”

      Why was I blushing? “Thank you.”

      “Sorry to stare. I’m sure you’re used to it, aren’t you? Someone as pretty as you.”

      Where did this man come from? Was he always so over-the-top when he flirted? Even scarier, was it working? “It’s been awhile, actually.” The last man who’d hit on me had been a weirdo who recognized me from the news. He’d actually enjoyed the negative coverage I’d been receiving.

      “That’s too bad.” Mark nodded toward the kitchen area. “Listen, I’m about to start my shift. I’ll see you two tonight at the rave, though, right?”

      You two? A rave? What in the world was he thinking? I shook my head. “I’m not a rave type of girl.” What was a rave exactly? A big party with electronic music and dancing and lots of alcohol?

      He smiled again. “You could be. You should give it a shot. It would be fun.”

      Fun? Wasn’t fun making cookies for the residents of a local nursing home? Or going on mission trips and leading children in Mexico in songs about how much God loves them? Or sitting around a campfire and talking about Jesus?

      Fun was certainly not a rave.

      He winked. “You should come hang out. We’ll be gentle on you your first time.”

      “Gentle on me?” I’d reduced myself to repeating everything he said.

      “Think about it.”

      I would not be thinking about it, I thought as he walked away. Even with my failures, I still had some standards to live by.

      As soon as he was out of earshot, Candy raised her eyebrows at me. “That was fast.”

      “What was fast?” Me rejecting the rave?

      “That you caught his eye. He’s a hot commodity in the area, you know. Businesses have actually paid him to show up at their parties.”

      “Why in the world would they do that?”

      “If Lana is Party Girl, then he’s Party Boy. He has an entourage with him wherever he goes. He brings in crowds.”

      “Why?” I wiped my mouth, suddenly fearful that I had toast crumbs on my chin.

      “Did you see him?”

      “Handsome faces are a dime a dozen.”

      She rolled her eyes. “Sure. Okay, it’s like this. He played college football for a while. He got canned because of some knee injury or something. I don’t know. Then he was cast on one of those survival shows. He didn’t win but he did get some endorsement deals from it.”

      “Why is he a waiter then?”

      “The party lifestyle isn’t cheap. He blew through all of that money pretty quickly. Don’t worry. He’ll get more deals and quit this job. When that money dries up, he’ll find some more part-time work. It’s the nature of the business.”

      I leaned back and chewed on her words. His story wasn’t that much different than Lana’s, I supposed. Lana was the type of girl who got noticed wherever she went—she always had been and always would. Sometimes that came out in positive ways—like when she was a cheerleader. Other times it came out negative ways—like when she danced on tables at restaurants on a dare.

      In college, she auditioned for Sunset House, a reality TV show where people lived and partied together for three months while cameras captured their every drunken move. She became an instant sensation when her cutthroat abilities and unwavering deception pushed her to the top and she won.

      She stayed in L.A. for a few years, trying to keep her reality TV star shining bright, but it had eventually dimmed. She followed a boy out to St. Paul. Their relationship ended after a year, but she found a job as a receptionist for a publicity and marketing firm. Then she started doing a lot of local gigs, including her biggest one as the spokesperson for a local car dealership. She’d gotten the Hummer out of the deal. She’d also done some other jobs and gotten herself jewelry, clothes, and a lifetime supply of dog food.

      I had to work twice as hard at being the good daughter to make up for Lana’s “heathen” lifestyle. That was only the start of my problems, though. I’d worried about everyone else when I should have been worrying about myself.

      Had Lana really thought I’d be interested in someone like Mark? Sure, he was handsome. But he was the opposite of my type.

      Which was probably why she thought I should go out with him. She’d always thought I was too uptight. She was probably right.

      I pushed my plate away and looked up at Candy. “Ready to go?”

      “We should probably pick out your outfit for the rave tonight.”

      I shook my head. “It’s not happening, Candy. I’m not going to the rave.”

      “It’s gonna be fun.” Her voice sounded singsong.

      Still, I shook my head. Nope, a girl needed standards.

      End of argument.

      ~*~

      Who needed standards? Maybe I should go to the rave. Look where standards had gotten me so far. Nowhere.

      That’s all I could think about as I held the corner of a bed sheet up to the window frame and pressed a tack into the wall. Instant curtains, right?

      What would it be like to go to a rave? I wondered as I pulled another fabric corner to the edge of the window. Why shouldn’t I? I mean, it was just like one, big party, right? And I’d already been accused of being a fuddy-dud. What would it be like to step outside of my comfort zone?

      No. I could never do something like that. There was walking away from my faith, and then there was embracing a hedonistic lifestyle.