Get Dirty (Don’t Get Mad Book 2)

SOMEONE POUNDED ON BREE’S BEDROOM DOOR, JARRING her from her nap.

“We go now,” Olaf barked from the hallway. “You get in car. Olaf drive.”

She slid out of bed, shoving her feet into her black biker boots as she pulled a striped sweater over her rumpled vintage dress. She felt almost as enthusiastic about her first group therapy session as she would be about a trip to the dentist. Except maybe the dentist would be less painful than listening to whiny girls bitch about their lives while trying to pretend like she was “participating in her rehabilitation.”

Now, Bree, how do you feel about the choices you’ve made?

How do I feel about punishing bullies and asshats? Pretty darn good, actually.

She found Olaf waiting for her downstairs, holding the front door wide open.

“Won’t the alarm go off the second I walk outside?” she asked.

“Olaf disabled alarm.”

Of course he did.

Bree climbed into the backseat of the Escalade, so bleary-eyed she almost didn’t see the manila envelope on the seat.

She wasn’t surprised, really. In fact, she’d been expecting to find one of the hateful envelopes ever since she was sprung from juvie. It had been a pipe dream to think the killer would really leave them alone, and Bree couldn’t help but think that the near accident and warehouse fire were merely preludes to what he had in store for them next.

With gritted teeth Bree broke the seal and slid a piece of paper from its sheath. Just a simple message: I will destroy everything you love.

Dammit.

She was still staring at the note as Olaf backed the car out of the driveway. Without thinking, she pulled the seat belt across her lap and shoved it into the buckle.

It clicked into place.

“Did you fix the seat belt?” she asked, eyeing Olaf’s reflection in the rearview mirror.

“Was it broken?” he asked.

Bree twisted in her seat and squinted at the buckle. The scratches she’d seen two days before when they’d almost been run off the road were gone: the unit had been entirely replaced.

So the killer wanted to remove all evidence of attempted murder. Bree dug her fingers into the envelope. That could only mean one thing.

He was going to try again.

Dr. Walters’s office was less ominous than juvie, and without the security bells and whistles Bree was half-expecting to see as she climbed the exterior staircase to the second floor, Olaf close behind in case she got any ideas about fleeing on foot.

But like the day room at juvie, her waiting room was intentionally cheerful. The walls were painted a pale shade of tangerine, and the waiting area was decorated with a mix of IKEA sleek and kid-friendly savvy. A low table with Crayola-colored plastic chairs sat in the middle of the room, complete with a wooden train set and some Duplo blocks. The “adult” chairs that lined the wall on three sides were plush and comfy, upholstered in a sunny floral print that matched the walls, and each of the three end tables held a lamp shaped like a pineapple surrounded by a bevy of teen-centric magazines including Teen Vogue and J-14, both of which showcased smiling, airbrushed photos of the heartthrobs du jour.

It all made Bree want to puke.

“May I help you?” asked an overly cheerful receptionist.

“Bree Deringer,” Bree said, countering the receptionist’s abundance of enthusiasm with a total lack of her own.

“Ah!” she said, checking a clipboard. “You’re here for our group session.”

“Unfortunately,” Bree said under her breath.

The receptionist eyed Olaf, standing silently by the door, hands clasped behind his back so the defined muscles around his chest practically burst through his button-down shirt, and her body went slack. Her eyes traced the bodyguard from his face to his abs and back again. Slowly. Decadently, as if she wanted to make sure she absorbed every morsel of Olafiness. Then she touched her finger to her chin; Bree was relatively certain she was wiping away a line of drool.

“And how may I help you?” the receptionist said to him at last, her voice throaty.

Olaf merely nodded toward Bree, looking every bit like a caveman.

“He’s with me,” Bree said, smiling curtly. “Big Brother is watching.”

“Yes,” the receptionist said. “Your brother is . . . big.”

Gross.

The receptionist’s eyes never left Olaf’s face as she pointed absentmindedly at the office door. “Room B down the hall.”

And Olaf claims another victim.

Room B was three doors down on the left, and Bree could hear an undercurrent of movement from within as she approached. Chairs being positioned on a carpeted floor, bags being unzipped, jackets being stowed. Bree took a deep breath as she paused outside the room. Here goes nothing.

Seven or eight chairs had been circled up in the middle of a windowless conference room. Dr. Walters hadn’t arrived, but four other girls had already taken their seats, leaving an empty chair between each of them. Bree had been hoping to avoid a neighbor, but no such luck. Without making eye contact with anyone, she chose an empty seat on the far side of the room, between a tiny blond who was fiddling with a smartphone and a curvy Hispanic girl who sat with one leg tucked underneath her and her arms draped over the back of the chair. The body language was an unmistakable “You can’t break me!” and Bree hoped that sitting next to that kind of personality might take the spotlight off her.

Her immediate neighbors ignored her, and the other two girls, both brunettes, stared at the floor and the ceiling respectively, then switched almost simultaneously, as if they couldn’t be zoning out in the same direction at the same time.

“Good morning, ladies.” Dr. Walters breezed into the room wearing a gauzy floral skirt that billowed around her as she swirled into a chair. “And how is everyone this afternoon?”

Murmurs of “good” and “fine” filled the room, but since Bree felt neither, she remained silent.

Dr. Walters didn’t seem particularly interested in anyone’s response as she settled herself on the opposite side of the circle, notepad in hand, and smiled. “Bree, it’s good to see you.”

All eyes turned to Bree, as if the other girls had just now noticed that she was there.

“Welcome to your new therapy group, as mandated by the Juvenile Detention Department of Santa Clara County.” Dr. Walters gestured to the brunette on her right, then continued around the circle. “This is Kaylee, Emma, Heather, and Jacinta.”

Bree hoped she wouldn’t be tested later.

Dr. Walters glanced at her watch. “We’ll give our late bird just another minute,” she said, “before we start without—”

Just then, a tall girl with dark auburn hair rushed into the room. “Sorry I’m late, Dr. Walters,” she said breathlessly.

Dr. Walters turned to Bree. “And the last member of our group is Tamara.”

Only Bree didn’t need Dr. Walters to introduce the latecomer. She knew her face.

It was Tammi Barnes, DGM target number six.