I smooth my hand over my plain, black dress, my Louboutins the only worthy addition to my look for the night. I don’t feel like dripping with diamonds. I don’t feel like I deserve the sparkle of a single ring to accentuate my blight. Tonight I’m aiming to impress about as much as wallpaper with a fruit basket repetition.
I scuttle to the window, but all I can make out are the huge white circus tents cluttering up the lawn, leading all the way down to the lake like snow. As soon as my mother got wind of this shindig, she conducted a party-planning coup and took on the bulk of the responsibility and, much to Brylee and Neva’s relief, the bill.
Caleb is my date tonight, unofficial that is. I made it clear that I would need the presence of my “attorney” to help navigate the minefield of hatred, the morbid curiosity that I’ll undoubtedly have to sift through this evening.
I head out and shiver into the damp night air. It’s cold out, icy in fact. My mother has enough vertical heaters under those tents to burn the mountain down and take half the country with it, but, as for now, my teeth are chattering on Caleb’s porch as I knock like a beggar, about to steal the first jacket I see.
The door swings wide, and my teeth stop chattering, my body electrifies with a heat wave of its own. Oh my wow.
Caleb is a demigod in his inky dark suit. The cut is a little sharper than those he wears to the office. His blue satin tie gleams in the light and sets off his eyes like sirens. I can’t drink him in quick enough, that dark stubble, that dark, glossy hair, those cut features of his that demand the attention of—well, hell, everybody.
“Nice suit,” I say. I am a class A liar—a skilled perjurer. This city turned country litigator never really stood a chance with me. Caleb is not wearing a “nice” suit. He is wearing a damn fine suit that makes me want to push him against the wall and commit a bodily assault, perhaps a little bodilyharmvia biting, some clawing for good measure, too.
His eyes wander up and down my body svelte as an elevator. “My God.” He offers a dramatic pause. “You are far too gorgeous for your own good.” He gives a crooked grin and those naughty sweet nothings come back to me, swift and heated.
“I suppose this is the part where you rattle off the carnal checklist of the things you’d like to do to me.” A girl can hope. “I believe it involved a very special seat that you’re holding for me.”
He gives a peaceable smile, his dimples blinking on and off like Christmas lights.
“No checklist for now.” He says it quick, his eyes nailed to mine. “But if you’d like, I’ll fill it out in detail for you later. It’s grown by miles.” He leans in, his mouth so close to mine my lungs refuse another breath. “My face is eager to greet you. Feel free to lounge as long as you like. My tongue is especially anxious to show off a few tricks for you. I have a game plan spanning head to beautiful foot that will take hours—days to complete, if you’ll let me.”
I swallow down my lust. His lids are heavy, his breathing already erratic. If I didn’t promise Reese the future ova and sperm that will knit in my belly, I might have considered knocking his cocky self back into that cabin. For now I’ll simply settle for putting him in his place.
“I don’t like game plans, Caleb. I like spontaneity. I like the whiplash kind of affection that comes with it. And when and if I let you bed me, there will be no premeditated head to foot fun loving involved and lots and lots of impromptu fucking.” He winces a little when I say the expletive and this excites me far more than any vibrator ever could. I touch my hand to the rough stubble on his cheek. “But you will not be so lucky counselor. I don’t know what makes you think I’m all that easy.” I pinch my eyes closed. “Don’t answer that.”
And with that we head to the ball.
Millions of twinkle lights, five-star catering, a band with a hit on the top one hundred—beluga caviar, Belgian chocolate, and a tower of Dom. My mother has checked off all the luxurious boxes to make sure this is an unforgettable high society event. Reese and Ace may have eloped, but they are paying in spades for that sin right about now. This is exactly how my mother threatened to host Reese’s pending nuptials to Warren. It didn’t matter who the groom was, my mother wanted her five hundred thousand dollar night.
At first, Caleb and I go virtually unnoticed, but the upper crust of Loveless can only be fooled for so long. Slowly, the titters begin. The small cliquish groups of women huddle and whisper as we pass them by. An entire legion of side-eye is cast my way. It’s actually not as bad as I thought it would be. I experienced something similar last fall when I wore white after Labor Day to a prominent event much like this one that my mother dragged me off to. No one short of a country club prima donna follows those silly rules anyway. And believe me, my mother’s country club is filled with silly rule-following prima donnas. The only difference being that my big faux pas on this occasion included me wearing nothing but my vagina—a penis, albeit small and a bit deflated, as my only accessory.
Gavin comes up and starts chewing the fat with Caleb, and I take a few brave, migratory steps away like a baby bird taking that first leap, fully anticipating to plunge to her death, and yet I’m still breathing, still standing on my own two Louboutin feet.
“Hey.” A deep voice rumbles from behind, and I spin to find myself face to face with none other than Keith Stearns—and, God, does he ever look pissed.
Shit!
His pink shirt is rolled up at the elbows, his chinos glow against the dark lawn. Keith has always been a poster boy for preppies everywhere.
My heart jumps into my throat, into my ears, as it deafens me while trying to pound its way out.
My eyes flit over the sea of bodies. Somehow I’ve drifted a little further than I thought from Caleb, and, now, here I am, face to face with my perpetrator, my victim.
This is probably the part where I should confess to some of the outlandish things that have happened up until now. Keith Stearns was not going to receive a cheat-on-Kennedy-Slade hall pass while I bowed out of the relationship like a good passive little doormat. But I’m not confessing to a thing just yet. I’ll wait for my attorney to be present and all that good shit.
“What?” I spit it out, not at all amused that he has the stones to speak to me in a public setting—thispublic setting no less.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” He hustles me just past the borders of the party as we leave the protective shelter of the tents behind. The brisk autumn air scrubs against my bare arms, my legs, harsh as sand paper. “I told you to call this shit off weeks ago. I get it. You are fucking pissed. I am a dog. But you are shaping up to be a one of a kind bitch.”
“Let go.” I pull my arm free. “I’m maintaining my innocence. Besides, word on the legal street is that you lawyered up with my father’s firm. Way to deal another low blow. My father? Really?”
The white of his eyes glows against the night sky as he examines me in this dim light.
“Oh, honey, your father is the one person on earth who truly understands you have a fucking screw loose.”
“Say another word about my father, and I will slap you into tomorrow. My handprint will leave an indentation on your children’s children. Test me on this.”
His hands spike in the air with surrender. “Look—lighting the Dean’s lawn on fire? That fucking sick pizza you sent? My kid sisters almost went to town on that one. And that Wikipedia page? Really? I fuck corpses?” His entire person goes rigid. “Ken, I know you’re hurt, but—”
