She looks in the mirror, then at me. “It’s good.”
I nod.
She walks to the desk and leans against it, arms folded, eyes fixed on the envelope. “Do you think they’ll make me speak?”
“No.”
I don’t want to tell her that I think this is going to be some kind of corrupt power play. I just don’t know what kind yet.
She lets out a breath. “You hate this shit, don’t you?”
“More than you know.”
There’s a knock on the door, not tentative, but not violent. It’s the driver. I check the clock. 5:50.
Damn, time flew.
“Time to go,” I say.
Eve grabs her jacket from the hook by the door. It’s one I bought her, still stiff at the seams. I put on my suit, the one with the charcoal pinstripe, and pull the tie off the rack. I try to knot it, but my hands are shaking. I haven’t felt this unsettled in years.
She sees it, comes over, and takes the tie from my hands. She knots it perfectly, her hands steady, her fingers sure. She straightens the collar and fixes my lapel. Her eyes are so incredibly green. I don’t remember ever seeing the gold flecks that are deep set in them.
She steps back and looks me up and down. “You’ll do.”
I grab her hand. It fits better than the tie.
We leave.
The hallway is empty, as usual. At the curb, a black limo idles. The driver is faceless in a cap and gloves. I open the door forher. She slides in, the dress riding up her thigh, the jacket falling open.
I sit next to her. The door shuts, and the car peels off.
She looks out the window, then at me. “If I embarrass you tonight, will you forgive me?”
I grip her knee. “You’re not capable of that.”
She smiles, a sharp, bright thing. “Watch me.”
The rest of the ride is silence. It’s not awkward. It’s not anything. It just is. I don’t get head, and as much as I want to ask, I know she’s nervous as fuck. I can feel her anxious energy from here.
When we get to Harrington Hall, the driver opens the door and we step out into a mess of lights and cameras. There’s a photographer, and a red carpet leading into the main doors. I hate this theater.
Eve sees the camera, tenses. I put my arm around her, keep her close, walk her up the steps.
Inside, the ballroom is ridiculous. Crystal chandeliers, marble pillars, polished floors. Every surface is reflective, cold. There’s a bar at the far end, and a line of servers with trays of champagne. Three Board members, six Funders, and two of the Feral Boys already here. Rhett is in a blue suit, Issy on his arm about ready to have their baby on the dance floor the way she is waddling.Bam is in the corner, already working his way through a double. Dahlia looks bored to tears.
I guide Eve to the bar. She orders a club soda, no ice. I order a whiskey, neat.
We stand with our backs to the wall, watching the room fill. I feel her pulse through my palm, steady and slow. She’s better at this than I thought.
At eight sharp, the lights dim, and a single spot lands on the podium. Mr. Steele takes the stage.
He clears his throat.
“Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed guests, we gather tonight to celebrate not just Colton joining our ranks, but the legacy of Westpoint itself.”
He drones on, listing the donors, the successes, the traditions. I tune him out, watch the way the crowd moves. Funders drift to the front, champagne in hand. The Board stays back, faces smooth, eyes empty. The legacy kids cluster near the wall, talking in hushed whispers and pointing at us.
