In just eight short hours, this room will be buzzing with the sound of a dozen women. Women she claims as friends and women who, in turn, claim her. And technically, theyarefriends, but not in the same way as she and Jackson.
Soon, this space will be filled with the feral clatter of gossip, the clinking of glasses—first champagne, and later, for dessert,grasshoppers—voices climbing higher in octave to match the surging of blood-alcohol levels.
Charleigh’s nerves will be muted by then, her own blood-alcohol ratio at peak level as she sweeps her gaze across the room, satisfaction trickling over her when she registers that—once again—she’s successfully hosted this klatch of women in her home. They’re having fun! Skin flushed, eyes swimming with booze—lost in the dice game and chatter.
But until then, she’s hell on wheels, annoying even herself.
“I don’t know why you throw these things,” Alexander purred into her ear last night as he unclasped the front of her bra. “They make you crazy. And not the good kind of crazy that I’m about to make you.”
“Ha!” That familiar rush of attraction zipped over her that she always feels when Alexander makes his moves.
But she also felt a flash of annoyance.
Because he doesn’t understand.
He doesn’t get it; he’s not from here.
Doesn’t know what it was like to grow up in this town. Judged by these very women who now hustle into her house, lapping up proximity to the richest family in Longview.
Charleigh grew up here poor, outcast, even made fun of and bullied until she fled to Dallas for community college, then returned triumphant just three years later, engaged to handsome Alexander Andersen, oil heir from Highland Park.
Six foot two with pale golden hair, lean but muscular, with intense eyes the slate color of fjords from his great-grandparents’homeland of Sweden, Alexander was—and continues to be—the answer to Charleigh’s prayers. Their attraction was instant, their bond magnetic.
“You seriously should do something else with your energy.” He continued undressing her.
But before her lips could form an answer, he was already pecking at her breasts, thoughts of the upcoming Bunco night sliding away as he hoisted her onto the edge of their bed.
3
Jane
Everyone loves a good girl. Especially a poor one, stuck in her station in life, who knows her lowly place yet manages to plaster on a smile.
Here’s an underdog they can all root for, but not be threatened by.
She will never have what they have; the cards are stacked against her, so:Bless her heart.
But look at how she smiles, curtsies, all gratitude and light, repeating her father’s down-home parables about honesty and self-worth.
I don’t mind being that girl. Been her my whole life. Teeth bared, yet lips curved into a grin. A warm sensation spreads across my chest when I first meet someone, win them over. It’s so easy.
Too easy, in this one-pony town.
Here, they are hungry for someone like me. Ready to feed off me in order to feel better about themselves.
Had a nice chat with that Jane girl today; she sure is sweet!
She doesn’t have a stitch of new clothing, but it doesn’t seem to bother her, poor thing!
Wonder if we should bring her family a meal? Add them to the church meal chain?
“I have a good feeling about this place, Sunshine,” Pa said to me the night we first arrived.
And I do, too. Honestly, despite my complaints.
As soon as I stepped from the truck, the tangy night air suckled my skin. In the deep pines, it’s way more humid than in Dallas, and the heat—coupled with the wild honeysuckle strangling our fence, stamping the air with its reckless scent—felt embryonic.
I circled the path around the pond, the grass high and dewy, licking my calves, and gazed up at the belt of stars pulsing in the sky.
