Scammed

by Kristen Simmons

  Caleb’s still scowling at his feet.

  “Try thinking about something else,” I say, pulling his arm up again.

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Something you like.”

  His eyes lift to my lips, and the want in his gaze sends a warm, velvet wave through me.

  “Yeah,” he says. “That doesn’t help.”

  “Tell me about a building.” Caleb’s dad was an architect before he got hurt on the job, and even if Caleb doesn’t talk about it often, he knows all the buildings in Uptown, down to the year they were created and the materials used to build them.

  “Morrison Crossing,” he says as we take the first three steps. “On the east side, by the curve in the river. Built to be a boat depot but converted to a restaurant in 1967.”

  We’ve made it through a full rotation without hurting each other or knocking someone over.

  “See? Do it again.”

  With a small smile, he tells me about the first hospital in the city. His back is still round, and he can’t keep his chin lifted, but we’re still upright.

  “You should be an architect,” I tell him.

  He slows, focusing on his feet again. “I can’t.”

  “Why?”

  His eyes shoot to mine, deep with hurt. “You know why.”

  Because his dad broke his back on a job, and his family lost everything. Now Shrew has him focused on med schools, and his sights are set on becoming a spinal surgeon.

  “I know,” I say. “It’s just that your sketches are so good. And you love talking about it. Your mom would understand if you talked to her.”

  His grip tightens around my hand.

  “I know she would.”

  “So?”

  He steps on my foot. “What do you want to be? What happens once you get your big fancy scholarship?”

  I go to college. I get out of Sikawa City. I never really planned past that, probably because deep down, I never really thought it would happen.

  My chest clenches, and suddenly I’m thinking of my mom.

  I can picture her sitting on the blue couch in the living room at home, alone, since Pete’s in jail. She’s eating cold chicken wings from Gridiron Sports Bar as she watches Pop Store and talking back to the host of the show like he’s speaking directly to her.

  We haven’t talked in a month, since I told her about Parents’ Weekend, this coming Saturday. I don’t even know if she’s coming—she wasn’t sure she could get off work.

  You sound good, she told me. Now quit bugging me, I’ve got stuff to do.

  We both know she didn’t, but that’s how we do love in my family.

  “Don’t change the subject,” I tell Caleb.

  He sighs.

  “When my dad got hurt, we didn’t know what to do. My mom had to make all these decisions, but we couldn’t even grasp what parts of his back were broken. She wonders all the time if we should have done things differently. She can’t go through that again.”

  I imagine his family gathered in the hospital, trying to decide what to do. Wondering if they made the right decision when Caleb’s dad didn’t wake up. I picture his mom, blaming herself, and Caleb blaming himself for not being able to help her.

  It’s why he’s here. Why he works for Dr. O.

  He’s doing what he can to keep his father alive.

  As long as I can remember, I’ve been trying to get out of Devon Park. I’ve conned, stolen, and fought tooth and nail for what I need. I’ve never faced the burden of caring for another person—of someone depending on me for their survival.

  “None of this is your fault,” I say.

  “It’s my fault if I don’t do anything about it.” The outside of his foot bumps against mine. “Sorry.”

  But I barely felt it, because my heart is suddenly too big for my chest, and all I can think of is how he’s putting his family in front of himself, and how noble and unfair that is.

  “Architecture’s more like a hobby anyway,” he says, and if there’s any regret in his tone, it’s swallowed up by a practiced smile.

  The door behind us opens and Moore strides in, looking more annoyed than usual.

  “You have a new student,” he says to Belk.

  Behind him stands Grayson, wearing a rumpled Vale Hall sweatshirt, jeans, and a look of simmering rage.

  CHAPTER 7

  I jerk back from Caleb, clasping my hands before me.

  “Come on,” Belk says when Grayson doesn’t move.

  Grayson, hair mashed up on one side like he’s just rolled out of bed, trudges after him.

  “Your new partner,” Moore says. “Caleb, you’re with Geri.”

  With a jolt, I realize I’ve yet to touch base with Geri or tell her about my little challenge with Grayson. I don’t think he’s stupid enough to try to break in while she’s sleeping, but I need to warn her just in case.

  “Hey,” Caleb says to Grayson, words light but gaze hard. “Heard you were here. Welcome.”

  Grayson glares at his outstretched hand. “I know you from somewhere.”

  My breath catches. Moore was backing away, but pauses, looking to Caleb.

  Grayson knows Caleb because they were both at Grayson’s house when I passed my initiation test. I danced with Caleb to make Grayson jealous.

  “I went to a party at your place once,” says Caleb, clearly prepared for this. “Some friends of mine know your sister.”

  “Oh yeah.” Grayson turns toward me, deliberately angling Caleb out of the conversation. “This is bullshit.”

  “Have fun,” says Moore, and walks away.

  Caleb gives an awkward wave, then makes his way around a whispering Alice and Beth to Geri, who’s pretending like Grayson’s presence here hasn’t upset her in the slightest.

  I know better, though. She may have tried to con him before me, but she was the one who walked away feeling used.

  “That guy’s a dick,” Grayson says, nodding toward Moore.

  I remind myself that I’m supposed to be the supportive friend, but sarcasm wins.

  “Because he rolled you out of bed? Poor baby.”

  The rest of the class pretends not to stare at us as they fumble through the waltz.

  “I’m not doing PE.”

  “It’s dancing,” I tell him. “It’s fun.”

  Grayson’s glare narrows on Henry, who’s taking a turn around the floor with Charlotte. After a complicated spin that ends in a dip, they both fall over.

  “I’m not drunk enough for this,” says Grayson.

  “Typically the man leads, Geri,” calls Belk.

  “Tired of your antifeminist agenda, Mr. Belk,” Geri answers. Grayson’s gaze shoots her way, but she’s already spinning away, her back to us.

  Jealousy whispers through me as I see Caleb’s hand on Geri’s waist, and her fingers curling around the back of his neck. He’s smiling like he’s having a good time, but I know he’s only pretending. He and Geri aren’t friends. She was close with his ex, Margot, before she was booted, and has been nothing but cold to Caleb since.

  “Come on,” I say to Grayson. “Think of it as an easy A.”

  “I’m not a student.”

  “Maybe not, but I am, and you want me to get a good grade, right?”

  I take a step closer and grab his hand. To my relief, he doesn’t bolt away. Placing it on my waist, I show him how we’re supposed to stand, but the weight of his grip is heavy and unfamiliar on my side as I siphon in a tight breath.

  “See? Not so hard,” I say.

  Sam, now back with Charlotte, bumps into us.

  Grayson’s hands drop as he spins toward them. “Watch it.”

  “Sorry, man,” says Sam as they waltz away.

  I hurriedly return Grayson to the proper stance.

  “Look at that guy,” he says, lifting his chin toward Caleb. “He’s a train wreck.”

  Maybe. But he’s my train wreck, so Grayson better watch his mouth.

  “He’s trying,�
� I say.

  Grayson’s cold stare, still directed at Caleb, makes me nervous. It’s as if Caleb has wronged him and Grayson’s looking for an excuse to fight.

  “You could try, too, you know,” I say.

  He finally looks at me and gives, just enough.

  “This is ridiculous,” he mutters.

  Grabbing my waist, he straightens my arms, and then pulls me across the floor in a perfect rotating box step, just like on the instructional video. With him leading, my feet are forced to follow, and his strong frame holds me up even when I start to get dizzy.

  Holy crap. Grayson can dance.

  The music stops, and I try to catch my breath as we slowly pull apart.

  “There,” he says. “Happy?”

  I grab the wall, my head still spinning. “Where’d you learn to do that?”

  Everyone is watching us. Henry claps, and then they all join in. My skin heats as I search for Caleb and find he’s now the one staring warily at Grayson.

  Grayson’s gaze bounces across the room like a cornered animal’s.

  “My mom made us take lessons ever since I was six.”

  His tone has changed, and I follow his line of sight to Geri, who’s checking her phone in her bag at the other side of the room. He squints a little, then spins away, his mouth pulled tight.

  “I know that girl,” he says.

  Alarms blare between my temples. Geri will have prepared for what to do when she’s inevitably recognized, but I’m unsure how Grayson will react.

  “Oh yeah?” I say.

  He scowls. “We used to … hang out.”

  “Right,” I say slowly, because with an explanation like that we both know it was a little more than “hanging out.” I glance toward Caleb, hoping Grayson doesn’t find it suspicious that he knows three people in a school composed of twenty students.

  Might be better to poison that idea before it takes root.

  “At least you know people here already,” I tell him, as shouts for an encore performance rise around us. “When I came, I didn’t know anyone. I guess you rich kids all run in the same circles.”

  He huffs, enough to tell me he buys this answer. Still, he seems offended by the smiling faces and applause of the others. His jaw sets, and his hands ball into fists. With a shake of his head, he strides toward the exit.

  I race after him.

  “What’s going on?” I ask. “You were great back there.”

  He keeps walking, shoving through the glass doors.

  “Grayson.” I jog to keep up. “Everyone wants to meet you.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “They do. They’re nice. You’ll like them. Just give them a chance.”

  He stops, and his glare is searing. “I’m not here to make friends.”

  With that, he stalks away, and doesn’t look back.

  * * *

  AT THREE O’CLOCK, Moore drives me to Uptown. On the way, I get a new ID that says Jaime Hernandez and a reminder that my phone both records conversations and takes pictures.

  Thanks, Dad.

  I pull at the hem of my sweater, hoping that I’m dressed nicely enough in these fitted charcoal pants and tall black boots I borrowed from Charlotte’s closet. It’s not exactly the low-cut T-shirt Mom wears to the Gridiron Sports Bar, but neither is the clientele. According to The Loft’s website, club members pay a yearly fee that could buy me any one of the cars in the garage at Vale Hall.

  These people have money, and power, and the sooner I find what Dr. O needs on Jimmy Balder, the better, because I’m making exactly zero headway with Grayson.

  “The office workers usually come up for drinks around six,” Moore says as he pulls the SUV up against the curb. The Loft is in the business district, several blocks away from the lake and the shops on the Riverwalk. It sits on the roof of a gleaming silver office building with tinted windows and doormen that look suspiciously like Secret Service. “You’ll be looking for a guy named Mark Stitz. He’s Sterling’s intern supervisor—came straight out of his own college internship a little less than a year ago. He would have worked with Balder.”

  I’m already looking up pictures on Mark’s social media feeds. Mostly ridiculous selfies of him in suits, white-blond hair gelled back in an attempt to look sexy. Judging by how perfectly staged these shots look, I’m guessing he’s not as confident as he’s trying to appear.

  I file that away for later.

  “The evening manager at The Loft is a woman named Jessica Barton. If she wonders why you didn’t interview in person, it’s because your aunt went to college with the senator’s wife.”

  I nod, letting the cover story evolve in my mind. My aunt’s name is Lucia. She lives in Michigan now but still exchanges Christmas cards with Mrs. Sterling.

  “Your application says you’re eighteen and have experience working in a diner,” he says.

  “The good senator won’t be making a surprise visit, will he?” I eye the door, trying to catch a peek inside of what looks to be a very fancy lobby. I can’t forget that the senator knows my face, and has seen me with his son. If he senses I’m here for the wrong reasons, he might send the same people after me he sent after Grayson.

  “He’s in Washington.”

  I snort. “Guess he’s not so worried about his kid.”

  Moore’s quiet a moment.

  “Men like him let other people do the worrying.”

  I can’t help but think he might be talking about Dr. O.

  With a nod, I’m out the door, ankles wobbling in the stupid heels of these boots as the doorman ushers me inside. The lobby is glass and metal, not unlike the Sterlings’ house, and behind a front desk is a sign that says, Macintosh Building, a Sterling Property.

  Of course it is. He already has his campaign headquarters and private club here. Social programs, restaurants, even various historic buildings are part of the senator’s renovation and revitalization plan. Matthew Sterling has embedded himself so deeply into the heart of Sikawa City, you can’t go very far in any direction without seeing his name on a plaque, or a fountain, or a billboard.

  But right now, being here, it feels like I’ve just been swallowed by a monster.

  In front of the elevators, carefully tucked out of view, is a metal detector. A woman in a green suit jacket checks my ID, then types the name into a laptop on the desk behind her.

  “First day at The Loft?” she asks after a moment.

  “That’s right.” I can convince anyone I’m someone else, but lying to people with badges makes my palms sweat.

  She motions me through the machine and scans my bag with a wand. It’s more like the gateway to prison visitation than the entrance to a political office.

  “Have a good afternoon, Jaime,” she says, and hands me a temporary pass to hang around my neck.

  Head high, I stride toward the elevators, exhaling only when the mirrored doors close and I’m alone inside.

  I’ve got this.

  Get in, and get out.

  With a chime, the doors open on the roof above the tenth floor, and I step out onto a terrace walled with cascading vines and exotic plants, and covered by a vaulted glass ceiling. A stone walkway leads past a koi pond, and with an appreciative whistle, I walk over the small arched bridge toward a hostess station.

  And am immediately thrown back by Grayson’s face.

  The framed picture hangs from the wall behind the dark wood station. His father’s featured, too, one arm tossed comfortably over his son’s shoulder, but my gaze bounces off Matthew and lands back on the boy with the sharp blue eyes. He’s smiling, and without the pinch of his jaw or the subtle strain in his neck, he looks younger, and happy.

  This must have been taken before Susan Griffin died.

  “That’s his son, Grayson.”

  I turn sharply to my left to find a girl about my age approaching from the kitchen door. She’s pretty—model pretty—with dark eyes and long lashes, and the kinds of curves people write songs about. A slim white
button-down meets a short black skirt, black stockings, and heels higher than mine.

  She sizes me up, then focuses on the picture.

  “But I guess you probably knew that already, didn’t you?”

  CHAPTER 8

  All the blood seems to rush to my head, and I grip the strap of my bag a little tighter.

  “Why would I know that?” I ask the girl now standing beside me admiring Grayson and his father.

  “I mean, he looks just like his dad, right?”

  Right. I deliberately take the edge out of my voice and force myself to breathe.

  “He does,” I say. “It’s kind of spooky.”

  She makes a sound of agreement, and glances to my temporary badge. “You must be our new hostess. Jessica said to keep an eye out for you. I’m Myra Fenrir.”

  She holds out a hand. I shake it.

  “Jaime Hernandez.” I glance up as a waiter comes speeding out of the kitchen to the left, carrying a fancy cheese tray and wearing the same white-and-black ensemble as Myra. He’s older than us, and gives me a fake smile as he passes.

  “Pierre, this is Jaime, the new girl,” Myra says.

  “Great,” says Pierre. “Another cute college girl to steal my tips.”

  He does not sound pleased. I get it. Mom always complains when new waitresses come in and take her regular tables.

  “Relax. She’s taking the hostess position.” Myra rolls her eyes as Pierre snorts and hurries away. “You go to Sikawa State?”

  I’m not sure what exactly my application has said about my availability, so … “I do.”

  “Me too.” She smiles and steps out from behind the hostess stand. “What’s your major?”

  I take a subtle glance around the floor for anyone who might work for Sterling’s campaign seated in the pavilion beyond. “Political science.”

  “No way, me too!”

  Great.

  “Have you had Professor Garrison? I had her for diplomacy in the fall. She broke down foreign trade with Europe into song form and it changed my life.”

  That seems a bit dramatic, but sure.

  “I haven’t had her yet,” I say. “I’ve just taken the intro classes. But my mom campaigned for the president, and it kind of got me hooked on government.”