Her eyes light up. “Well, you’re in the right place. Senator Sterling’s staffers come up here for meetings like every day.”
Cue excitement. “Really?” And since we’re already nerding out on poli-sci, I add, “Do you know any of them?”
“A few.” Her lips pinch together so quickly I almost miss it, then she smirks. “They’re great tippers. Well, most of them.”
I smile, genuinely. I’ve just made a new fake best friend.
She tilts her head toward the kitchen. “Come on. Jessica—she’s our manager—got stuck in traffic, but she said I could get you set up.”
I follow Myra through the swinging doors into a brightly lit kitchen, filled with steel appliances, savory scents, and servers in the same outfit as Myra, bustling around.
“Watch it,” snaps a woman carrying a basket of fancy breads, and Myra and I smash against the doors of a walk-in fridge to get out of her way.
“Don’t take it personally,” Myra says. “People have to move fast back here. Have to keep the customer happy.”
“I get it,” I say. “It was the same at the diner I worked at.”
“Oh good,” she says as we turn a corner around an empty office, into a hall lined with lockers. She opens the second one and pulls out a giant to-go cup of coffee from the shop I saw across the street. “This is basically the same thing except everyone you seat probably owns a private jet.”
“Then I’ll fit right in,” I say.
She chokes on her drink, then laughs as she puts it away. “Jessica had your uniform brought up. I hope it fits—”
“Myra!” shouts a man from the kitchen—Pierre, I think. “Where are you? There’s no one greeting!”
Myra winces and rushes to a locker at the end, where she pulls out a black dress wrapped in plastic on a hanger. I wasn’t aware there was a uniform involved—Moore better have gotten my size right when he submitted my application.
“You’re supposed to get a full orientation and training, but we’re kind of in a crunch today…”
I take the dress off her hands. “I’ll be out in five.”
She nods gratefully as Pierre shouts her name again, then races back toward the kitchen.
The bathroom is opposite the lockers, and I quickly change out of my outfit and squeeze into the black wrap dress that falls just above my knees. It clings to curves I didn’t know I had, and when I shimmy into the black tights and slide my feet into the heels, I feel my new alias slide into place.
Jaime Hernandez is ready to work.
I stride out of the bathroom, chin high, stash my clothes into the locker, and hurry back through the kitchen. This time no one snaps at me to get out of their way. I look like I belong, act like I belong, and in a con, that’s all that matters.
Myra’s at the hostess station when I arrive, and she gives me a thirty-second rundown of the menu, the layout of the pavilion, and the guest list, organized by photo on the electronic screen out of view and cued by the member’s card. Everyone is to be greeted by name and given their choice of table when possible, and if anything goes wrong, I’m to apologize immediately and profusely, and grab one of the senior serving staff to make it right.
Sounds easy enough.
I’ve seated Mrs. Morris, a woman with a rat-like dog named Belvedere in her handbag, and am returning from escorting two men in designer suits to a table by the indoor fountain when I see three guys waiting at the front. One is engrossed in his phone. The other two are arguing, and I hope that doesn’t have anything to do with my brief absence.
I set my smile as I approach, and feel the kick of adrenaline when the guy with the phone glances up and meets my gaze.
Mark Stitz.
The pictures online don’t exactly do his sour expression justice. He looks like he’s been waiting two hours, not two minutes.
“Mr. Stitz,” I say, reaching for the menus. “I’m Jaime. How are you today?”
“We have a room in the back,” he says bluntly. The two behind him barely look up, still engaged in a heated discussion.
“Of course.” I grab the menus, just appetizers, or tapas, according to Myra, and lead them through the pavilion, beneath the glass roof I’m told opens in the summer. The meeting room is blocked from view by a wall, and the heavy oak table isn’t set like the others.
“Let me get some plates,” I say as Mark sits down. He doesn’t look up from his phone.
“Hello boys.” Myra glides into the room, pushing a silver tray of tapas—fancy flatbreads with fresh herbs and meatballs in a delicious-smelling sauce. The plates and utensils are on the shelf beneath it. “I see you’ve met Jaime.”
She’s not talking to Mark, but to the two guys still arguing just inside the entrance. The taller one, wearing a snug University of Illinois shirt and a cardigan, waves in my direction.
“That’s Ben,” Myra says as I help her unload the plates on a table in the corner. Her chin tips to the other guy, who has a patchy beard and a beret. “He’s Emmett. They’re interns at UI. They’ve been fighting over flower arrangements since lunch.”
Ben sets his laptop on the table. I can practically see the steam coming out of his ears.
“Emmett says they should be white. White tulips. For a parks benefit, outdoor, on the lake.” Ben scoffs like this is unheard of.
“Who doesn’t like white tulips?” argues Emmett. “They’re classy. Matt’s classy. It fits his image.”
I stiffen at the casual use of Sterling’s name.
“It would if his image were smug and pretentious,” mutters Ben.
Myra gives me a look that says told you so.
I stifle a small laugh, and Ben wheels on us.
“What do you think? What does Senator Sterling stand for? White tulips or stupid pink Easter tulips?”
I glance between them, not wanting to say the wrong thing five minutes into my first contact. From the back of my mind, I dredge up my weekend’s research about the bills Sterling supports and what his campaign is about.
“I thought he stood for family first values and revitalizing the city,” I say.
Emmett nods, impressed. Ben cheers and gives me a high five.
Mark looks up from his phone.
Bingo.
“We’ve got a new intern,” Emmett tells him.
“I hope she does a better job than you two,” he says. He returns to his phone, but as I head toward the door, I catch him watching me out of the corner of his eye, his gaze settling a bit too low for comfort.
“For what it’s worth,” I say quietly to Emmett as I pass, “I’m not sure dead flowers are a great way to promote parks. What about something you can plant?”
Emmett points at me. “Sustainability. I like her. I like her more than you, Ben.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and dials a number.
“Same,” says Ben.
Step one, establish rapport. Check.
“Well you certainly made a good first impression,” Myra tells me outside the room. “You even got Mark Stitz’s attention. I’ve been working here since the beginning of summer and the most he’s done is checked out my legs.”
I cringe. This explains her tension when she’d told me some people were good tippers, and some weren’t.
“How many interns work for Sterling?” I ask.
She stops at the bar and grabs a dewy carafe of water. “Six or seven. They rotate in from different colleges. I helped out on the Greener Tomorrow initiative last summer for one of my classes. That’s how I met Emmett and Ben.”
Her enthusiasm is clear, and it makes me think of Jimmy Balder. Was he this passionate before he disappeared?
“I’m sure they needed your help with all the staff coming and going.”
She glances at me over her shoulder, one brow quirked, and I kick myself for not having a smoother transition. I just met Myra; I need to build rapport before she tells me anything.
But I don’t want to be here longer than I have to be.
“The inter
ns, I mean,” I add. “You said they rotate through a lot. It’s got to be hard to count on people knowing they don’t stick around.”
She’s heading to one of her tables, but slows at this, and I swear, there are shadows beneath her eyes that weren’t there before.
“They leave when their internships end. I’m sure they all don’t quit or something.”
She’s defensive. That’s a good sign there’s something there, but I can’t push until I know her better.
“Sorry,” I say. “Just wondering if I actually have a shot as one of Sterling’s interns.”
She nods slowly, then her eyes brighten. “I’m sure you do. And if not, there’s a ton of volunteer positions.”
“Great,” I say, then excuse myself to greet two women in Senator Sterling T-shirts approaching the hostess station.
The conversation may have hit a wall for the moment, but Myra Fenrir knows something, and I intend to find out what.
CHAPTER 9
We hit traffic on the way home, which adds another hour onto the drive. Because we’re starving, Moore swings into a fast-food drive-through and grills me on what I learned over chicken strips and fries.
“Nothing yet,” I tell him.
I met Jessica, the manager, after Sterling’s group left. She’s a gorgeous redhead who has some strong feelings about me using my supposed connections to get the job, and made it clear that she doesn’t have to keep me just because of who I know. For the rest of my shift, she watched me very closely, correcting my posture when I walked and reminding me to smile until my jaws ached. The night ended with a lecture on confidentiality.
You’ll hear all kinds of things said in The Loft, she said. They’re not gossip material. The reason our members feel safe talking openly here is because they can depend on the staff’s discretion. Understand?
No problem. I’m only reporting everything I find to a man building a missing person case against the senator. I’m sure that won’t upset her in the slightest.
Back at Vale Hall, everyone has eaten and scattered, and I dodge upstairs to change clothes before I run into Grayson and have to make up a reason why I’m dressed this way.
When I’m back in sweats and a long-sleeved T-shirt, I head upstairs to knock on his door, but his room is open, and he’s not lying in the unmade bed.
Pulse racing, I jog back down the stairs, looking for Charlotte, or Caleb, or any of the others who might have seen him. I check the kitchen, but it’s empty. Joel and Paz are making out in the study, which I didn’t really see coming, so I duck outside, but I don’t see Grayson on the path to the garden where we talked before.
Worry quickens my steps. PE did not go well earlier—I never should have left when he was upset. He could have waited until the house was quiet, then snuck out the front door. Or maybe he came downstairs searching for me and instead faced a room full of staring faces. I’ve seen Grayson in social situations—like at his party, the first night I met him. He doesn’t do small talk. I should have told him I was going out for a little while.
He could be gone already, and even if I was working, I can’t help feeling like that’s on me.
Voices filter up from the pit—maybe someone down there has seen him. I hurry through the dining room toward the basement steps, the familiar engine growl of Road Racers growing louder as I descend.
Everyone’s gathered around the TV, cheering for cars six and eight as they round the final stretch of the muddy track. Their backs are to me, but I don’t have to see their faces to know who’s playing.
Car eight is Henry. Car six is Grayson.
I come up behind them, but no one looks up except Geri, who flicks her straight, dark hair over the shoulder of her designer tee, and gives me a look that says nice of you to show up.
My gaze shoots to Grayson, who’s sitting forward on the couch, banging his thumb against the controller like a drummer in the midst of a solo, and actually grinning.
Like he’s having fun.
As I watch, Henry pushes his shoulder, a deliberate attempt to unseat his lead. Grayson mutters a curse but wins anyway.
He throws his arms up in victory while Henry groans and falls back against the cushions. Beth, Alice, and Bea, all juniors with Geri, cheer on one side, Charlotte whoops on the other. Sam, sitting on the floor between Charlotte’s knees, reaches up to give Grayson a fist bump.
Caleb is nowhere to be seen.
Grayson is hanging out with my friends. I have had dreams that aren’t as surreal as this moment.
“Nice job,” I say.
At this, everyone turns around to face me, and my cheeks light up like a stoplight. Apparently I was wrong to think Grayson couldn’t handle this place alone. He’s blended in just fine—too fine, and now everyone’s staring at me like I’m the one who doesn’t belong.
“What’s up?” Grayson’s ears turn pink, and he tosses the controller on the cushion like he just got caught stealing it.
Charlotte glances to Henry. Henry sinks in his seat. Geri’s grimace could rival the Wicked Witch of the West’s. Everyone seems to be waiting for my response.
This may be awkward, but Grayson’s doing exactly what he should be—fitting in. He’s comfortable, and I can’t chance ruining that, so I push whatever weirdness I feel aside and play the part.
The grin comes easily. I tie my hair back with a band around my wrist.
“I call next,” I say.
The room breathes a collective sigh of relief.
“This should be good,” says Geri as I come around the front of the couch. “Brynn’s barely better than Henry.”
“Hey,” objects Henry, but he passes me the controller. I wedge between him and Grayson, sandwiched so tightly our thighs are all touching. Geri hands Grayson the controller, which he takes, elbowing me playfully, but tentatively, out of his way.
We pick our cars, and as the engines rev, he leans close and whispers, “Where were you? I got a note in my pocket to meet here.”
“A note?” My gaze switches to Henry, who has a fun habit of planting things on other people. When he catches me looking, he smiles broadly, and tips his head toward Grayson, as if I should be impressed with what he’s accomplished.
“Ah. That wasn’t me.”
“You don’t say.” Grayson’s staring at the screen, irritated, and it occurs to me I misjudged how difficult it is for him to put on a show. This good time might very well be a cover.
“I had to run out,” I say. “Got stuck in traffic. Why? Did you miss me?”
He gives the smallest shrug. “I met the hotel chain heiress and the game coder.”
My eyes widen as he nods to Charlotte and Sam. Wonderful. They’ve chosen aliases. Grayson clears his throat as his eyes flick to Geri. “And I’ve been catching up with old friends.”
Panic flutters in my chest as I pick our track—a snow course through the Alps.
I know why he’s unsettled. River Fest, when Geri planted a bag full of drugs on me, wasn’t the first time these two met. They knew each other before. They’ve slept together before.
But Grayson doesn’t know I know that.
And Geri would probably cut out my tongue if I let that secret fly.
“I can hear you, you know,” says Geri, examining her nails. “Yes, imagine my surprise to find Grayson cruising through the girls’ wing. Turns out it’s a small world after all.”
Charlotte stomps on her foot.
Henry sings the Small World song.
“I told you,” Grayson says, “I got turned around.”
“I’m sure you did, creeper,” says Geri. “Sometimes I get turned around and end up outside a hot girl’s bedroom, too. Spoiler alert: it’s not going to happen.”
Grayson glares at me. I glare at Geri.
“Take it down a notch,” I tell her. “I’m sure you got lost in this giant house when you were a new student, too.”
Geri sighs. “Loving the female solidarity, as always, Brynn.”
“I’m not
a new student,” Grayson says. “I’m just staying here for a little while so my dad doesn’t kill me.”
“Oh, me too,” says Henry. He pauses a moment later, looking around at the faces all glaring his direction. “I mean…”
The room falls silent but for the trucks revving their engines on the television. The sound crackles across my nerves.
Grayson hunches over his knees. “What? It’s not like people aren’t talking about it.”
I think I hear the pipes groan across the property.
“Well, this is fun,” says Geri. “While we’re discussing homicide, I’d like to remind everyone that if Petal is not returned to me by noon tomorrow, I will be issuing a formal complaint to the director and poisoning the food.”
I swallow a cough. Everyone seems to have already heard this threat, including Grayson, who has trained his eyes on the TV in front of him.
Well, well, well. He wasn’t cruising through the girls’ hall looking for me. He was snatching Petal. That sneaky bastard.
“Maybe you misplaced her,” says Charlotte sweetly.
“Don’t think you aren’t top of my suspect list, Ginger Princess,” Geri replies. “Those eyes are green for a reason.”
“Because she was born that way?” I can’t help smiling. Grayson took the pig. He is the same Grayson, still driven by competition.
And right now he’s spinning the controller in front of his knees by the cord. I better get this show on the road before he drowns in small talk.
I bump my knee against his. “So are you ready to lose, or what?”
He grunts, and as the female voice counts down, “Three … two … one…” the others pick their sides and place their bets.
Then we’re off, and though I’m not the best at this game, I know how it works now, and even where a few of the extra fuel packs are located. I charge ahead, but Grayson’s strategy is different. He aims his car straight at mine, trying to knock it off the road.
“Cheater,” I say, making a tight turn around a corner. Grayson slides on the ice out of bounds, but in seconds is back on my tail.
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