by Geneva Lee
I take my phone out to call Poppy, who is way more dependable than a knight, and realize I don’t have service.
I’m stuck shoeless and soaked, wanting to shrink into nothing and sneak out of this hellhole. But I’m a MacLaine, so I don’t. Who cares about the rude boy in the hall? It would take an act of God to impress him. No one else is going to notice me. They’ll be too drunk or trying to get laid. All I have to do is walk out the door. August in Tennessee is hot and sticky. I won’t miss my shoes and my dress will be dry by the time Ava or Poppy finds me. I just have to hold out. I think of the drunk guy in the hall, passed out in a pool of his own vomit, and decide things could be worse.
When I crack open the door, I brace myself. Any hope that I might be spared the humiliation of facing him is dashed. He had not gone away as ordered. In fact, he’s leaning against the wall, staring at me. His cocky gaze scans me up and down, and then one side of his mouth tugs up. It’s the slightest movement, but it’s enough to push me over the edge.
“Freaking hilarious, isn’t it?” I shout. “First, you get me puked on and now I’m soaked.”
He straightens up, his eyebrows knitting together. “I got you puked on?”
“You didn’t stop him.” My accusation is as limp as my hair but I put as much conviction behind it as I can muster.
The smirk falls completely off his face replaced by a scowl, which suits him more. “Oh, sorry. I’m fresh out of barf bags.”
“You just left him on the floor.” This is the hill I die on apparently. I don’t know why it’s so important to blame him. It just is. Because he’s here and he’s infuriating and he laughed. Southern boys—even the arrogant, spoiled ones I’d known my whole life—would never do that. If it had been Cyrus or Money or any other local guy here they would have offered their assistance. “You’re not a gentleman.”
“I’m not a gentleman…” he repeats back the words like they taste funny in his mouth. He steps toward me, his movement sending a rush of cool air around me and I tremble. I tell myself it’s from the chill, but I’m not so sure that’s true. Closer up, I realize how tall he is. He’s got a foot on me at least.
“No.” I tip my head up. I will not let him talk down to me. I will not be intimidated.
“How are you getting out of here, Princess?”
“Don’t call me that,” I say coldly.
“I bet that’s what your daddy calls you, isn’t it?” He moves until our faces are inches apart. I can smell his cologne—spicy and strong—and mint on his breath. There isn’t a trace of alcohol on him. “You’re not a lucky princess?”
My father has never called me ‘Princess’ a day in my life. I force my face into a blank slate—indifferent and disinterested. “What did your daddy call you?” I ask. “Or let me guess, you don’t have one? Is that your story?”
There’s a crack I don’t quite understand, but my body does because I shrink against the wall he’s just put his fist through. When he pulls it out of the plaster, it’s covered in blood and dust. He shifts forward to press his palms to the wall, ignoring his maimed hand, his strong arms caging me to the spot. I stare at the boy who’s just put a hole in the wall. A boy as vicious as my empty words. He’s beautiful poison. I want him to stay away. All the warning signs are there. But somewhere deep inside me, I want to take a drink. I’m not sure why. Maybe because I hate myself as much as he hates me. This close I can see his eyes are a blue as bright as a sunny sky but colder than midnight. I’m locked in place, afraid to move. I am a butterfly, fragile wings pinned to the wall, and I don’t know if he wants to watch me struggle or if he’s going to crush me. I only know I’m at his mercy.
“Don’t open books you can’t read.” The warning is laced with dark roughness. But then his arms fall and he moves away from me. He doesn’t look at me when I scramble away from him. I guess a predator always knows where his prey will run.
I’m nearly to the front door when Poppy’s British lilt calls my name. I don’t stop. I can’t. Picking up the pace, which is easy to do barefoot, I race down the front steps, past the front lawn until the sounds of the party fade and night swallows me whole. I turn, half-expecting him to have followed me, but there’s no one behind me. The evening air is heavy and humid, filled with distant shouts and cricket song. I’d acted on instinct when I ran. Now, halfway down the block with no shoes on my feet, I feel a little silly. Why had I run out of the party?
I have lived in Valmont my whole life. My friends are at that party. My family name is on more than one building on this campus. I belong here—at that party. And to make things worse, I probably scared the shit out of Poppy. Whipping my phone out, I discover I have service and ten missed calls. I feel like screaming, but someone would probably call security, and I don’t need the night to end with a visit from the campus police.
But the calls aren’t from Poppy. Eight are from my brother, Malcolm. Two from his fiancée. A terrible coldness creeps through my veins. They’d been trying to reach me half the night. The calls are time stamped from about the time I got to the party. I don’t know how long I stare at my phone, torn between calling back and waiting for it to ring—dreading both possibilities.
“Adair!” Poppy’s panicked voice startles me and I nearly drop the phone.
I owe her an explanation, I think, but as she draws closer, I notice her eyes are wide and frantic.
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I just—”
“Your brother is trying to reach you,” she cuts me off as more of our friends join us.
Cyrus and Ava and Money.
Even him.
Somehow I know what she needs to tell me. I feel it. Out here in the night, away from the chaos of the party, the night is clear and I can see it in her face. I want to tell her not to say it. I want to run again.
I just stand there, vaguely aware of a rock under my bare foot, phone shaking in my hand.
“Your parents,” she finally manages.
I shake my head not wanting to hear more. My hands go to my ears as though I can avoid that truth if I block her out.
Poppy takes my hands gingerly in her own before squeezing them tightly. “You need to go to the hospital.”
“I don’t have a car.” Or my purse. Heat stings my eyes and I realize my cheeks are wet.
“I’ll drive you,” Money says, lurching toward us.
“You’re drunk,” Poppy accuses. “We’re all…”
I look at them, staggered protectively around me, and realize the horrible truth. My friends have been drinking at the party all night—the party at the house with the terrible reception. The reception that kept me from getting the calls from my brother. Oh God.
“I’m not.” He steps from the shadows, calm, his eyes cast to the ground.
I open my mouth to say no—that I can’t accept a ride from him—but I can’t bring myself to say it. I’m not sure I have a choice.
“Take mine. It’s in the student lot.” Cyrus tosses a set of keys toward him, and he catches them easily, even in the dark. He really is the only sober one. He’s all I have.
I wait for him to laugh and drop the keys. I wait for the cruel boy to come out to play. I’m weak, vulnerable—easily defeated. Instead, he strides forward and grabs my hand like I need an escort.
Poppy bites her lip before throwing her arms around me. “We’ll be there soon. Go!”
I don’t have the chance to ask her to come with me before I’m being dragged away—away from my old life toward the unknown.
“Where are your shoes?” he barks as we reach the street that leads toward the dormitory parking.
“They were ruined.” Someone else answers. I don’t recognize my own voice.
He stops and opens his mouth, probably to lecture me on how stupid and frivolous throwing away a pair of shoes is, but he doesn’t speak. He studies me for a moment, his face unreadable. What had he said about not being able to read a book? He was right. He’s written in a language I don’t speak. So I d
on’t expect it when he sweeps me off the ground and into his arms.
6
Sterling
“Put me down!” Her fists beat my back and I have to twist to avoid a well-aimed kick. She might be beautiful, but she’s hard to like.
“Stop that shit,” I order her, “or I’ll drop you.” I mean it, even if she feels good in my arms, like picking up sunshine—if sunshine had an attitude and too much to drink. This isn’t the time to think about that. This girl deserves to have her ass handed to her, or to have her ass meet the cold pavement, at least. Another time.
Earlier, she was being a bitch for no reason. She has a right to be one now. Cyrus told me about the call from her brother. I don’t know why I tagged along to find her or why I volunteered to drive her. That’s the hazard of staying sober, I’m always cleaning up messes. It’s how it was in New York. Why would Valmont be different?
“You shouldn’t have picked me up in the first place,” she argues, but she stops physically resisting me. Probably because she believes my threat.
Good. It’s fucking hot enough in Tennessee without fighting her. My t-shirt is already sticking to me like a second layer of skin. Her body pressing against mine isn’t helping. Another time, this might be romantic. Valmont is removed far enough from the city that the stars blink brightly overhead. Flowers perfume the muggy air. I dare a glance at the girl in my arms. She’s tucked her chin against her chest. I can’t see her eyes. Is she crying? She seemed tough earlier, but she’s not standing up to a stranger now. She’s facing most people’s worst nightmare. I want to tell her that she’ll survive it, even if she might not want to, but I keep silent instead. She doesn’t care what I think and tonight? She’s not going to be okay tonight.
I continue to carry her, knowing I’m way out of my league with this situation. I don’t know this girl, let alone this city. Why had I volunteered to drive her? I don’t know where I’m going—where the hospital is. Cyrus said they took her parents to Davidson County General. Hopefully, my piece of shit phone can pull up a map. Francie insisted I have a new one before I left but all we could afford was the free option, which is not what anyone would consider new. Now I’m supposed to drive the princess to who-the-fuck-knows-where with it as my guide. We reach the parking lot and I realize I have a bigger, more immediate problem. I have no clue what Cyrus drives. I fumble the key fob, trying to see it in the dark without losing my grip on her and start randomly pressing buttons until a car alarm goes off.
No fucking way. I can’t believe anyone in his right mind would give me the keys to that. Then again, all evidence up to this point suggests these people have more money than sense.
She doesn’t comment on my method or that it takes me a couple tries to silence the alarm. She doesn’t even say anything as I drop her into the passenger seat. Instead, she curls into a ball, tucking her knees against her chest. She doesn’t buckle up and I’m not about to fight her on it. Circling around the car, I allow myself a split second to appreciate it: a Jaguar F-Type convertible. This car costs more than I’d make working full-time for five or six years. He had just thrown me keys to a hundred-thousand-dollar sports car without a second thought.
Sliding into the leather seat, I discover there’s no ignition. I flip on an overhead light and glare at the steering column, but there’s definitely nowhere for a key. I feel her green eyes watching me, still not saying anything. After a second, she leans over to press a button. Her breasts brush my arm sending a jolt of electricity to my dick as the engine roars to life.
“No one drives in New York,” I grumble. I don’t know what bothers me more: that she had to help me or that my pants are suddenly too tight.
She doesn’t respond, and I wonder if I accidentally tripped her mute button.
“I’m just pulling up a map,” I explain as I google the hospital. I have no idea why I’m giving her a play-by-play. Maybe because each second that passes in silence is worse than the last. I’m probably the last person she wants around right now. I sure as hell don’t want to spend my night like this, but what am I supposed to do? When that girl tracked down Cyrus she was having a full-blown meltdown, and she couldn’t find Adair.
That’s her name—the girl next to me. The reason I went to the party. The reason I was about to leave the party. I only know it because shit got real. No one questioned me when I told them I’d watched her run out of the house. I left out that she was running away from our argument, and when they went after her, I followed them out of some type of morbid obligation. Why? These people are complete strangers. So far the majority of them appear to be a special breed of asshole. Now I’m playing taxi cab to their Queen Bitch.
Because Francie would expect it from me, even a thousand miles from home. Even if Adair doesn’t deserve it.
The map finally loads, and I mutter a curse when it tells me we’re half an hour away. This is going to be a long night.
Adair stays quiet as we make our way off campus into the sleepy college town. Porch lights and street lamps illuminate pristine streets dotted by well-kept houses and picket fences. Flowers blossom in every yard. I’d bet money there’s a goddamn chicken in every pot. Even the smaller homes whisper privilege. Or maybe it’s so far outside my comfort zone that I can’t wrap my mind around it. In Queens, people live on top of one another. If you want to see grass you better head to Central Park. Even at this hour, New York is alive with people rushing to parties and jobs and home. Here? It feels like we’re the only two people in the world. We don’t see another car until we hit the highway.
She continues to watch out her window as I watch the clock. The benefit of the Jaguar is that it’s fast. In town, I felt like I’d put it on a leash and it was tugging for freedom. As soon as we hit the freeway, I press the gas and let it loose. I don’t have much experience driving. Hell, I don’t even have a license, but I’m pretty sure this is the vehicular equivalent of sex.
“Why are you doing this?” she asks so quietly that I almost don’t hear her over the beast of an engine.
“Your friends were drunk.” She can’t argue with that.
Still, she looks puzzled like this isn’t the answer she expected. A pained expression crosses her face, her freckled nose scrunching a little as she spits out two words. “Thank you.”
Forced gratitude. I don’t want it. She doesn’t want to give it. I grunt—an acknowledgment of our shared, if obligatory, social niceties. I hope she knows I’m not her knight in shining armor. Just like I know she’s no damsel in distress. Help is not salvation. I’m not saving her.
I keep my hands tight on the wheel. “I wasn’t drinking.”
I’m surprised when she doesn’t ask why.
“Neither was I,” she murmurs. She doesn’t volunteer more information.
Now I find myself wanting to ask her why. It feels like I’m trapped in a maze and every path I take is a dead end. We’re strangers. I can’t even call her a friend. I’d planned to talk to her. She’s the reason I’d gone to the party when Cyrus invited me. But my skin started crawling the second I walked inside the frat house. Someone pressed a Solo cup full of beer into my hand and…I’d lost it. I should have walked out the front door. Instead, I headed to the second floor.
Everything went to hell so fast that I still don’t know what happened. I don’t know why she’d gone upstairs, either. A girl like her probably doesn’t hate crowds. I imagine they part for her—that people bow down as she passes. There had been hundreds of people stuffed into that house, drinking and dancing and being generally stupid. That’s not my scene.
“I wasn’t doing anything wrong.” It’s out of my mouth before I even know I’m going to say it.
She turns vacant eyes on me. “What?”
Why do I have to bring this up now? “Upstairs. Tonight. I got lost.”
It’s a stupid lie, but it sounds less dumb than telling her the truth.
“I didn’t say you were.” She’s already lost interest, returning her focus to the
view from the window.
“You implied it.” All I need is one uppity bitch to decide I’m up to no good. Yeah, I have a scholarship but good things are rarely permanent, in my experience. One wrong move and it’s back to New York for me. I wouldn’t mind, but it would kill Francie.
“You aren’t a member.” She says it like this explains her behavior.
“Neither are you.”
“You made that point earlier,” she says dryly. She squirms in her seat until she’s facing me. She relaxes against the door. Her hair fans out over the window glass, glinting red like little sparks in the light of passing cars. “I don’t even know who you are.”
“I thought Southerners were supposed to be polite,” I mutter. If she’s going to be rude, I can dish it right back. I might not have much experience with her type or college frats or small-town America, but I’m all stocked up on surliness.
“Where are my manners?” she scoffs with a hollow laugh. “I’m Adair MacLaine and you are?”
“Like the journalism school?” I ask, caught off-guard by her last name.
“And the senator and the media conglomerate,” she says sourly.
“Cheer up…” I stop before adding princess again. She’s got enough going on. “You’re lucky. You’ll never have to work a day in your life.”
Does she even know how easy she has it? Apparently not if she’s going to sulk about having a last name that’s so important it’s carved into stone on a two-hundred-year old university building.
“And you think I want that?” Anger flashes in her face, her cheeks flaming as brightly as her hair. It’s the second time tonight that I’ve made her blush. Now I know two ways to get a rise out of her.