Untamed (Untamed #1)

by Green, Victoria

  Before he could say anything else, his cell phone buzzed. Wiping his mouth with the napkin from his lap, he glanced down at the screen. “I must take this,” he said to my mother, then motioned to the housekeeper. “Isla, I will need to finish breakfast in my study.”

  My mother’s lips thinned, but she didn’t say anything. She never did. Instead, she nodded to Isla—which was Mother for come back with a double dry martini—and turned her attention back on me.

  “What are your plans for today?”

  “I thought I’d get Louis to take me over to Riverside so I can move some of my things back in and get ready for school,” I said. The faster I could get out from under my parents’ thumb, the sooner I would be able to breathe again.

  She shook her head. “You will have to hire a car or drive yourself. Louis is driving me to the salon.” With a deep sigh, she gazed at my hair. “I really do wish you would agree to join me. If we only trimmed and lightened your hair a bit, it would look so much better.”

  “No, Mother. You have Quincy for that.” She and my older sister shared the same bright shade of blonde, and I wanted no part of that madness. Plus, I had plans to spend part of the day at La Période Bleue, my favorite gallery in SoHo. I didn’t bother telling her that, though. She didn’t give a shit about my “little hobbies.”

  “After you hear your father’s announcement on Friday, I think you will agree that a makeover is critical. You are such a smart, beautiful girl, but…”

  I tuned out her voice and turned my attention to the grapefruit on my plate.

  Freedom was so close I could almost taste it.

  I lifted a spoonful of bright pink pulp to my lips.

  What the hell did freedom taste like?

  My mind immediately thought Dare.

  I almost laughed out loud. That wasn’t going to happen. I never went back for seconds.

  Never.

  seven

  “Why do both of these have to be tonight?” I groaned, more to myself than the two girls sitting at my table in Learner Hall lounge. I had an art show brochure in one hand and a political seminar flyer in the other. The first week of classes hadn’t even concluded, and I already had to choose between passion and duty.

  When I wasn’t hitting the books, I interned at La Période Bleue Gallery. Being around art gave me hope. It filled my mundane, black-and-white dreams with bright bursts of color. Sabine Rochard, the gallery owner, allowed me to scout for her because I had an eye for talent.

  She’d asked me to hit up a show in Queens this evening and find some potential artists for an up-and-coming talent showcase happening at the end of October. And my Intro to International Politics professor had made attendance at a seminar on world trade tactics mandatory for passing his course.

  “Summer’s over, Reagan.” My friend Carrie snatched the art show announcement from my hand, crumpled it up, and tossed it into a nearby garbage can. “Time to get back to reality.”

  Penelope took a sip of her latte and sighed. “Why does reality have to be so painful?”

  I scoffed. “What the hell are you talking about? You’re studying Art History!”

  “Exactly,” she said. “It’s hard. And boring. And dry. Have you ever tried writing a paper on the influence of impressionism on Northern Europe?”

  “What I wouldn’t give to trade places with you right now,” I said. “I would happily do every single one of those assignments you always complain about. Of course, my parents would have multiple strokes if I told them that I even entertained the idea of switching into ‘such a frivolous major.’ Their words, not mine.”

  Carrie’s bright green gaze locked onto mine. She searched my eyes like she was trying to determine if I was joking or if I’d actually gone insane. “Say what you want, but your parents are right to push you toward law, business, and politics. You’re wicked smart, Reagan. Studying anything else would be a waste of your time and talent.”

  I groaned. “Studying anything else would be heaven.” One look at my Ethics of Political Theory textbook made my head hurt.

  “Well, if you need something to help you get through the next few weeks, let me know,” Carrie said. “I have a whole stash of my brother’s Ritalin. I’ve been pill-switching for years—the stupid little shit has been gulping Aspirin tablets without even knowing it. That’s how I passed all my Financial Economics midterms last year.”

  “Oh, great. How much are my parents paying you to attend school here and make sure I don’t steer from the straight and narrow path to corporate hell?” I was joking. I hoped.

  Carrie shrugged. “Your parents are right about this. And they want to make sure you don’t end up like this one.” She nodded at Penelope. “Let’s not kid ourselves. Penny, with her major, has trophy wife written all over her.”

  “Hey! What’s that supposed to mean?” Penelope pouted. She opened her mouth to protest, but quickly shut it and burst into a fit of giggles. “Well, actually, you’re totally right. But as long as my husband is rich and good looking, I’ll happily play the role. We’re all smarter than the men we marry, anyway. Look at my mom. Being Daddy’s trophy wife got her millions in divorce settlements after he was caught screwing his assistant.”

  “His male assistant, this time!” Carrie laughed as the two launched into a detailed recount of Penelope’s father’s many affairs.

  And that was my cue to tune out.

  My phone vibrated for what seemed to be the hundredth time that day.

  Mother. Of course. Speak of the devil and she shall call.

  Reluctantly, I answered. “Yes?”

  “Reagan, your sister just reported that she saw you dressed in used clothing.” I could actually hear her shudder. “What is the matter with you? Are you trying to embarrass us?”

  I looked down at my ripped jeans and smirked. “It’s called vintage, Mother. And hello to you too. Lovely day, isn’t it?”

  “I have a splitting migraine, Reagan.” Which was codeword for hangover. “I do not have time for your childish games right now.” She gave an exasperated sigh. “I am calling because I wanted to discuss your outfit and jewelry for tomorrow’s dinner. Now listen to me…”

  Funny. I wanted to discuss the best combination of drugs and alcohol to get me through the night so I wouldn’t be inclined to stab myself in the eye with one her precious silver forks.

  Listening to her prattle on hammered home that tomorrow’s dinner was going to suck major ass. Even more than usual, it appeared.

  The fact that my family home was a full ten degrees colder than any other place in the entire world was a sure sign that something had to be wrong with us. It was even more frigid when Pierce and Quincy were there.

  Four perfect McKinleys. One me.

  “I told you to be on time, Reagan,” my mother was saying. “And dressed appropriately, for god’s sake. This is some of your ‘vintage’ clothing, I assume. You are going to have to change and there is hardly any time.” Her breath was coming out in little huffs and her grip on her martini glass was so tight her knuckles had turned white.

  “I don’t understand.” My sister’s frown was identical to our mother’s. At twenty-four she was a carbon copy of our mother, down to their flawlessly coiffed hair. “What possessed you to go to Harlem of all places?” The way she said it—her perfectly glossed lips curling—Harlem sounded like it was a disease of some sort. From the look on her fiancé’s face, Eric appeared to agree. “And how did you end up getting covered in paint?”

  “I told you,” I said, taking a deep breath in an attempt to keep my composure. “I just started volunteering at a women’s shelter on a hundred-and-thirty-second. My friend Sabine donates a lot of art supplies to the center and she asked me if I would be interested in supervising an art class for the kids there.”

  Pierce snorted. My sister and mother exchanged a look. It landed somewhere on the spectrum between concern and bewilderment.

  “Troubled youth of some sort?” Quinn asked.

&
nbsp; I rolled my eyes. “No, Quinn. Nice, friendly kids who have an interest in art, but can’t afford to pursue it.” Hell, despite their rough lives, most of the kids at the shelter were probably more stable than I had been at their age.

  “Our family donates more than enough money to charitable foundations, Reagan,” my father said, entering the parlor with his usual three fingers of neat scotch. “Every year, my company is recognized for its efforts. It is quite unnecessary for you to traverse gang-ridden neighborhoods in search of dangerous philanthropical deeds.”

  “Dangerous? Do you think my seven-year-old students are making shivs out of paintbrushes?” I couldn’t believe them. “Plus, I’m not doing this for recognition. I’m doing it because I want to. Those kids need me. They appreciate me.” Unlike everyone else in my life.

  “They probably appreciate that they’re better artists than their teacher,” Pierce said.

  “I’m not teaching art, Pierce. I’m just giving them the opportunity to do it.”

  Quinn shook her head and laughed. Actually laughed at me. “This is the most ridiculous thing you’ve done yet, Reagan.”

  “Come on, Quinn.” Pierce cut in. “Cut her some slack. She’s still ‘discovering herself.’ Soon enough, she’ll grow up.” He turned to me with a smug grin. “You’ll understand how silly and idealistic you are and finally realize that the world belongs to people like us. The sooner you accept that, the faster you can start using it to your advantage and actually live a real life.”

  Wow. That was a kick to the gut. Pierce of all people should have been on my side. At least he used to be. He’d been so different ever since law school. I knew for a fact he didn’t enjoy life. He snorted more blow than anyone I knew. What a fucking hypocrite.

  “My interest in art isn’t just some fleeting thing,” I said.

  My father’s dark gray gaze landed on me as he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, Reagan. From now on, I do not want you stepping foot in that place without an escort.”

  “An escort? Are you serious? This isn’t the eighteen-freaking-hundreds. I’m not a princess.”

  My brother smirked. “In those filthy clothes, you certainly aren’t.” At twenty-seven, he was a big-shot lawyer being groomed to one day take over McKinley Enterprises, and he was laughing at me like I was one of his dim-witted bimbos. Whatever. Pierce and his designer suits and perfectly tied ties could kiss my ass.

  “I’m nineteen. I can go where I want without anyone holding my hand,” I said. They weren’t taking this away from me. “And I will definitely keep volunteering at the shelter.”

  “Not in my cars.” My father put his drink down and stood to his full height.

  I swallowed hard, my heart pounding. No one crossed my father. No one. But I had what I knew would be the winning argument.

  “Then I’ll walk,” I said.

  They gasped. Every one of them. Pierce and Quinn’s mouths hung open. Eric looked askance.

  “Walk?” My mother clutched her drink even tighter.

  I nodded. “I love walking around the city.”

  “Nathaniel.” She hissed, turned away, and took a big sip.

  My father studied my face for several long seconds and my stomach knotted as I tried to think of what he might do to stop me. But then he gave a slight nod.

  Had I actually won?

  “Fine,” he said. “You may go. Louis will drive you every week.” He walked over to the bar for a refill. I released the breath I’d been holding and tried to keep my face expressionless. Inside, I was dancing because I’d fucking WON.

  He turned, then, a calculating smile on his face, and added, “This is just the kind of thing Harvard Law will love. Good thinking, Reagan. It will set you apart from the herd.”

  And just like that he deflated me. How the hell did he always mange to do that—turn my victory into one of his own?

  Fuck.

  Quinn cocked her head. “Did you just mutter something under your breath?”

  “Nope.”

  “Reagan, the proper word is no.”

  “Reagan,” my mother said quietly as my jaw clenched. If one more person in this family Reagan-ed me I was going to strangle them. “Go clean up for dinner.” She said it like she was speaking to a child. “I shall send Isla up to help, and Quincy will fix your hair.”

  My sister smiled sweetly. “Of course, Mama.”

  At the same time, I said, “My hair is fine.”

  Ignoring me, my mother called for the maid, then whispered something to her that I couldn’t hear. All I caught was the tail end—”…and a Valium, please.”

  I wondered if it was intended for her or me.

  And just like that, I was wishing for one of those damn forks.

  eight

  “Reagan, meet Marcus Finch and Eleanor Bradley,” my father said once I was back in the parlor, dressed in a black, knee-length pencil skirt and a pale blue silk blouse.

  Looking the part. Playing the part. As expected.

  A handsome middle age man with dark hair and warm, hazel eyes extended his hand. “A pleasure, Miss McKinley.”

  “The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Finch.” I’d had years of training as a McKinley.

  The curvy blonde beside him shook my hand next. “Lovely to meet you, Miss McKinley.”

  “Likewise, Ms. Bradley.”

  My mother beamed. Maybe it was the vodka-Valium kick that was making the corners of her lips turn up. Or maybe she was relieved that I was pretending to be her perfect daughter in the perfect clothes she’d picked out, my perfect hair falling down my back in perfect soft waves.

  Whatever. It wasn’t me. Not that anyone here cared.

  “Nathaniel, Olivia, before we go into the dining room, I think it would be best to share the news with your children,” Marcus said.

  My father gave a curt nod. “Certainly. Have a seat, Reagan.” He motioned to the couch. I lowered myself between Quinn and Pierce. “Marcus,” he said. “The floor is all yours.”

  They were most definitely of my father’s world. The earpieces, briefcases, and electronic tablets. The head-to-toe expensive business attire. And the way they smiled. It felt…slick.

  I did not have a good feeling about this at all.

  “Pierce, Quincy, Reagan,” Marcus said, “I’m sure you are going to be thrilled to know that your father will be announcing his candidacy for mayor this November.”

  “Mayor?” Pierce whistled. “Wow, Dad.”

  “You want to be mayor?” I looked at my father, dread creeping over my skin.

  “No.” My mother shook her head. “He is going to be mayor. Have you ever known your father to fail?”

  “Fail is not is my vocabulary.” My father’s fake laugh echoed around the room and everyone joined in. Everyone but me.

  Good god. He was already campaigning.

  “McKinleys never fail,” Quinn sounded like a fucking Stepford Daughter.

  “To be perfectly honest,” Marcus said, a genuine smile on his face, “that is exactly why I’m more than delighted to be representing your father. We are going to build a winning platform rooted in integrity, familial stability, and good, old American values.”

  This couldn’t be happening.

  “Eleanor is in charge of the ethics committee, responsible for ensuring we run a clean campaign.” Marcus continued. “So, Pierce, Quincy, Reagan—and I suppose Eric as well since you will be joining this family soon—shall we have a little chat?”

  I could feel what little freedom I had already start slipping away.

  “You want to know if we’ve been behaving, don’t you, Ms. Bradley?” My brother aimed his predatory, smoldering gaze on Eleanor. “In your professional opinion, have I been a good boy or…?” He arched an eyebrow and flashed his brilliant smile. It was an innocent enough question, but I knew Pierce. If my parents weren’t here, he would’ve finished that sentence off with or a naughty one so you need to spank me.

  Eleanor coughed. “Yes…uhh, yes.” A br
ight crimson blush spread across her cheeks and down her chest. “I’m here to make you behave. Uhh…I mean…my job…” She took a deep breath and tried again. “My job is to ensure an ethical campaign is carried out by all members of the family. Your father has been vetted, of course. Your mother is also in the clear. The three of you are fine on the surface, but in the next few weeks, my investigators will be running extensive background checks that delve into every little part of your lives. You too, Eric.”

  My heart jumped into my throat. “Every part?” Panic began to claw its way up my entire body.

  It had happened years ago—they couldn’t find out about it because no one knew. No one except my parents, and they’d buried that dirty little secret themselves.

  My eyes sought out my father’s. Nothing. He didn’t even bother to look my way. Mother? Nope. It’s like they hadn’t even thought about it. And why would they? We’d spent four years pretending it had never happened.

  McKinleys were skilled at keeping skeletons locked inside our walk-in closets.

  “Yes, we will find out everything.” Eleanor assured me as if it were a comforting thought.

  “Pierce has a DUI that needs to go away,” my father said. A DUI? A freaking DUI. My father had dealt with what happened to me in the exact same way—like it was some infraction that could easily be erased. “I will call up someone in the state attorney’s office and have—”

  “No.” Eleanor held up her hand. “As the future mayor of New York City, you can’t be seen pulling favors in the legal system. We’ll get someone not involved with the campaign to take care of it. And quickly.” She typed something into her phone. “Are there any more transgressions I should know about, Pierce?”

  Pierce smirked and opened his mouth to speak, but I kicked his shin and shot him a dirty look.

  He rolled his eyes, then said, “That’s all.”