Vote Then Read: Volume III

by Aleatha Romig

  “Children can be such brats.”

  “Yep.” I nodded distractedly, remembering how much I’d hated high school. How every hour I spent in the faculty classrooms and listened to teachers drone on was a waste because, unlike my peers, I didn’t get to go home and play outside or hang with sweet boyfriends on the weekends.

  Once the bell rang, David picked me up and drove me to Belle Elle where I’d work until well past most other students’ bedtimes.

  I looked up, nibbling with uncertainty and nerves I thought I’d deleted from being an outcast at school. “Do you think they sent it by mistake? Why would they invite me?”

  “What is it?” Fleur plucked the invite from my hold, scanning the details. “It has your name on the top, so it isn’t a mistake.”

  She read out loud, “You’re cordially invited to spend the evening reminiscing and sharing life’s progress with the girls from St. Hilga’s Education this coming Friday at the Palm Politics. Yourself and plus one are invited.” She wrinkled her nose. “Ugh, I can hear their contemptuous attitudes just from a generic invitation.”

  I hung my head, massaging the muscles in my neck. “It’s short notice, isn’t it? Do they mean this Friday or next?”

  She glanced at the envelope, peering at the stamp. “Uh oh, it’s tonight. It was sent a week ago. I guess it got lost in the mailroom. It is, after all, addressed to Elle the Ding Dong Belle.”

  I smothered my face in my hands. “Oh, God, don’t remind me of that awful nickname.”

  “Man, kids are cruel,” Fleur muttered.

  I didn’t untangle myself from my hands, pretending the pink light coming through my fingers could erase my childhood, and I could forget about pranks and nasty little girls.

  Fleur straightened some paperwork on my desk, stacking a pile of folders, and placing a few stray pens into my stainless steel holder. When order had been granted, and my nerves had calmed somewhat—reminding me they couldn’t hurt me anymore—that I was in my Belle Elle tower and they were down there in Manhattan somewhere, I looked up and breathed deep.

  We were living our lives. Away from each other. It was perfect.

  Only Fleur ruined my co-existence by saying, “You know you have to go, right?”

  “What?” My mouth hung open. “No way in hell am I going.”

  “You have to. Not to prove to them how incredibly successful and powerful you are but to prove to yourself.”

  I scoffed, plucking a pen from the holder and tapping it wildly against my notepad. “I don’t need to do anything of the sort.”

  She planted a hand on her hip, giving me a raised eyebrow and a look that said ‘yeah, right.’

  I ignored her. “No way. No how.” I snatched the invite and stabbed my finger at the plus one. “Besides, I have no one to go with. If I had some drop-dead gorgeous man who could remind me to stand tall and not let them win, then maybe. But I don’t, and they’ll most likely have their man candy with a rug rat or two. And I’m still an outcast like I always was in high school with her cat.”

  Sage nudged my ankle, yawning with her cute little tongue shaped into a funnel.

  “I love you, Sage, but you’re hardly ‘bring to a party’ material.”

  I’d already unwittingly showed how sad and depressing my personal life was to Mr. Everett by wearing her on my shoulders yesterday.

  No.

  I’d had enough embarrassment in my life already without adding more to it.

  Refreshing my laptop screen, I did my best to read forecast numbers and find them riveting.

  Fleur shifted. “I really think—”

  “No.” I kept my eyes glued on the spread-sheet. “Now, if there isn’t anything else, I’d appreciate some quiet, so I can get this done.”

  She sniffed but turned and plodded dramatically to the door. Reaching it, she turned with a spin so fast it kicked out her dress into a tulip flare. “You know what? I’m taking charge of this. You wore that ivory and caramel lace dress because I made it easy for you to do so. This is the same sort of thing. I know you don’t like him, but he’s handsome and will have your back.”

  My heart froze into a popsicle.

  She’ll call Mr. Everett?

  How does she know about him?

  He won’t have my back.

  He’ll find some other surface to push me against and terrorize me more.

  I stiffened. “No, Fleur. Whatever you’re thinking. Stop it.”

  “You’ll thank me once you’ve seen yourself in their eyes. When you’ve felt their awe at how hard you work and their envy at your unlimited bank accounts. And you’ll pretend you aren’t, but you’ll be happy when they flirt with your man and find out he only has eyes for you.”

  She’s going to do it.

  She’ll call him.

  She’ll deliberately sabotage my desire never to see him again.

  Before I could tell her I had no intention of being fulfilled by jealousy or had any desire to announce to the undeserving witches from high school what my bank account looked like, she was gone.

  To ruin my life.

  And I couldn’t do a thing to stop it.

  16

  “I’M GOING TO kill my assistant tomorrow.”

  David raised an eyebrow as I climbed from the backseat of the Range Rover. “Nice of you to inform me. I’ll ensure the appropriate lawyers are called.”

  I gave him a grim smile. “I do not want to be here, David. Do you think—”

  He smothered a slight grin. “Ma’am, if you want, I’ll drive you right home. But if you don’t mind me saying, you look beautiful, and it seems a shame to waste such beauty without having one drink before you go.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “You’re a meddler. Just like she is.”

  “I’m nothing of the sort. In fact, I’ll help with the murder tomorrow if tonight is not a success.” He closed the back door and headed toward the driver’s seat, leaving me abandoned on the sidewalk about to enter the dragon’s playground. “Consider me a willing accomplice. Now, go and have fun, and call me when you’re ready to leave.”

  My emotions were full of poutiness and frustration. I could just tell him I was ready now. But I wasn’t a four-year-old, and he was right. It would be a waste not to go in for a second—especially after Fleur’s wardrobe ministrations.

  Not that I approved.

  The dress she’d chosen was the most daring, risqué thing I’d ever worn. For a cocktail get-together, she’d gone over the top with a russet-gold silk gown that slinked around my ankles and split up one leg to mid-thigh. The back was non-existent with just enough height to cover my ass but leave my spine exposed, while the front swooped up to my throat in a gathered cowl.

  She’d even gone as far to do my hair for me. She’d fishtail braided it, so it sat over my left shoulder and kept my naked back on display.

  The entire time she fussed with my hair and makeup, I’d muttered she was fired and to start looking for other employment.

  But once she showed me the finished product, shoved me into the car, and told me my date would meet me there, I had to admit a smidgen (a teeny tiny smidgen) of excitement filled me to have a night out with people other than business associates or my father and Steve.

  And to be honest, I looked forward to spending an evening looking the way I did while tormenting and verbally sparring with Mr. Everett. It was the thought of him being there to take the spotlight off me from the nasty school girls that moved my unwilling feet into the nightclub where a small section had been roped off for our reunion.

  Palm Politics was a strange blend of tropical fronds and the décor of a court of law. One freedom and sunshine. The other prison and shadow. The bar was the podium where the judge would sit and the booths dotted around were a mini oasis in a boardroom of wood and strobe light sentencing.

  Goosebumps covered my skin—partly from cold and partly from anxiety at facing these women again—especially in a place such as this. Why couldn’t it be a simple bar wi
th no theme or message?

  I hated anything to do with law courts and police—it only layered my guilt with more rancid icing at the thought of Nameless.

  I’d tried. I’d failed. I hadn’t given up but even the weekly phone calls I made to police officers who were kind enough to answer my questions had no news.

  If I was a lucky sleeper who enjoyed vibrant dreams, I might’ve concluded he was merely made up of fantasies and heroism, bound together by imagination magic, and made brilliant by adolescent devotion.

  But he had to have been real.

  I still had the faintest scar on my nape from where my sapphire star had been ripped away, and I still endured the faintest seduction of chocolate on my lips when I was blessed enough to doze in his dream-company.

  Standing in the paddling pool of partiers, I doubled my promise to do more. To track him down, no matter the cost.

  Starting tomorrow.

  Or tonight if I can leave early.

  My minor discomfort at being watched by leering judges and glinting prison bars switched to major annoyance as Greg appeared from the crowd, holding a glass of champagne and a gin and tonic.

  My heart instantly tobogganed down a cliff and shot off the edge in denial.

  Oh, God, I’m so stupid.

  Of course, Fleur hadn’t invited Mr. Everett.

  No one knew I’d seen him again, and only my father knew what’d happened at the Weeping Willow.

  She has no clue he exists, so how could I think she’d invite him as my date?

  I’m an idiot.

  She hadn’t ruined my aloofness at refusing Mr. Everett’s offer to take me out. But she had sentenced me to endure a terrible evening.

  There would be no banter.

  No sexy butterflies.

  Nothing but obligation to ensure I remained professional—so I didn’t hurt Greg, my father, or Steve, and could look everyone in the eye on Monday with no regrets or dismay.

  It didn’t matter my life would be so much simpler if I just gave into what everyone wanted. But my heart was stubborn and didn’t find Greg romance material in the slightest.

  “Hi, Elle.” Greg passed me the champagne.

  I didn’t even like champagne. If he cared for me as much as he pretended to, he would’ve remembered that from all the forced dinners we’d endured with our fathers.

  The night suddenly looked a thousand times worse.

  I might be a bitch in the boardroom, but I wasn’t mean, and Greg had dropped whatever plans he had to be here with me just because Fleur had called him.

  I wouldn’t be nasty.

  But I wouldn’t be overly gracious, either.

  “Hello, Greg.” I sipped the cold bubbles, hiding my grimace. “It’s very nice of you to come with me. I hope Fleur didn’t interrupt your evening.”

  He grinned, swiping a hand through his dark blond hair as his overly white teeth caught the strobe light glittering above. “Not at all. When she called, I couldn’t believe my luck. Finally, a night out just the two of us.” He leaned in with a wink. “Away from the chaperones.”

  I hid my distaste, forcing a smile. “Exactly.”

  He slotted himself beside me and, without asking permission, wrapped his arm around my waist. The warmth of his bare forearm tingled my spine and not in a good way. He’d come to this wearing a white t-shirt and black jeans. He looked handsome, of course—he was a good looking guy—but compared to the gown I wore and the finery Fleur had graced me with, I came across as ridiculously overdressed.

  My heart plummeted even further off the cliff, splattering on the unforgiving terrain below.

  Tonight had slipped from disaster to annihilation. Chloe would never let me live this down if they were all in semi-formal clothing and I appeared dressed like a prom queen.

  Does it matter, though?

  My brain tried to be mature and see the bigger picture. So what Greg wasn’t in a suit—it wasn’t life or death. So what I might be over-dressed and Chloe might be the same cow I remembered—none of it made any difference to my tomorrow. I would still be me. I would still be as safe and as happy as I was yesterday.

  Be brave, Elle.

  And then leave with dignity.

  Straightening my shoulders, I stepped out of Greg’s embrace but immediately looped my arm through his before his face could fall.

  Squeezing his bicep in thanks, I said, “Let’s go mingle, shall we?”

  Two hours I lasted.

  Two hours where I was no longer me but a better version of me. Noelle was left behind, and Elle used the same techniques from dealing with men twice her age to wield mundane conversation with girls she’d long since forgotten about.

  There was potty-training chats with Melanie and fake oohing and ahhing over her one-year-old Facebook pictures. There was biology class reminiscing with Frankie, pretending I felt the same way about our teacher Mr. Bruston, and how sexy his mustache had been.

  Yeah, not at all.

  There were snippets of cattiness from Maria and Sara about who ought to have gone out with Rollo Smith in summer camp, and the requisite fond recalling with Chloe about shopping late at night and running riot through Belle Elle when Dad let us sleep over in the lady’s ware department.

  She called me Elle the Ding Dong Bell only twice.

  But each was like a knife in my side.

  I didn’t let it show.

  I didn’t hint at vulnerability or let my guard down.

  Greg had no clue how hard this was for me. He merely guffawed at the nickname and plied me with more champagne I didn’t want.

  Every single conversation I put my all into. I smiled and nodded and listened. My cheeks hurt from fake grinning, my feet ached from standing, and my exposed back became extra sensitive to everything. My skin prickled with minor drafts as people moved behind me, warm patches as people stood close by, and even the tell-tale tingle of people staring at me, itching spots on my shoulder blades as their eyes became fingers and stroked me.

  Out of the sixteen people here—eight women and eight men—Greg and I held our own. My dress had started the poshest of them all, but as more people arrived, I’d settled into an array of chiffon and lace, finally accepting that Fleur knew what she was doing.

  The dress didn’t take away my power. It gave me power. And for the first time, I believed in my own self-worth outside of Belle Elle. That I could hold my head high and not be afraid of judgment or wrongdoing. That I was my own person and not just a cog in the conglomerate my family had created. My world was just as good as any others—if not better.

  The relief in that gave me a well of kindness to forget that Greg got on my nerves, and I didn’t turn away from his touches of affection. I accepted three more glasses of champagne, even though the room grew warm and my skin glowed with bubbly heat.

  By hour two, my bladder had done all the retaining of alcohol it could, and I excused myself to find the restroom.

  Greg gave me a kiss on the cheek—which I didn’t wipe away because the liquor made everything that much more acceptable—and left the roped-off area to make my way through the club.

  I guessed the time was ten p.m. or so, but already, the place crawled with bodies and the aura of a good night ahead.

  Finding the bathroom, I entered and slammed to a stop as I came face to face with my reflection in a full-length mirror.

  Who the hell is that woman?

  Her braid was a little disheveled with curls free and soft around her face. Her lips were puffy from licking droplets of champagne with remnants of pale pink lipstick. Her smoky eyes rimmed blue that looked far too sated and happy to be real.

  I looked…loose.

  My limbs moved with a relaxation I never had when sober. My movements less jerky and sedate.

  Being tipsy suits you.

  I rolled my eyes, listing a little to the left as the room swayed.

  Being tipsy was a new experience and one I wouldn’t often do. The false courage and intoxicating bravado could
screw up my careful rules.

  Greg suddenly didn’t seem so annoying. Chloe wasn’t such a bad girl. And the thought of going to work tomorrow was a task I had no intention of fulfilling as long as the beat of a bassy tune worked through my bones.

  Wanting to return to the party, I quickly did what I was there to do and washed my hands. Drying my fingers on a paper towel, I ran the remaining dampness over my arms to cool my overheated skin.

  I’d come to this club cold, and now, I was burning up.

  Something else was burning up, too.

  Something that normally only came alive around few very select males. My breasts were heavy, and a tugging sensation deep inside my belly demanded another drink—to let go for once. To stop fighting and let Greg kiss me because he was the only male around who knew what I was and who I had to be. He’d been raised in the same environment.

  So what he annoyed me most of the time and didn’t seem to truly care about me but only my legacy? He was a man. I was a woman. It was time to do something about my little problem and figure out how to be a sexual creature and not an untouched virgin any longer.

  Striding from the bathroom, I walked with purpose, brushing against strangers and enjoying it for once rather than cringing at having no personal space. Up ahead, Greg laughed and touched Chloe’s waist, bending to whisper something in her ear. The rest of the group mingled in twos and fours, chatting and drinking.

  I knew those people.

  I had a life.

  I was invited to party with them.

  I had freedom, after all.

  Only, whatever freedom I thought I had jerked to a stop as a man’s arm snaked around my waist, yanking me back. My languidness from champagne meant I folded neatly into his embrace, too slow to fight.

  His lips landed on my ear. “If it was coincidence yesterday, it has to be fate today.”

  I froze.

  Whatever tipsiness I suffered tripled as his hands roamed my ribcage, taking liberties he wasn’t given, rubbing the soft silk into my skin in ways that should be illegal.