“Life is not about what we want, Sasha. It’s about what’s best for us, for our family, our legacy. Want rarely comes into play.”
What he really means is that want rarely comes into play where I’m concerned. My parents seem to have everything their chilly little hearts desire. Me, on the other hand, well, let’s just say I’m not like my parents. Some days I wake up and even consider requesting a DNA test.
My mother’s still jabbering. “He’s a handsome boy, Sasha. I think you two will really hit it off.”
“His father’s thinking of investing considerably in the new club,” my father adds, as if that should be enough to send me on my way.
“Then you go out with him!” I say again on impulse. It must be the adrenaline still rushing through my system. I mean, it’s not every day a girl watches a body being dragged from the lake. I had to have some excuse for mouthing off to my parents. Especially to my father.
Well clearly, Marvin Carrington is having none of that, regardless of my reasoning.
You will do as I tell you, young lady. You’re a part of this family and will act accordingly.” His normally cool green eyes grow just a tad darker as his voice rises.
I feel like I’ve been slapped, even though neither one of them have ever put their hands on me. Not even for a hug that I can remember. Then I bristle at his words. Now I’m a part of this family. What happened to consoling their teenage daughter who had just been through a horrific time? What happened to wanting to keep her safe? Clearly there’s a killer on the loose.
While I’m standing here thinking all this and literally biting my tongue to keep from mouthing off some more, my mother stands and walks over to me. “You don’t go out with enough guys, dear. This will be fun.”
Was she kidding? What mother tells her fifteen-year-old daughter, “you don’t go out with enough guys?” Normally, it’s exactly the opposite. This place is like a freak show.
“I don’t feel like having fun.” And I really don’t. Not with some strange guy anyway. This just cannot be happening.
“Now, just go on upstairs. Casietta already has something picked out for you to wear. Stephen will be here in an hour. Take a nice long bath and do your hair. Oh, you’re going to have a fabulous time.”
She’s rubbing my back with one hand, the other is doing something weird to my hair, and her voice is like chalk scraping down a blackboard. I want to scream.
“And Sasha…”
I look over my shoulder to see my father not even looking up at me but shuffling some papers around in a folder he’s been holding on his lap. “Be sure to talk up the club. How you and your friends will be spending a lot of time there and such.”
Yeah, I think when I’m finally allowed to leave the room with the two psycho parents in it, I’ll talk up the club that I never plan to set foot in. Stomping up the steps seems juvenile, but I do it anyway, releasing only minute waves of frustration as I go.
I’m not their daughter. I’m a pawn in this game of their lives. They don’t care what I do or how I feel as long as everything works out for them.
I shouldn’t care about what they want or how they’ll feel if I do something they don’t like. I shouldn’t.
But I do.
It’s pathetic, but I do care. I do want their approval. So I take the shower and I get dressed and I wait for the date I don’t want to go on in the hopes that one day things between us will be different.
His pants are too high.
That’s the first thing I notice about Stephen Whitman IV. And that’s probably because I can see his argyle socks as he walks toward me. His khaki pants are hard creased and swing at his ankles like they’re boot cut. His shoes are leather, Italian probably. I keep looking at them because, of course, I’m a shoe-aholic.
“Hi, Sasha,” he says when he’s closer, his hand already extended for me to shake like we’re closing a business deal or something.
I sigh, then force a smile. My hand lifts and embraces his, but I swear it must be on autopilot because that’s not what I was thinking of doing. I’m actually considering turning and running back up the stairs. This night isn’t going to go off as planned. I can feel it deep down in my bones.
“Hi, Stephen.”
“You look beautiful.”
Do boys say beautiful? More importantly, do they really mean it when they say it? Probably not.
“Thanks,” is my automatic response.
“Shall we go?”
My parents already had the opportunity to talk to him, filling his mind with a bunch of crap about their precious club, I presume. But I’d stayed upstairs a little longer than necessary, especially since I’d seen when the Rolls Royce pulled around to the front of the house and watched as the suited driver stepped out and opened the back door for Stephen.
I’d known he was here and still hid upstairs like a Chicken Little. But hey, I’m not even afraid to admit that. I don’t want to go on this date. And for some reason, the not wanting is a little more adamant than just not liking Stephen. I really feel like this is going to end badly.
Well, too late now.
My arm is already threaded through Stephen’s, and we’re stepping out the door into the cool night air. And I do mean cool, like it’s dropped about ten degrees since earlier this afternoon at the lake. But that’s the way the weather is here in Lincoln—strange.
Solange is located on the first floor of the Nokland Hotel. It’s a pretty jazzed-up place complete with huge chandeliers with dripping tiers of crystal lights, linen tablecloths and soft, high-backed chairs. Walking across the dark maroon carpeted floor, my feet slide a bit because these shoes are new. I bought them out of a catalog which I don’t do often, but I needed a new pair of patent leather shoes with the kitten heel, and these have a cute white bow on the side toe end. The skirt Casietta picked out for me is pleated black with a white cami and midriff sweater to match. I feel like I should be going to church instead of on a date. I know I wouldn’t have to dress like this to go out with Antoine.
“So how’s school?” Stephen asks after we’re seated.
For the first time since he picked me up I really look at his face. He’s not half bad looking, if you like the straitlaced, pretty-boy type. I mean, his hair is cut low, he has like a semi-tan. He probably goes to the beach over the long weekends. Either that or a tanning salon, but I don’t really see one of the Whitmans visiting Teri’s Tanning Tub every week. His eyes are blue and his hair is blond—clichéd, but true. There are some highlights to his hair at the top that make it look a little darker than it is on the sides, might be from the sun. Still, his clothes are perfectly starched. His Rolex watch shines at his wrist, and what I think is a gold school ring twinkles on his left ring finger. He’s sitting with his back bone-straight in the chair and at this very moment unfolding his napkin and placing it, sort of daintily, in his lap.
Like I said, fine if you like the straitlaced, pretty-boy type.
I definitely do not.
“School is school,” I reply rather blandly. I never really know how to answer this question. Plus I think it’s one of the stupidest questions to ask a teenager. What’s really the expected response—“School is great!” or “School sucks!”? Some days I can say either one, but I kind of like the answer I just gave.
“You’re in the tenth grade, right?”
“Yes.”
He nods his head, then picks up the menu. “I remember those days.”
“What grade are you in?”
“Eleventh.”
Yeah, so he remembers the tenth-grade days like they were five or so years ago. Please, somebody, save me from this brutally boring evening!
And just like that my phone chimes in my purse. I’m receiving a text.
thirteen
Who’s the geek?
It’s Antoine. I try to hide my smile.
“Important?” Stephen asks, looking at me around the wide menu.
I almost forget he’s there. So I look up at h
im, give him a fraction of the attention I probably should, considering he’s my date. “Ah, yeah. My friend Krystal. She’s still freaking about this afternoon. Just gonna try and calm her down,” I say, then start texting Antoine back.
where r u?
Because he has to be close. He knows I’m with somebody, a geek he said. Smile can’t be held back this time.
close. answer my?
a friend
a close friend?
Aww, he sounds jealous. Or the message has a jealous tone I guess. My heart skips a little beat at that. Fingers are already flying over the keypad.
just met him 2day
I would have bought u dinner not hungry. bored.
Except for the smiley, there’s no other response. I stare at the phone for a few more minutes but no reply.
Stephen finally clears his throat. “Ah, is she okay now? Do you want to order?”
“Oh,” I say and reluctantly stuff my phone back into my purse. “Yeah. Sure.” Picking up the menu, I scan both sides. I haven’t been here in a while. Family dinners out aren’t really a part of my parents’ daily plans. But it’s not too hard to find something I like.
“I’ll have the charbroiled beef with cheddar cheese, lettuce, tomato and mayonnaise and a baked potato.” That’s the closest this fancy-smancy restaurant is going to get to a cheeseburger and fries.
The waiter appears, and Stephen repeats my order, then follows with his own. “I’ll have the seared sea bass, steamed asparagus and rice pilaf.”
I feel like I’m having dinner with a grown-up. I mean, come on, it’s Friday night, we’re on a date, alone, and he orders fish and veggies. I wonder how many other strikes in the “absofreakin-lutely not” column he’s going to rack up.
“So you saw a dead body.” He starts another conversation after the waiter leaves. “That must have been upsetting.”
“That’s an understatement,” I respond even though lately, I’ve seen worse.
“Do you know who it was?”
“Rumor has it one of the kids from that missing bus.” Well, at least the rumor would have it. I mean, I know from another source. But Tessa Jermain’s dad is the chief of police, so I know she’ll be blabbing every detail she can overhear the minute she overhears them.
“Hmm. You think the other kids are dead, too?”
I shrug, hoping that’s not the case.
“A killer in Lincoln, that seems so odd.”
“Why? A killer was arrested just a few weeks ago,” I say, thinking about Mr. Lyle.
“Yeah, odd. Lincoln isn’t known for its violence, yet suddenly there are vicious murders taking place. Probably a result of more lower-class people migrating here from the city. They think life will be easier here, cheaper. But we’re the ones who have to suffer for it. They’re invading our neighborhoods and hampering our lifestyles. That’s why this club of your father’s is such a good idea. A place where we can all band together, a place where they aren’t welcome.”
My whole body is vibrating with rage that heightens with each word he speaks. I want to close my eyes and disappear. Just leave his prejudiced boring ass at this table talking to himself. Instead I pick up the glass of water, concentrate on the coolness in my hand and not the emerging idea of throwing the water in his face. After taking a slow sip, I speak with as much calm as I can muster.
“It’s a free country. Anybody can live wherever they want. And rich people kill, too. What about those boys that killed that girl on her spring break in Aruba?”
Stephen’s already shaking his head in disagreement. “Totally different circumstances. These killings seem random.”
“There was nothing random about killing the girls who threatened to tell Mr. Lyle was a pervert. Or killing the boy who was either going to the police with the evidence or going to kick his butt. Mr. Lyle deserved to get caught. And whoever did this to that boy in the water will be caught too because they deserve to be in jail. Regardless of how much money they have.”
He doesn’t move, just sits with his napkin in his lap staring at me. “You have a lot to learn, but the club will help you with that.”
What’s that supposed to mean?
“The club is not going to be a school,” I say and roll my eyes at him.
“No, but it’ll be a place where we can bond, learn to stick together in this town. There’re some unsavory elements moving in and it’s up to us to get them out.”
My mouth opens to say something else to him but then someone stops me.
“Good evening, Sasha.”
Antoine steps up to the table, one hand in the front pocket of his crisp, baggy blue jeans. He wears a long-sleeved white button-down shirt that actually looks like he’d just purchased it tonight. His close-cut hair is brushed neatly, and his thick eyebrows arch just slightly as he turns to speak to Stephen.
“Antoine Watson,” he says, extending his hand to Stephen for a shake.
Stephen, true to his stupid pretty-boy form, looks Antoine up and down, ignores his outstretched hand and says tightly, “Stephen Whitman the Fourth.”
Antoine just nods his head like he really understands now and pulls his hand back. “Cool,” he says, then looks back at me.
“Hungry?”
I smile, never being more happy to see someone in my life. “Starving.”
“We’ve just ordered. Our food will be here in seconds. If you’ll excuse us,” Stephen says.
“Wrong,” Antoine says and reaches a hand out to me. “Your food will be here in a few seconds. Ours will come from someplace else. You can now excuse us.”
My heart’s beating at a rapid pace as I put my hand in Antoine’s and stand. I’m leaving with him. Leaving stuck-up Stephen sitting there waiting for his asparagus spears.
“That’s not possible,” Stephen says, standing but being sure to grab the napkin from his lap and toss it on the table. “Sasha is my date for the evening.”
I’m standing behind Antoine because, when he grabs my hand, he positions himself between me and Stephen in a protective kind of way. He shakes his head and gets close up on Stephen.
“But she’s my girl all day, every day.”
Stephen looks appalled. I want to dance around, sing a song, anything to show how happy I am at this moment. Instead, I simply shrug as I walk past Stephen’s flabbergasted expression.
Antoine continues to walk out of the restaurant, not fast like he’s trying to hurry up before Stephen decides to get up and make a scene. Probably because he knows Stephen has no backbone and would never do such a thing. But he takes his time, like if anybody wants to stop us they can certainly get up and try. I follow behind him dutifully, the smile on my face so wide, my cheeks might start to hurt soon.
Then we’re outside, and Antoine hands the valet his little white ticket. I’m a little shocked, but then, you can’t get into Solange without giving the valet your car to park. I guess I’m more shocked that they let Antoine in at all. Solange and the Nokland have a strict dress code—shirt, tie, slacks for men and skirts, dresses, etc. for women. Antoine is so out of line of the dress code with his boots, jeans and shirt. Still, he looks totally hot!
When his car arrives, he opens the door for me, and I slide into the passenger seat. More shock registers as he actually leans in, reaches over me and buckles my seat belt.
“Better safe than sorry,” he whispers, his face close to mine.
“Right,” I murmur, but when he pulls back and closes the door, I curse my stupid tongue for making such an idiotic remark.
We drive in silence for about fifteen minutes. Me wondering if I should ask Antoine if he really meant what he said about me being his girl. Him, just driving, I guess. I can’t tell if he’s thinking something or not. But now I’m wondering where we’re going, so I speak up.
“Where are you taking me?”
He doesn’t look over at me, just makes the next left turn. “You said you were hungry,” is his reply.
“Oh.” I recognize the ne
xt street we turn down and figure out that we’re heading to the mall.
Antoine turns into the garage and takes the keys out of the ignition. I unbuckle my seat belt and am reaching for the door handle to get out when he grabs my arm.
“If you’re gonna be my girl, then dating other guys, especially geeks, has to stop.”
His tone is serious, and I can see—even in the dark interior of the car—that his facial expression is, too.
“I didn’t know I was your girl,” I respond.
He exhales and lets his head fall back on the headrest. “Come on, Sasha. When are you going to stop acting like you don’t know what’s going on between us?”
“I don’t know, Antoine. But since you seem to have all the answers, why don’t you tell me?” I’m agitated now because I don’t like that he’s acting like he’s tired of me playing with him. I guess he is. And maybe I am playing the dumb role because that keeps me from taking a stand either way.
“I want you to be my girl,” he says then, and his voice is softer. He reaches out a hand and turns his head to stare at me. His fingers toy with the ends of my hair. “I like you and I want to be with you. I can’t make it any simpler than that. So now it’s on you. What do you want?”
Oh boy, it’s on me all right. I feel like I’m in front of a room full of people, and I’m wearing only my panties and bra. It’s just me and Antoine in this car, I keep telling myself. And I’m fully dressed. It’s just that his question makes me seem naked, vulnerable, I mean. So I take a deep breath and release it slowly.
“I like you, Antoine.”
“And?” he says expectantly.
I look right at him this time and know what I’ve been fighting these last few weeks is finished. I can’t fight it anymore. He knows it, too.
“And I want to be with you.”
His smile is slow but spreads wide, and my insides quiver. He leans over, and I know he’s going to kiss me. I want this kiss so bad my lips part even before he’s that close to me. The hand that was in my hair is now at the back of my neck, pulling me closer. I lean over the console, and then our faces are close enough. Our lips touch real soft once. And then again. And after that, the softness is mostly gone. This kiss is urgent like he’s searching for something, or I am, one of us is.
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