Deep South (Naive Mistakes #4)

by Dunning, Rachel

  “Leo, please, you should know by now that I always throw sex into the conversation just for a good laugh.”

  “OK, I was just checking!”

  “Jokes aside—and you know I hate laying jokes aside!—I’m wasting my life with these...kids. Look, Brad’s learning computer programming with Conall now. Since Conall outed that Senator for all those drug deals, well, people aren’t aiming guns at us anymore and so there’s practically nothing for Brad to do with that whole security gig at the house Conall had him on before. So he’s learning to do what Conall does and Conall says maybe they’ll go at it on their own and start a business together or something.”

  Start their own business? That was news to me!

  “Hell, if my dumb-as-an-elephant’s-ass Brad can learn how to computer program with some home tutoring, surely I could learn how to frickin design a goddamn dress by reading a few books!”

  I decided not to ask about the Brad-and-Conall-in-Business thing. I’d ask Conall personally later. “Conall has set up an apprenticeship for me with Carlo Fabiano.”

  “Yowser! Hot!”

  “Well, apparently not. Apparently he takes anyone who walks in the door. You should come as well. I’ve seen your sketches. They’re amazing. Better than mine.” Despite the college not giving us pencil and paper, we had tried our own hand at designs ourselves.

  “Thanks, babe. That’s what drugs do to a young brain—they screw it up so that you can make psychedelic clothes designs.”

  “Stop putting yourself down. You’re good.”

  “We’re both good. So what the fuck are we doing at this goddamned prison pretending to ‘learn’ something we both already know innately!?”

  -2-

  Monday morning.

  We’d made an appointment to see Dean Whithers because we “had something we wanted to discuss with him,” we’d said.

  So here we were, both of us (Kayla had a blue eye from the barfight), walking up the college steps, ready to “hand in our resignation.”

  Before we got inside, we were stopped from entering the school.

  By cops.

  Bettina Langford stood behind them, her broken nose hidden behind a bandage. Arms crossed, tapping her foot. And with a sardonic smirk on her battered and bruised face.

  My heart sank to my knees.

  The bitch!

  -3-

  She was actually trying to get us for assault! Can you believe that shit!

  There we were, back at a cop station—only in a different district now.

  Conall’s lawyer, Mike Stalward, came over and told us that UK law allows for leniency in assault cases when the person was provoked immediately before the act.

  Kayla, sitting next to me in the cold interrogation room, sat up straight, pointed her finger at the lawyer and said, “The bitch did provoke us!”

  She told him what happened. He kept looking at us blankly.

  “And?” Kayla pushed.

  Mike Stalward swallowed uncomfortably. It looked like the chubby man was suffering from indigestion or something. He stared at us like he was looking at a ghost.

  “Mike!” Kayla snapped her fingers in front of him. “It’s clear as day what happened!”

  He swallowed nervously again. “Kay—Kayla. Leora. Bettina is a...Langford. Much like the Williams family, nothing is simple when they’re involved.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “They have...clout...in this part of the world. Actually...” He adjusted his round spectacles. He looked a little like a middle-aged Harry Potter. “..they have clout...all over the world, but especially here.”

  “Clout?” I asked.

  He swallowed a third time! I wished he would stop doing that. “Well,” he hesitated, “it’s sort of like Skull and Bones or...” He moved his hand around, thinking. “...the Bilderberg Group?”

  I was lost.

  From Kayla’s appearance, apparently so was she.

  “I’m still not with you,” I said.

  “I thought you, being from the Upper East Side, would have heard of these groups.”

  I stared at him blankly.

  He loosened his tie. And then he proceeded to explain what was apparently supposed to be obvious to me: “Secret Societies, Leora. Influential people with money who form bonds and make ‘friends.’ Old School Tie kind of things.”

  “You’re kidding me,” I said.

  “What—like secret freakin mafia or something!?” Kayla was a lot more enthusiastic than the occasion called for.

  “Worse than the mafia, Miss Kayla. Much worse. Bankers, wealthy families, members of parliament, royalty and, I’m sorry to say, a fair amount of the legal community—judges, perhaps.”

  “Are you seriously wanting me to believe that we’re in shit because Bettina Langford is a member of a secret society which includes some or other judge that will skew our case!?” I protested.

  “No,” he said quickly.

  “Then what are you saying?”

  “That her father is a member of such a society—The Dragon’s Lair, The University of England’s very own alumni secret society. And because of that, he might have undue influence over matters which would otherwise simply run their course.”

  I couldn’t believe this shit. “That crap’s illegal. You can’t honestly believe—”

  “Leora.” His voice was suddenly stern. “The very meaning of secret is that it’s...secret. The Dragon’s Lair is a known group around here—they have a website, entry criteria, and so forth. It’s open only to male University of England students. They pick their members each year, said members are always from wealthy families. Always. They publish the names of some of their members, but not all of them.

  “But their meetings, and what is covered in them, is secret. They meet regularly, three times a year, always at an undisclosed location, always surrounded by military guards. It’s like being a member of a super elite country club—only a thousand times more powerful. It’s an Old Boys organization. And old friends rub each other’s backs.

  “Is there a judge in that group? We don’t know.

  “What I do know, is that Reginald Langford is indeed a member of The Dragon’s Lair, because his name was one of the few that was published on its website. And, as a result, he has tentacles into many parts of society. Will those tentacles reach out into this case? I hope not.

  “But I am now your lawyer, and I am simply giving you the facts so that you are prepared. I doubt it will be an open and shut case—the Old Money families care about one thing and one thing only: Pride. And you’ve insulted that pride.

  “Reginald Langford won’t take it lying down.”

  Now I was the one who swallowed. Only I couldn’t, because my mouth was too dry.

  -4-

  “Were there witnesses to her provocation?” Mike asked.

  “Witnesses?” I repeated.

  “Yes, witnesses. We still need to proceed as with any other case. And we’ll need to prove you were provoked.” He shifted his large spectacles.

  Kayla and I looked at each other, both having the same thought. We looked back at Mike. “So,” said Kayla, “it’s basically their word against ours?”

  “Basically.”

  “Maybe there were witnesses,” Kayla said. “But it’s college. And Bettina’s the Queen Bee.”

  Now there was a theory that made more sense to me than “secret societies” and shit!

  Mike stared at Kayla blankly, much like I’d stared at him when he’d spoken of this Dragon’s Lair or whatever. The white light above him gleamed discordantly off his bald spot. He didn’t seem to get the point we were making.

  “As in, she’s the ‘Queen’ of the school?” Kayla prompted.

  Still nothing.

  “In other words, the bitch is probably gonna give wet and slavering blowjobs to any of the guys so they can tell lies for her!”

  Mike loosened his tie some more, seemed to break out in another sheen of sweat. In his high-clas
s English, he said, “Leora, Kayla, this is not...” He cleared his throat. He smiled diffidently. “This is not...America—”

  “This has nothing to do with America!” Kayla’s hand went up in the air, frustrated. “This is universal! Girls have been assigning Queen Bees and pollen gatherers since the stone age! It’s what brings women together all over the world! Iraqi, American, British, it’s all the same shit, man!”

  Mike shifted back in his seat. He smiled nervously again. “Per—perhaps I should...review the case with...with...with Master Williams again.”

  He got up abruptly, gathered his things, stood. One paper fell. He picked it up. His spectacles almost fell. And then he practically ran out the room!

  I looked over at Kayla. “I think you scared him.”

  -5-

  We looked at the mirror in front of us. Kayla fondled her breasts and pretended to kiss at it. “Think anyone’s looking?” she asked me.

  “No, I don’t think so. We’re not that important in the grand scheme of things.”

  Kayla got up, went to the mirror, pressed her lips against it. She pushed her breasts up a little more.

  I couldn’t stop laughing.

  She turned to me. “Nothing’s happening with my wedding plans. Brad’s just not the romantic type. I’m thinking of eloping.” She leaned against the mirror, put her foot against the wall.

  “You bring this up now?”

  “What else are we gonna talk about?”

  “You guys set a date yet?” I asked.

  She pulled some gum from her jeans pocket, unwrapped it, popped it in her mouth, started chewing with her mouth open. “We were thinking of doing it with you and Conall. Y’know, like a mutual wedding thing.”

  “That sounds awesome. I’d love that!”

  “Have you guys started planning yours?”

  “I’ve been looking at magazines, nothing more,” I said.

  “Brad ain’t rich, baby. And even though Conall’s kept him on the same salary despite the fact that Brad has pretty much nothing left to do since Conall dropped all those investigations and Drug Lord Hunting and other hobbies—it still isn’t enough for a big bash.”

  “We could share—”

  She waved her hand at me. “Nah! I don’t want a fuckin big wedding. I’ve never been into that shit.” She looked down at her black grunge boots, dug her right toes into the ground. “I’m just glad, y’know, after all that happened...” She looked up at me.

  All that happened. Sure—that was her dad’s abuse; then her ex. Kayla had been through a lot.

  “Uh-huh?” I prompted.

  “I’m just...” She looked at one corner of the room.

  “What!”

  “Well, I’m glad I found Brad, OK!? I’m not good at this soppy first-world shit so give me a break!”

  All I wanted to do was give my girl a hug. I stretched out my arms to her from behind the metal table.

  She flopped a hand at me, chewed her gum loudly. “Nah, fuck that shit. We’re in a prison cell, goddamnit. And they’ve already called us dykes at school!”

  “This isn’t a prison cell!”

  “Might as well be!” She turned and started banging at the mirror. “Hey, fuckos! Call my mom and she’ll hook you guys up and we can all forget about this!”

  “Kay!” If Kayla told them what her mom does for, uhm, a “living,” they’d probably not only arrest us but kick us out the country to boot!

  Mike Stalward came back in. Smiling.

  “It seems...” He cleared his throat. “It seems Mizz Langford has negotiated dropping all charges on condition both of you leave the school!” He was excited, like this was some sort of victory or something!

  That bitch! Now it’s gonna look like she made us leave!

  “And,” Mike continued, “Master Williams said to me that, since you were both considering doing that anyway, well...”

  Mike looked at me, then Kayla, then me, then Kayla again, ever grinning, ever enthusiastic.

  Neither of us jumped for joy. His own smile eased off a little. That sheen of sweat on his shiny head became even shinier.

  “Bitch,” Kayla said.

  “You got that right,” I echoed.

  “I don’t understand,” he said.

  “We know you don’t, baby,” Kayla said. “And you don’t need to. Look, can we get out of this damn cell and go home? Seeing as she’s dropping the charges?”

  “You accept the proposal, then? Oh, and this is not a—”

  “I know it’s not a cell!” Kayla bellowed.

  “Yes,” Mike said, “you can go home. They’ll hold off on charging you for now. I just don’t comprehend. If that had been your plan all along—”

  Kayla pushed his roundness out the way. “Never mind, Mike. It’s not important.”

  She walked out.

  Mike might know all about law and believe the world is run by secret societies with their paws in every pocket. But he sure didn’t know shit about how things worked in the Girl World! Especially in college!

  -6-

  If I’d known then just how much Mike’s comments would be relative when my and Conall’s relationship would finally be torn so violently asunder, I would have paid more attention. The worst thing Conall and I would ever experience, was just around the corner. And neither of us saw it coming.

  It would hit us like a missile.

  And the explosion would leave shards of destruction lying everywhere.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  -1-

  A few days went by. Bettina was currently reigning supreme at UE because Kayla and I were nonetheless suspended. We had a little over a week to go before we’d have to go back to school—or not.

  We hadn’t yet mentioned anything to Dean Whithers about our plans.

  As far as Bettina was concerned, we’d left. She’d won the battle and was probably cursing up a libelous storm about my and Kayla’s departure. It stung a bit, knowing that she was doing it, but I was trying hard to keep things in perspective. I was trying hard to “be an adult” about the whole damn thing. Somehow, I don’t think it gets any better in the business world. The bitches continue being bitches, and the dicks just drive fancier cars—or get penis extensions.

  Kayla and I had made at least one friend at the college—Layla Rudemeyer. She was a real geek and wore thick glasses and had a tiny body. She spent most of her time behind an iPad or an Android tablet or some smartphone.

  But she was nice, a little shy.

  Anyway, she kept me and Kayla up to date on the bickerings at the school. It was true, Bettina was having a field day, spreading flaming rumors from everything to do with our illegitimate births to our sexual escapades, and even how we were secretly members (seventh-cousin removed) of the Bin Laden family!

  It crossed my mind that Bettina should be studying Journalism, not Fashion.

  I did keep up my schoolwork. Layla sent it over to us. I was still determined to follow my own way and start apprenticing with Carlo, but the whole Bettina thing had put a new spin on things. And I wanted to be prepared if we did decide to continue school. I just couldn’t stand the idea of being beaten by someone in such an underhanded way. The decision to leave school had been mine, and it had been an informed decision. I’d consulted my parents (OK, fine, I’d consulted my father, because I didn’t feel my mother was in any condition to give motherly advice in this regard.) I’d consulted my husband-to-be. I’d consulted my best friend.

  Most important of all, I’d consulted myself.

  I’d faced and accepted that, by whatever grace of good fortune, I’d grown up faster than the people I was studying with. And I believed deep within myself that I was making the right decision, just like I’d believed once upon a time that dropping everything and coming to England to give Conall a second chance had been the right decision.

  And it had been. Completely. Despite all indications to the contrary.

  I had simply known.

  I had that same feeling n
ow, that leaving school after the stunt Bettina pulled, was a wrong move. It was a point of self-preservation.

  I was in a major conflict: I believed it was right to leave school and follow my own way; but that I shouldn’t do it now.

  All these things were running through my head when Conall got a call from his father on Thursday night.

  Suddenly, they weren’t so important.

  Conall’s father is, to the this very day, still the scariest person I’ve ever had to deal with in my entire life. But the full brunt of his power, of his deception and subterfuge, was yet to hit me. All I knew at this stage is that he made me feel...a little uncomfortable.

  -2-

  I’d met Conall’s parents once before, after Conall and I had gotten engaged on that magical night in Switzerland with fireworks and all my friends and even my mom and dad there.

  After that trip, Conall had introduced me to his parents. It had been at a fancy restaurant in London where there are lots of extra forks and knives and the ambiance is so quiet you’re afraid to clang your cutlery around too loudly on your plate for fear of seeming “primitive.”

  Suffice it to say, I think I clanged my cutlery around too much.

  Edmond Williams, Conall’s father, a man who looks much older than he really is and who should probably pick up a few extra pounds to look healthier, said little to me that night. Conall’s mother said even less. I could see in her eyes the years of abuse of anti-depressants, perhaps maybe even alcohol.

  I knew that look.

  I had felt small that night. I had felt as if I were suddenly the interloper. Edmond Williams had made no efforts to make me feel welcome, to make me feel important, to make me feel a part of the family. I’m sure he thought I was a gold-digger, or a child. Or both.

  I’d kept my trap shut out of respect, because I knew he was the one who’d pulled strings to get me accepted into UE so late in the game.

  When Conall had mentioned that he and I were engaged, Edmond Williams had stopped his fork halfway to his mouth, looked at me, then suddenly continued chewing. His response was: “I see.”