In Too Fast

by Mara Jacobs

  “Because the two people he wronged the most—Caroline by cheating on her, and you by denying you—will have forgiven him and be by his side during his campaign.”

  “Holy shit, Caroline is willing to do that?”

  I’d played my cards wrong, and just the tiniest tic at the corner of his eye alerted me to that fact.

  By jumping right to Caroline, it made him think that either I’d do it if Caroline would, or that I found Caroline’s involvement more shocking than the idea of helping myself, so maybe I’d be open to the idea.

  Damn. And he’d be right, too, if that was indeed what he thought. And it was. I was coming late to the party, but I learned the rules quickly.

  I always had.

  “I mean, not that I’m willing to…”

  He quirked a brow up at me. Yeah, he had me, and he knew that I knew he had me.

  I rolled my eyes (I wasn’t above it) at him. “Whatever. Seriously. Caroline is going to go out and stump for her slimeball ex-husband?”

  “She will make herself available as needed for the father of her children.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Okay, I get it now. She’ll toe the line so her kids’ father isn’t dragged through the dirt. Again.”

  “Something like that. And, of course, for their legacy.”

  “Doesn’t seem like Joey wants anything to do with that legacy. He’s hightailing it to Africa just to get away from it.”

  Grayson didn’t seem all too happy being reminded of that fact. “Yes, the timing of that trip is…unfortunate. As well as Betsy being in Europe. But we can spin it into something positive.”

  “Do-gooding runs in the family? Something like that?”

  “Jane, you do catch on quickly. It’s going to be a pleasure working with you on this.”

  “Whoa. Haven’t agreed to anything yet.”

  He quirked a brow again.

  “Or even begun discussing terms,” I added, which garnered me another smile. “Plus, the new semester starts next week.” Which, of course, he knew because of Lily. He only nodded. “I don’t want to miss school. I’m not going to leave school to get on some campaign bus or anything. I just want to clarify that right now, before we go any further in discussing this whole ludicrous idea.”

  “I can fix things at Bribury if you’re—”

  “It’s not that I’m afraid I’ll flunk freshman courses or anything. I just don’t want to…miss out.”

  He looked at me for a long while, and I looked away, not able to meet his eye. Not wanting him to see how much being Jane Winters at Bribury, where nobody had heard of me, meant to me.

  “We’ll do most of the prep work these next few months. Announce it. Have interviews done with you, and also Caroline, with friendly journalists. But we’ll keep you out of it as much as possible during the school year. During the summer is when we’ll use you.”

  Use me. Yep, that pretty much summed me up. I was used by my mother to try and catch my father. I was used by the opposing party to bring my father down. I was used by the press to sell magazines.

  Bribury was immune to all that, so far. I was smart enough to know I wouldn’t be able to outrun my parents forever, but longer than freshman year would have been nice.

  Okay, time to put on my big-girl panties and make the situation work to my advantage.

  Just as I was about to start negotiating in earnest, I saw a man walking along the edge of the dance floor that made me miss a step in the dance.

  “What’s Montrose doing here?” I asked, and Mr. Spaulding followed my line of vision.

  “Billy Montrose went to Brown with Betsy and Jason,” he explained.

  “Seriously? I didn’t see him at the wedding.”

  “Neither did I. I’m glad he made it to the reception,” Spaulding said.

  “Why?”

  “His star is a bit tarnished, but he was quite the storm in the literary world a few years ago.”

  “So there would be more ‘names’ here other than political ones, right?” I asked.

  “Doesn’t hurt.”

  I kind of knew Montrose had been a big deal when he’d first published, but how big of a deal could he have been if only some years later he was relegated to guest-teaching Intro to Creative Writing to freshmen at Bribury College?

  But damn, he was hot. And I’d had him in my sights since day one.

  “Okay,” I said to Spaulding. “I’ll think about it and get back to you. I’ll certainly have some requests for my participation.”

  The song was ending, and I kept watching Montrose move through the group of people at the edge of the dance floor. He stopped to shake hands with one of the groomsmen, another Brown crony.

  I broke away from Mr. Spaulding, intending to get Montrose to dance with me. It must be fate that he was at this wedding—an event I in no way wanted to attend. And I wasn’t his student anymore, so he couldn’t use that rebuff on me as he had the night I’d seen him at a club in Chesney last fall.

  And yes, it was not lost on me that this was exactly what my mother had probably done all those years ago—got my father in her sights and went in for the kill.

  Regardless, I would make my move.

  Chapter Five

  “Oh, lovely Jaybird all grown up. May I have this dance?” some old codger said to me as he stepped in my path.

  “Umm, I’m actually—”

  “She’d love to dance with you, Edgar,” my father said, from, like, out of nowhere. “Jane, you probably don’t remember Edgar Prescott. One of my oldest, and most trusted, advisors.”

  Didn’t remember him because surely I’d never met him. This being my “debut” into political society and all.

  “No. I’m sorry, I don’t recall.” I was about to throw some shade, but I could see Grayson watching me from a few feet away. Might as well show him I was capable of cooperation before the negotiations began. I stuck out my hand. “It’s a pleasure, sir. Are you enjoying yourself?”

  “I’d enjoy myself more if I could spin you around the dance floor, my dear.”

  Spaulding took a step forward at the same time my father all but pushed me at Prescott. “She’d be delighted, Edgar.”

  I caught Montrose looking at me. He didn’t seem surprised to see one of his students in a bridesmaid’s dress at his former classmates’ wedding.

  I smiled at him and he smiled back, then nodded toward my next dance partner. “Have fun,” he mouthed, and I stopped myself before mouthing back to him what I thought of that. He knew, though, and laughed.

  God, he was sexy in a rumpled, tragic-artist kind of way.

  “So, Mr. Prescott,” I said, as the old man took my hand in his surprisingly strong grip and led me to the far side of the dance floor, which was quickly filling up. “Are you enjoying yourself this evening?”

  He stopped at the far corner of the dance floor, almost to the doors that led to the now deserted kitchen.

  “It’s much better now that I can hold a beautiful girl in my arms,” he said, and slid an arm around my waist, lifting up the hand he still held and leading me in the dance.

  “That’s very sweet,” I said, giving him a good smile. Not my best smile, mind you—I still wasn’t sure just how powerful ol’ Edgar was, though my father’s happiness at me dancing with the old fart had been obvious.

  He looked around the floor, as did I. We were swallowed up by the dancers, unable to see to the group of people beyond the several couples who encircled us. He seemed pleased by that, and I felt a twinge of unease.

  “My God, but you’re something,” he said, looking down at me. He had to be late seventies or even eighties, but he was still an imposing figure. Not handsome…but imposing.

  “Umm…thanks,” I said, not really sure it was a compliment. And not really sure he was even directing it at me. He had a glassy look in his eye that made me think either he’d had too much to drink, or was thinking about someone—or some time—other than me. Or both. Either way, he made me start to feel a little unco
mfortable.

  He was a strong leader on the dance floor, and his grip was equally strong, despite the boniness of the fingers that clutched mine.

  He twirled me a couple of times and moved more quickly than I thought he was capable of, until we were off the dance floor and had actually passed through a set of swinging doors.

  I was reminded of all those historical romance novels and books where the dashing rogue steers the breathless debutante off the dance floor and out onto the balcony, offering her his jacket, and then leaning her over the balustrade for a passionate first kiss.

  Nowhere was it ever written that the old letch had yellowing teeth and sour breath that reeked of bourbon, and leered at the young lady like he wanted to violate her in all sorts of ways, some quite possibly illegal.

  Well, the leering part might have been in the movies I saw, but it was always reciprocated by the maiden. And it never felt this creepy.

  I quickly looked around, getting my bearings. He’d steered me to what looked like a hallway that led to maybe the kitchen or somewhere, but was totally deserted. There were a couple of closed doors along the hall and then a larger door at the end. I hoped to see some of the kitchen staff bustling about, but it became obvious that whatever this hallway had been used for earlier, it was no longer in play.

  “Sir, I think we should return to the reception. We can barely hear the music from here.” My mind was playing for time. Maybe the old coot just had bad eyesight and didn’t notice he’d wandered away, though the swinging door behind us should have been a good indicator.

  “We can make our own music,” he said. Seriously, he said that cheesy line. I couldn’t believe it.

  I was walking a fine line here. Obviously this guy was somebody important, or my dad wouldn’t have nearly pissed his pants with glee to have me dance with him. But political bigwig or not, I wasn’t going to get banged up against a hallway door with my bridesmaid’s dress hiked around my waist.

  At least not by this old perv. Now, if Montrose had been my dance partner…

  Edgar brought our clasped hands together, close to his chest. Which was fine, except it was apparently just an excuse for him to rub the back of his hand against my boob.

  A shiver of revulsion spread through me, and I tried to disengage, put some space between us. But he only followed me, then took me further, pinning me up against the wall. For somebody his age, he was surprisingly strong.

  All pretense of dancing had dropped, and he stared down at me with a look of contempt and desire. Still holding on to my hand, he now openly groped my boob, not even pretending it was a casual, mistaken brush.

  “Mr. Prescott, please,” I said, giving his shoulder a little push.

  A creepy-ass smile crossed his face. “Yes, that’s it. Beg me a little bit. I like that.” His voice was cold, unfeeling, and that revulsion turned to dread.

  “I’m only eighteen years old!” I didn’t mention that I’d be turning nineteen very soon. Most likely that would only hurt my case.

  “So, not jailbait. Jailbait. Jaybird. Sounds the same,” he said, chuckling like he’d just cracked the best joke in the world. I wanted to crack his head.

  “Jane. My name is Jane.”

  “I like Jaybird better,” he said as his other wrinkled hand slid off my hip and down to my butt. “It suits you,” he added as he squeezed. “God, you are one sexy girl.”

  “Emphasis on girl,” I said, and he squeezed again.

  Great, I get through this whole frickin’ weekend and now I had to make a scene ’cause some dirty old man had a few too many cocktails.

  “God, you have that same…whatever it is…that your mother had. No wonder Joe pissed it all away to get between her legs. I’ll bet you’re a real firecracker in bed.”

  This was bad.

  I knew I could yell for help, and I would if it got that far. But that would bring people through the doors from the dance floor, and who knew who would find us. God forbid it’d be someone with a camera. Which was just about everybody with a phone.

  I did not want to cause a scene, did not want any more attention on me than I’d already had today, but the old guy was strong and he was starting to push himself on me.

  His hand mauled my boob, and I had realized I was just going to have to take my chances with the rest of the reception guests and call for help when Edgar removed himself from my body.

  Or was removed, I realized, as I saw a flash of black tux, white shirt and hair lift Edgar off me and push him up against the opposing wall. The guy held Edgar there with a hand planted firmly and unrelentingly in the middle of Edgar’s chest.

  “You all right?” he said to me.

  I nodded, unable to speak. Speechless upon seeing whom it was who’d saved me…at least from public humiliation, if not from Edgar himself.

  “You?” I said, stunned to see my knight in shining armor.

  Chapter Six

  “Do you have any idea who I am?” Edgar Prescott said.

  “I couldn’t give a flying fuck. But if I had to guess, I’d say you were some old goat who had too much power for too many years and thought he could get away with just about anything,” Stick said.

  Stick. Unbelievable that this was the guy who was helping me out. He hated me. And he—

  “What are you even doing here?” I asked him. But skeevy old Edgar took that the wrong way.

  “You see? The young lady wishes you to leave us alone,” he said, and took a step back toward me.

  Stick swiftly moved in front of me, facing Edgar. “I think you’ve got it wrong, Gramps. Tell him, Jane.”

  I was about to give Edgar Prescott a scorching—blistering!—set down when something inside me twitched.

  “Mr. Prescott, Edgar. I really think it’s best if you return to the reception. Someone of your stature can’t be absent for long without people beginning to wonder why. And the last person you were dancing with was me. People will talk.”

  He waved this away, the movement making Stick’s back stiffen, as if readying for an attack. I put my hand out, resting it on the small of Stick’s back, silently telling him that I had this.

  “I’ve been dealing with these people my whole career—they will talk or not talk when I say so,” Edgar said. The arrogance of this guy.

  “Yes, of course,” I said, placating the old fart. “But there were also several members of the press here tonight, and photographers.”

  That did it. I didn’t know Edgar from Adam before tonight, but it was obvious by the look on his face that maybe the press did not ask “how high” when this guy said “jump.”

  I saw it the second that good sense—or maybe political self-preservation—prevailed and Edgar gave up on the idea of having Sweet Baby Jane up against the corridor wall.

  He straightened himself up, adjusting his bow tie and running his hands through his thinning combed-over hair.

  Just as he was taking a step back—again making Stick tense—Grayson Spaulding came through the same door that Edgar had propelled me through.

  Sharp man—he took the scene in, and in seconds had come to the rightful conclusion. He gave me a questioning look—if I was all right. I nodded. He took in Stick standing in front of me. Then he placed a hand on Edgar’s shoulder and said, “Edgar, the press would like to get a sound bite from you. Why don’t you honor them with one of your trademark bon mots?”

  Edgar was nodding as Grayson spoke, like he was coming up with the idea on his own. “If you’ll all excuse me,” he said with, like, this gentlemanly half-bow toward Stick and me. Like he hadn’t just been pawing me and trying to squeeze my boob.

  “Why you old—”

  I pulled on Stick’s tux jacket, cutting him off (and why was Stick in a tux?), then smoothed my hand on his back, making him stop before he pissed Edgar off and undid my and Grayson’s smoothing of the situation.

  He stopped what he was about to say, and even leaned back a little, into my hand. I kept it there. The heat of him radiated throu
gh his shirt and the heavy tux jacket. He felt solid and safe beneath my hand. But I knew that Stick was anything but safe.

  Edgar exited the corridor through a different door, which Grayson pointed him to, so that he’d reappear at the reception from a different direction than I would.

  I didn’t doubt for a moment that Grayson had this place totally wired for every side door entrance and exit. And honestly, I wasn’t surprised that he’d come to find Edgar and me.

  But Stick had gotten to me first.

  “What are you doing here?” I said softly to his back, my hand still on him.

  He started to turn to face me, but Grayson stepped toward us, causing Stick to stand at attention in front of me again.

  Stick didn’t know Grayson Spaulding. To him, Grayson could just be another political horndog come to take his turn with me.

  It was kind of sweet, really. In a most fucked-up way.

  “Stick. Grayson Spaulding,” he said, holding his hand out for Stick to shake, which he did. Stick didn’t step away from me, though, and I found I liked that. My hand, like it had a mind of its own, absently smoothed up and down his long back. I watched, almost hypnotized, as my pale hand brushed along the black tux.

  “It’s good to finally meet you in person,” Grayson was saying to Stick after they shook hands. Stick only nodded in return.

  And that broke the spell that had been woven over me. My hand dropped from Stick’s back, and the loss of contact had him turning to me, but also facing Grayson, forming an odd little triangle.

  “Jane, you’re okay?” Grayson asked. Well, not exactly asked. There was a question mark at the end of it, but his tone was one of…confirmation. Like he was congratulating himself for being right about me. That I could handle myself. As if letting me dance with that old letch had been okay.

  Although it had been my father that had gleefully handed me over to Edgar Prescott. Grayson had taken a step toward us…to stop it?

  “You knew he’d try something, didn’t you?” There was some accusation in my voice, but like him, it was mostly about confirmation.