by Gina Azzi
Mere moments later, I'm tucked under his arm as he pulls me closer and leads me into the gala.
"What the hell was that?" I ask the moment we clear the doors. I have to restrain myself from dragging the back of my hand across my lips to erase the lingering taste of his stuffy cologne and expensive aftershave. Or slapping him across the face.
"I had to deflect," he says, his eyes glinting at me...in anger? "Why the hell did you come with me if you can barely walk? Do you know how that looks?"
My mouth drops open as I stare at him dumbfounded.
"If you remember correctly, I didn't even want to come tonight. Especially with you."
He tugs my hand impatiently, moving us into a corner and out of the direct flow of traffic. Mutual acquaintances wave as they pass, calling out generic greetings that lack warmth and thought.
"Taylor, I don’t have time for your antics. Just don't embarrass me tonight. I'm speaking with Dr. Harper and your father and I need his support, not to mention his capital, for a project I'm pitching. Tonight, stand by my side, or stay seated, but for God's sake, don't move around where people can see how you're limping like some gimp."
"I—"
"Enough," he growls, his voice so low I strain to hear it. His eyes are black and swirling with emotions too dangerous to delve into. "Just do what I say and your father can have his photo in the paper. Be thankful. At least people will think someone real, one of Savannah's best, still finds you desirable. At this rate, that's your only hope." He turns toward the gala and takes my hand roughly in his, placing it on his arm. "Now smile."
I bite back the retort sticking in my throat and swallow the tears surging forward.
I smile.
Because on some terribly painful level, I have too much pride to cause a scene. I know how it would play out. Taylor Clarke, Emotional and Irrational Months After Career-Altering Car Accident. Taylor Clarke, Desperate as Daddy’s Company Sinks. Taylor Clarke, Out-of-Control at Charity Event.
Swallowing my anger, I vow to shine tonight. Limp be damned, I will converse and dance and drink with the best of them. And tonight, after I wash off my makeup and crawl into my bed, I won’t ever socialize with Barrington Wade again.
That thought makes my smile turn genuine and I wave to an acquaintance by the bar.
If Barrington Wade thinks my only hope now, in a family like mine, in a society like ours, is to marry well, then he’s delusional. I don’t need him or anyone else. I have my own brand and I’ll be damned if I need to rub elbows with men like him to give that brand value.
That thought cheers me up and I snag the arm of another one of Savannah’s eligible bachelors for a dance, ignoring the pain in my leg, and Barrington’s cold stare between my shoulder blades.
Dinner seated next to Barrington is one of the longest meals of my life. I once sat in freezing ice water for fifty minutes with my hands poised overhead and my neck at an awkward angle with a snake hovering nearby for a photoshoot. That experience was better than this.
"Taylor, smile. You look like someone is holding a gun to your head," he chastises me in between the salad course and the entree.
“Is that all?” I ask, clenching my teeth.
"Sit up straight, you look like a hunchback," he mutters under his breath before dessert arrives. "And don't even think about the chocolate mousse."
I order the chocolate mousse and the New York cheesecake.
When Dr. Harper passes our table and asks for a dance, I’m desperate to decline the invitation. I don’t even make eye contact with Barrington because I know he’ll push me into the inviting doctor’s arms. But I’m exhausted. My earlier dances, motivated by spite, have taken their toll on my leg and I feel weak, unsteady. Pain blazes up my leg into my thigh and I have to swallow back tears as I place my hand in Dr. Harper’s. This is why I came tonight. To help Daddy, to help my family. After this, I’m done with these stupid events and Clarke image re-branding. So I’ll push through the pain and go out on a high note, knowing I did everything I could to help Daddy save Clarke Enterprises.
After two waltzes, my foot is numb and my leg throbs. Exhaustion sweeps through my limbs, and I almost hope I just pass out so the night can at least end for me.
"Hi love." Isabella sits on the chair next to me after my dances with Dr. Harper.
Barrington is a few tables away, schmoozing. It's disgusting to watch, and I'm grateful for the distraction Isabella provides.
"How are you, Izzy?" I ask, using her childhood nickname.
She wrinkles her nose, not realizing I mean it more as a term of endearment than a poke at our past. "Fine. You?" Her voice is chillier than it was moments before, and the fatigue settles deeper in my bones.
"I'm well, thanks. Healing, the entire process is taking longer than I—"
"Oh, there's Joyce. Joyce!" she calls out, waving to a girl we graduated high school with.
Joyce Grilla, dressed in buttercup yellow, her dark hair curled and pinned back delicately, turns slowly, her hand lifting in a wave when she spots us.
"Isabella, Taylor." She calls out, walking over to our table and pressing kisses to our cheeks. She slides onto the chair next to Isabella. "How are you girls?"
"We're wonderful. How are you, love? Isn't tonight's event just divine? And you arriving with Leo Santini! He's quite a catch." Isabella launches into a story about her first meeting with Leo, and Joyce laughs at all the right moments.
I settle back in my chair, watching their exchange, studying their body language and facial expressions. Two girls I've grown up with and known for so many years, and yet, it's like I don't know anything about them at all.
Here we sit, our gazes turning toward the man being discussed, the gown being dissected, or the victims of whatever scandal being rehashed. But what do Isabella and Joyce really want? What are they passionate about? What keeps them up at night, thinking and hoping and wondering?
"Leo looks positively gorgeous in that tuxedo."
"I know, right? I just bought him custom Berluti shoes. It's our one-month anniversary."
"Oh, my God! Already? You guys are so in sync, it's like you've been together for ages."
"Aw, you're so sweet."
I blink slowly, absorbing the words and the meaning behind them. They, like me, have been groomed to expect marriage to an eligible man as the pinnacle of life. However, unlike me, they’ve accepted this outlook. It’s so depressing and out of touch with reality, I want to faceplant into Isabella’s untouched tiramisu.
"I better go. I see Leo looking for me. Taylor, I'm so happy to see you here. You look wonderful."
"Thank you, Joyce. Have a lovely evening." I watch as she hurries back to her boyfriend.
"Ugh, she's so boring. Leo could do so much better." Isabella tosses down a linen napkin and waves her hand to catch the eye of a waiter.
Her words slam into me, and I cut my gaze to her sharply. She takes a sip from the champagne flute a waiter places in her hand and grins at me, her eyes glinting with mischief.
I used to see that look and nod, feeling like she and I were partners-in-crime, about to perform some type of prank or sneak out with our purses weighed down with liquor to borrow one of the boys’ boats and go joyriding. Together, we were the embodiment of the model reputation: wild, thrill-seeking, live-in-the-moment girls who were always dressed correctly and seen at the right parties.
But now, we're too old to be acting like that, to be talking so harshly about our peers.
Now, I have a scar and a limp and a different outlook.
Now, her words sound callous.
Now, I see her and feel sadness. And pity.
I no longer want to be viewed as Isabella’s bestie or confidante. I don’t want these shallow parameters of society to be my life. I want to be challenged and inspired. I’d like to give back and feel like I’m making a difference, or at least having an impact on someone’s life. I’d like to do something different, something more, than what everyone expects fro
m me.
Tonight, after the gala, after I pull all the pins from my hair and scrub the makeup off my face, I vow to search for university education programs. To begin formulating a plan for my post-modeling career. Just because I didn’t major in education the first time around, doesn’t mean I can’t earn the college degree I truly want.
13
Carter
"You've gotta get a life," I tell my sister the next morning over breakfast as she devours a column in the newspaper.
Denver snorts from his usual position at the stove, cooking up some egg white omelets for breakfast. We were fine with just scrambled until Jax came back from Iraq and tried to turn us all into health nuts. With the exception of these ridiculous sandwiches with potato chips that he likes to make, he's been trying to rope all of us into his new, healthy, clean eating lifestyle.
Denver slides a plate in front of Jax's barstool on the island, and Jax picks up his fork. "Thanks, man."
"You know, we used to be just fine with scrambled eggs," I point out to Denver.
Jax narrows his eyes at me. "Egg whites are healthier."
"Just because you're not on active duty anymore and are getting fat—"
"I'm not getting fat."
Daisy rolls her eyes.
"I'm not," Jax exclaims.
Denver catches my eye over his head, and we exchange a look. Now that Jax is back, I forgot how much fun messing with him is.
"What?" Jax asks, turning to look at Denver.
"You're too easy, man," Den says in that casual way of his. "We're just fucking with you. You wanna watch your figure for your bikini this summer, who are we to judge?"
"Fuck off."
Denver and I laugh as Daisy places a hand on Jax's shoulder. Because it's her, he doesn't shrug her off, and she offers him a small squeeze. Then she swipes the toast off his plate and bites into it. "You could forgo the carbs."
At this, even Jax manages a chuckle.
Daisy tosses the newspaper she was reading on the island between Jax and I.
"What're you trying to educate us on now?" I ask her, glancing over at the newspaper.
"It's really not that difficult to stay aware of current events."
But I'm barely listening because there, right in front of me in black and white, is Taylor. She looks beautiful and stunning and completely untouchable.
Then I notice the man standing beside her, his hand wrapped around her hip possessively, his eyes trained on her as he speaks into her ear. I see him, and I feel my hand clench into a fist as my stomach roils. It’s the guy from the accident. The one driving the Lamborghini. Is he her boyfriend?
My eyes shift right where another photo of them jumps out at me. He's kissing her. She's arched in a low dip as the upper part of his body settles over her, and his lips press against hers. The newspaper crinkles between my fingers, and Daisy looks up, her forehead wrinkling in confusion.
She looks over my shoulder and smirks. "All okay? Since when does the gossip column and not baseball stats piss you off?"
I shake my head, feigning confusion. "Sorry. Just remembered something I have to do. I'll catch you guys later." I push away from the island. "You'll eat my eggs, right Dais?"
She nods, peering at me curiously again.
I push out of the kitchen door and into the living room before my brothers can lay into me with the third degree. My fingers feel twitchy, and an unease I can't explain ripples through my stomach. She looked beautiful. Absolutely breathtaking. But the guy next to her, he was in a league I'll never even have access to. Expensive, custom-tailored tuxedo, a watch that probably costs more than Daisy's four years of tuition, hair that doesn't fall out of place no matter the weather.
And, they were kissing. Except it was all wrong. Her body was stiff against his, unyielding. The fingers he placed on her cheek looked like he was forcing her to turn toward him while she fought against his grasp.
Who the fuck is this guy? Is that her boyfriend? Or worse, her fiancé? My heart gallops in my chest and my stomach flops, the green smoothie Jax made me drink after our run this morning threatening to come back up.
Taylor Clarke is involved with another guy. She has someone. Someone who I can tell, even at a cursory glance, isn’t good enough for her. But is that the type of guy she’s attracted to?
Glancing down, I take in my ripped jeans and plain white T-shirt. Yeah, I'm definitely not the type of guy Taylor Clarke should even be seen with, never mind go on a date with. Guys like me shouldn't mix with girls like her. When we do, it usually ends in disaster.
Or starts that way.
"Little man," I call out to Marco as he lopes toward me, his baseball cap on backward.
"You're early." He sounds surprised.
"Didn't wanna leave you hanging." I toss him the baseball I'm holding.
"You wanna go to the park?" His eyes light up, and a part of my heart breaks at his hopeful expression over something so simple as going to the park to toss around an old baseball. In the sweltering heat.
But I get it. It wasn't that long ago I remember sitting by the back door, patiently waiting for my dad to even look in my direction, so we could toss around a baseball. He never had time for that, though. Even when Mom was in the midst of her chemotherapy treatments, or Daisy was crying because she was hungry.
He never had time for any of us.
Only Denver. Until Den wouldn't do what he wanted.
And then he set his sights on me.
If only I told him to go screw himself.
But I would never do anything to jeopardize my sister. And with the MC sniffing around, trying to lay claim to her, I had to step in. He knew it; he probably planned it that way.
Staring into the warm brown eyes of Marco, the wariness in them decreasing each time I see him, I already know I won't do anything to jeopardize him losing that brief flicker of hope for the hardness of being jaded and skeptical.
"Yeah, man. That's why I'm here."
"You don't want to check anything on your phone or something?" he asks, his face slipping momentarily as if the thought is unsettling.
"Nope. Just wanna play some ball. And if you're up for it tomorrow, you can join my buddies and me at the park for a game."
A huge smile crosses his face, and I can't help but grin back. Kids are so resilient. Adults should try harder to be like them.
"Cool."
"Let's go." I nod toward the direction of the park, and he falls in step beside me.
"So, Ms. Taylor," I say, clearing my throat, suddenly nervous, which is ridiculous since I've never been nervous around a girl in my life, never mind talking about one. To an eleven-year-old, no less.
Marco shoots me some speculative side-eye.
"I saw her in the paper," I admit, deciding to just be straight with this little dude.
"You read the gossip column?" His eyes widen in surprise, and he snickers under his breath.
I shove into his shoulder lightly. "My sister had it open on the table."
"Mm-hmm."
I snort. Little man's got jokes.
"And?" he asks.
"Is she dating that guy, the one with—"
"Barrington Wade." Marco makes a face and points a finger down his throat as if he's barfing. He clearly doesn't like him either.
"What do you know about him?" We take a right on Tulip Tree Lane.
"Just what Ria mentions."
"Which is...?"
"He's a douche."
I choke, his words hitting me so unexpectedly I'm not sure how to react.
"What is a douche, anyway?" He looks up at me again, his nose wrinkling like he knows the word is bad, but isn't sure how.
I bite back my laugh, unsure of what to say. But Marco's my dude and honestly, nothing can be worse than trying to convince Daisy she wasn't dying the first time she got her period. "Literally, it's something girls do to wash their, you know." I raise my eyebrows at him, and his face takes on an odd sheen of sweat as he pretends to stick
his finger down his throat and barf again. "Figuratively, it's a guy who's a real asshole."
A flash of surprise passes over his face at my profanity, but then he nods. "Thought so."
"So, Ms. Taylor's dating this dou—Barrington?"
Marco shrugs. "I'm not sure. But she does go to a lot of fancy parties with him and gets her picture taken for the paper."
I blow out a deep breath, mulling this over. I'm not sure how things run in the world of Taylor Clarke but going to loads of fancy parties sounds like dating to me.
"You like Ms. Taylor?" Marco squints up at me, shading his eyes from the sun, so he can read my expression.
I swallow thickly before nodding.
"Thought so."
"You think a lot of things, don't you?"
He shrugs. "I see a lot of things people don't think I notice."
"Like what?"
"Like how Ms. Taylor's cheeks turn pink when she sees you. And that Ria makes a mean face. Like when you took us for ice cream."
I chuckle at that. Ria is tough as nails.
"Just be nice to her, and don't make her cry."
"Taylor?"
Marco nods seriously. "She's the best girl I know and if you make her cry, I'll have to punch you in the throat."
I bite my lip again to hold back my laughter, noting the seriousness in his tone. Good for him. For some strange reason, it makes me proud that Marco isn't scared to stand up to anyone. And that he would gladly do so to defend his Ms. Taylor.
"That sounds fair." We enter the park, and I'm grateful for the shade provided by some of the big oak trees.
"You go there." Marco points to a spot in the outfield as he jogs over to his place. "I'm going to burn your glove!"
"Bring it, little man." I hold my glove up and he throws a crisp, clean pass that packs more heat than I thought he had in him.
Not that I'll let him know that.
At least, not yet.
Marco and I guzzle down the water bottles I got us from the vending machine by the snack counter, which is closed now since there aren’t any games until evening.