Chapter 1
May 14, 2012
"Yeah, but dad—" Julian raises his hand, even though his father can't see the gesture. Or his expression, which is full of the annoyance he's trying not to let seep into his voice. His voice is all that matters right now since he's on the phone.
He pauses again, because he's been put on hold. For the third time this call. And the same elevator music is still playing. Classical music—a cheap rendition of Mozart or something. He grits his teeth and glares up at the sky, tries not to get mad and lose his cool. If he raises his voice, his dad will just hang up. Like he always does. And then nothing will be accomplished. He'll be stuck in this mess for the rest of his life. Something nags at him, and he closes his eyes and swallows. Not like it wasn't your fault.
Oh, it was definitely his fault. It's not like anyone forced him to go to that party, or to leave it with two drunk blonds and a couple adult beverages purchased with his fake ID. And it wasn't anyone else who had decided bragging about his bimmer would be a great idea. Kind of stupid of him, really, since he's already found out that his father's name just doesn't have the same impact out here with these small-time campus cops. The less power a person has, the more eager they are to use it, he thinks bitterly.
Click! As his father picks up the call again. "Sorry, Japan again. Now—I warned you, Julian. You're becoming a nightmare for me to manage, and especially your mother. And yourself."
"Dad—" Julian opens his eyes. "Let me—"
"No, you let me. We can't afford this kind of publicity. I'm running for congress next year, and you—"
"I fucking hate politics!" he bursts. "Please, for the love of god, let me—"
His father sighs. Julian can see it in his head; his father is rubbing his temples, like he's the world's biggest disappointment. "Here's what's going to happen," he says, in very precise, clipped words. There will be no further argument. "I will make a few phonecalls. You will keep this quiet. You will not act out again. You will graduate in two years, as planned, with your degree."
"I do plan to graduate!" Julian says desperately. "That's not a question! But not in polisci. This is killing me. I don't do well in this—"
"I won't pay for anything else," his father says calmly.
"Well, I can—" Julian swallows. "There's loans—"
"Good luck with that."
He grits his teeth. He knows that's not an option. The co-signer thing…neither of his parents would ever agree to 'signing away his future', as his mother so eloquently put it.
"This is the last I will hear of this, do you understand? You're playing with fire. I'm a very busy man and I don't have time for your childish behavior. Do you understand me?"
Julian takes a deep breath. "Yeah, okay," he says quietly.
A pause. "Good. Now get back to work and don't bother me again."
Click.
He looks at his phone and sees the familiar Call Ended message flashing. It says Duration 03:02, meaning minutes…a new record, considering often his parents just don't bother picking up. And that means they've instructed the servants to ignore his number as well.
Julian bashes his phone into the brick wall that he's sitting on, seething. It hadn't always been this way; just the last eight years or so. Since the evening of his twelfth birthday. He'd gone from being a well-loved younger child, doted upon by his hardworking parents…to the son of two incredibly wealthy business moguls…literally overnight. They don't have time to wipe their own asses now, let alone remember that he exists. They hire other people to do all that.
The part that really especially stings is that it had been so easy for them to stop loving him. Overnight. Which means that all of that before—twelve years of his life—had all been fake. He can't even rely on his happier memories. All he can do is dissect them over and over, racking his brain to try and remember what he did wrong.
Shaking his head, he shoves his phone back into the breast pocket of his Armani sports jacket and pushes himself off the wall he's been sitting on, then storms across the brick courtyard, practically trailing a cloud of smoke. He's pissed. So pissed that he doesn't even notice that the cheerleading practice has let out in the field near the wall. And he's been waiting for that because—
THUD!
"Watch where you're going!" he snaps automatically, then sees who it is. One of the cheerleaders—the really hot one, the one who his girlfriend hates, the one that he can't get out of his head, the one he really waits for every Wednesday afternoon—still in her all-white top and skirt, a duffle bag looped over one bare shoulder. She glares at him with a set of the prettiest green eyes he's ever seen. Fringed with long, thick, girlish eyelashes.
"No, you watch where you're going," she says, her upper lip curling. Her voice is low and smooth, very feminine.
He sneers in return. "I wasn't the one ogling the quarterback," he says, his tone full of meaning. He's seen her sneaking glances at the guy, and also knows that she hasn't said anything. That could change, quickly. "You know you can stop cheering for him once you leave the field, right?" He leans forward slightly. The glint of fear in her eyes and the sound of an apology might improve his mood. A little bit of surrender from the ice princess.
"Yes," she says, her tone flat. There is no glint of fear. No apology. "You do know that drinking and driving is illegal, right?"
Julian stares at her. There's no way the info has gone public yet, not since it happened just last night and he'd already gotten the family lawyer on the case…and the girls he was with are still in the drunk tank. No, for her to know this…she had to have overheard his conversation just now. "You're spying on me?!" he blurts, full of panic and fury.
She tilts her head. "Why would I waste my time on that?" she asks. Her expression is one of mild curiosity and vague repulsion. For an instant, he realizes what she sees him as: some kind of strange insect that she's never seen before.
"You keep your yap shut," he hisses at her. "Not one word, Kinney. If this leaks…I'll know it was you."
She arches her eyebrows. "I'll assume that Celeste doesn't know then?"
He shifts. Now he's nervous. Celeste is his pseudo-girlfriend. And Celeste can't keep a secret. Never in his worst nightmares would be consider telling her, not even if his life depended on it. Because his life does depend on keeping this quiet. If his moment of stupidity besmirched his father's campaign even in the slightest…
He remembers the note he'd seen on his father's desk that one day, and he shudders. The note from one of his business contacts. Just three words: taken care of. And a bloody thumb print.
"Don't you dare," he warns.
The corners of her lips turn up slightly. "I'm glad we could come to a mutual agreement."
He grits his teeth, for an instant hating her. But that's also why he can't stop thinking about her, isn't it? The challenge she presents, the thrills that only she can cause. No one else has ever managed to dig up dirt on him, not when his father pays about three million dollars a year to keep family secrets. He relaxes and nods slightly. "You going to be on the squad next term?" he asks.
She thinks for a moment. "I don't know. It's getting…boring."
"Boring?" He gazes at her, hypnotized. She's really pretty, with her long dark hair and flawlessly pale skin. He's never seen her tan, not one little bit. "What are you doing for Spring break?" he asks softly.
"Going home." She tilts her head again, adjusts her duffle bag strap. "And yourself?"
He blinks. He realizes he hasn't even thought about it yet. "I dunno. Go somewhere, I guess…Florida or Mexico, maybe." A moment passes, and then he blurts out: "We could do something together."
She stares at him for a moment, and then she snorts—in a muffled way, like she's trying not to laugh but really wants to. "I don't think so," she says.
Julian swallows, feeling his cheeks burn. Why the hell had he said something stupid like that? He'd butchered it. She looks to the side, and he follows her gaze and sees the quarterback she likes crossing the courtyard behind them. He feels even more embarrassed. "I was just—it was a joke," he says, trying to cover his tracks.
She looks at him again, her eyebrows arching. "Really?" she asks.
"Yeah." He pauses, looks away, and sees Celeste walking with the rest of the cheerleaders. He's about to head toward her, but then he stops and looks at Kinney again. "Why do you always walk alone?" he asks, struck by this thought.
She smiles at him slightly. "Would you walk with them?"
Julian feels it again, that strange hypnotic feeling that caused him to act like an idiot. She gives him a little wave and turns away, heads up the brick path toward main campus. He stands with his hands hanging uselessly at his sides until Celeste grabs one and begins to chatter loudly in his ear in her bright, chirpy voice.
…
He makes up a white lie to get out of dinner with Celeste, then heads for the school's dining hall. He pays in cash because he doesn't have a meal plan; why would he, when he can afford to eat at gourmet restaurants every night if he wants—and usually does? Tonight, however, he really doesn't feel like walking to town, since his driver's license no longer in his pocket. Besides, he knows Kinney eats in the hall. Their earlier encounter has stuck in his head all day and he's convinced himself that she felt something too. Her snort could have been one of surprise…or amusement, that they're both thinking the same thing. Anything but blunt rejection. That insect thing he thought of earlier…that's all in his head. It's got to be.
He has to talk to her, get her to admit it. Tell her how he feels. Yeah. He carries his slices of pizza and can of pop into the hall, looks around—and finally spots her, sitting off at the end of the hall, alone. Today's it. It's got to be now. Can't leave things like that.
She looks up at him and raises an eyebrow.
"Hi," he says, once he has reached the end of the table. He looks down at her, sees that she's eating a burger and fries. And that she's changed out of her high-necked uniform into a pink tank top that he can see down. Don't look, he warns himself, since she's staring right at him…but he can't help sneaking a peak.
"I'd prefer to eat alone," she says. In a blunt way, as if he's done something very stupid.
Julian sets down his tray. "I'd prefer a lot of things."
She continues to watch him as he sits down. He looks at his pizza for a moment, trying to think how to transition from small talk into…into what? Him blurting that he's crazy about her? That's too much. He needs to be diplomatic…make her think it's her idea, he tells himself, even as he sees her eyes flicker to the latest person to enter the room: her quarterback.
"So…what are you majoring in?" he asks. He knows already, of course, that Laura Kinney is extremely intelligent and is majoring in Biology, because Celeste told him all that when she was describing what a bitch this girl is. But even he knows that mentioning his current girlfriend to his intended one won't win him any favors.
"Biology," Laura says absently, her eyes still on the quarterback. "Genetics, specifically."
"Wow," he says, hoping he sounds surprised. "You must be really smart. I suck at science."
She doesn't look at him. "It's a matter of dedication."
He looks at the quarterback too, unable to help himself—and scowls. What does she see in him? Yeah, he's good looking: chiseled jaw, big muscles, killer tan…all that volunteer work…and so maybe he does major in physics. So what?
The quarterback looks their way very suddenly, and Julian's eyes widen in horror, because he's just been caught in the act of checking him out. Laura kicks his shin under the table and he tears his gaze away, feeling really especially stupid. "Dammit!" he hisses. His shin throbs.
"Why were you looking at him?" she demands in a whisper.
"Because you were!" he snaps back.
"That's not a good reason." She eyes him. "You've been acting weird lately."
Julian reaches down and rubs his shin. "What do you mean?"
"To begin with…this." She nods to his plate. "Didn't you insult me about my eating cafeteria food just last—"
"They hired new cooks." He shrugs and takes a bite, trying to act casual. It tastes like cardboard, and he makes a face despite himself. She gives him a knowing look.
"No, you're just trying to be near me," she says.
He swallows the lump of cardboard and puts the slice down. "That obvious, huh?"
Laura sighs, looks down, like he has asked her a difficult question. "Yes. You are very…obvious," she says in a serious tone. Too serious for him to write off. He straightens in his seat.
"Look…I know I haven't always been…" he trails off as she looks up at him expectantly. "Okay, I've been a douchenozzle to you a few times."
"More than a few times," she says coldly.
He smiles slightly. "You enjoyed it, though. Admit it."
Laura frowns. "Why would I enjoy being harassed?"
Julian's smile fades. "I didn't—it wasn't—you and I…we've always…it's mutual, you know? Like a game of…of something. I respect you."
"That comes as a surprise," she says. "Seeing as you've called me a whore several times now."
"That was—" he feels angry at himself. "I didn't mean it. You called me names too."
"No, I did not," Laura says.
"Yeah…" he straightens in his chair. "You've called me lots of stuff. Arrogant…idiotic…you said I was a slimebag, once."
"None of those are names," she says. "They are descriptors."
"Laura—" he hesitates, then reaches under the table and grabs her hand. It feels warm, and her skin feels soft as silk. "I'm sorry. You're really pretty…and I…well, I can't stop thinking about you no matter how hard I try."
She frowns. "What about Celeste?"
He shrugs. "She's not you."
Laura gazes at him, then shakes her head slowly. "I don't feel the same, Julian. I'm sorry."
He pauses. He'd sensed that it was coming, and yet he hadn't expected to feel such acute pain. "Why?" he asks, then nods to the other end of the table, to where the quarterback is now laughing with his friends. "Is it Mr. Football over there?"
Laura hesitates.
Julian leans forward. "So if he wasn't here…"
"Still no," she says. "I wouldn't want you if you were the last man on earth."
He blanches. "What?" he asks. This is completely out of left field. He'd expected rejection…but only partial rejection, based on her crush for the other guy. It's completely impossible that she doesn't feel anything for him, not even attraction. No. He swallows.
"W-why?" he finally manages.
Laura purses her lips, looks him in the eye. "You are selfish," she says. "You are unkind. Rude. Arrogant. Careless. Clumsy and disorganized. Physically inferior to the man I have chosen. And I dislike your appearance." She pauses. "Specifically your hair. I do not like males with longer hair."
"I…" Julian takes a few breaths, possibly in shock. "Are you serious? You…" he leans back in his chair, unsure of what's just happened. No one has ever given him such a brutal list of his flaws.
"There is more, but I believe that will suffice." She looks up at the end of the table, at the quarterback, and her eyes soften. "Please go away now."
He sits in place for a few moments. "Celeste is right about you," he says finally, his teeth gritted. "You're a bitch. A rotten, ugly bitch. You hear that?"
"I thought you said I was pretty," she says absently. Her eyes still on the quarterback.
"Psychotic to boot." He shoves his chair away from the table and stands up. He knows what he's going to do. He marches down toward the end of the table—he can hear Laura getting to her feet, probably in an attempt to stop him—but he's way ahead of her. "Hey, Jeffries!" he calls.
The quarterback looks up. "Keller?" he asks, clueless. They've spoken once or twice, at a party that Celeste dragged them both to.
"I'd watch out for that girl over there," he says, pointing at Laura, who is running toward them now. "Kind of crazy. Her name is Laura Kinney…did you know she did time in juvie? Stabbed her last boyfriend."
Jeffries looks up. "No shit," he says, having no reason not to believe him. The look of absolute horror on the girl's face only serves to back him up.
"Yeah," Julian says, fighting a smirk. "She just told me you're next. And you know something? After what Celeste told me…about her room being plastered with pictures of you…I think I'd watch my back around her."
He reaches out and pats the horrified Jeffries on the shoulder. "Good luck, man. Glad I'm not you."
He laughs all the way to his one-bedroom house. It's only when he gets into his silk-sheeted bed that the tears come, and no amount of banging his head against the headboard will keep them in.
