The Debutante

by Magnolia Mason

  The Debutante

  Magnolia Mason

  Copyright © 2017 by Magnolia Mason

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Preview

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Preview

  “You.”

  He whispered that one little word, and everything in the world was forgotten. He kissed my hair and neck as he held me, as he enveloped me with his loving embrace. I forgot all about my makeup and hair, my squishy tummy and unwashed body. “You’re a dream.”

  His prickly five o’clock shadow rasped my cheek as he moved to kiss me. It felt deliciously painful on my sensitive skin. Our eyes locked at the same time our lips did, and I felt myself falling into oblivion.

  Heat and softness, strength and weakness all mingled inside me as I melted against him. I could be strong for him, and vulnerable. I could be anything. He made everything possible.

  “Jack…” I whispered into his mouth as his kisses turned ferocious, as he guided me backward toward the unmade bed, pulling off my flannel shirt. “Jack…”

  I was naked, exposed in the clear light of morning. And I didn’t care. I wanted him to see me, all of me, every little flaw I hated. All those dumb things I despised about myself were burned away in the fire of his kisses and the hunger of his embrace. There was urgency in how he ripped the buckle from his belt and unleashed his desire…

  Chapter 1

  “Cassy? Are you in there, honey?”

  My mom tapped her French-manicured nails on the door as she called in. I always hated that sound. It meant no privacy. Never a moment’s peace. But, I guess that’s to be expected if you still live at home.

  “You know I am, mother,” I called back with a sigh as I leaned in and looked at myself in the mirror. A zit was welling up on my cheek.

  Of course I’d get a zit on the day of my coming out, I thought with a grimace as I dabbed cream on it. Jeez, you’re twenty years old! You’re not supposed to get zits anymore!

  “Cassy, honey, the Baxters will be here in a half hour. You need to be ready to go. You hear me?”

  “I know, mother. Just give me a minute or two alone, would you?”

  “Cassidy Peterson, do not sass me like that. I will not have it. If you don’t get the lead out and get dressed, I’m going to get your daddy and he’ll give you a whippin’!”

  It’s amazing how quickly my mother can shift gears from sweet as tupelo honey to stinging as a wasp. I rolled my eyes and sighed.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be right down. I just need to clean up. Okay?”

  She was already gone. Her heels clicked down the stairs and into the foyer, sharp and hard. I pinned up my hair and let my robe drop around my feet, then took a good long look at myself in the mirror.

  “Go on, girl. Look what you’ve done.”

  I stretched my hands over my tummy as I turned back and forth, trying to flatten out the little pooch I had under my belly button. Potato chips and sweet tea, that’s what did it. If I couldn’t zip up my dress, my mother would throw a fit.

  “Hell,” I sighed as I turned the tap and filled the tub with steaming hot water.

  I couldn’t believe my mother was making me do such an antiquated, old fashioned thing as a coming-out party. Looking at myself in the mirror, I didn’t see a debutante but a slightly chubby girl with eyebrows that needed plucking.

  I begged her to not make me go, but mother wouldn’t have it. She pleaded her case in her sweet Southern accent, imploring me not to forget all the women who went before me, who wore the white dresses and danced with all the most eligible young men.

  That’s how we got where we are today, Cassy. That’s how we became Petersons, she’d said.

  We’re rich, in case you were wondering, but it wasn’t always so. My mother considers her crowning glory the day Conrad Peterson slipped that four-karat blue diamond onto her ring finger, not the day her daughter was born. The day she went from an old blood, no money Tully to a posh Peterson living in the big house.

  You see, she was a debutante like me, but she’d married young and for love, and she soon found out that the younger son, whom she’d married, wouldn’t be inheriting the house on the river. I was born to her and a daddy I never knew, the younger Tully who brewed moonshine in the woods to help fund his race horses. When my real daddy died, she tried to replace him with Jack Jolivet. He was a mechanic—an absurdly hot but unambitious guy she’d been eyeing for ages.

  You see, my mother always had a thing for bad boys. My grandparents weren’t having it. They told her to get serious or forget about her inheritance. That was the final nail in that coffin. When the haze of lust lifted, she realized the error of her ways. She dumped Jack and took up with Mr. Conrad Peterson, the wealthy and connected widower.

  Her debutante roots had won out.

  Mr. Peterson was a nice man, he really was. He took care of us and doted on me. Everything was sweet and nice and homelike, but it wasn’t what I wanted for myself. I didn’t want anything to do with it. I just wanted to go to college, to study library science and surround myself with books. I didn’t want to worry every second of every day if my hair was on point or my lips were perfectly pink—my mother did, and she was never happy. Well, almost never. I saw her smile once when her chief rival, Liz Baxter, broke a heel in front of the Piggly Wiggly. Other than that, she lived in a world of wrinkle cream, jazzercise and grapefruit for breakfast.

  No, thank you very much.

  I sank into the water and let it swallow me up as thoughts of my future—immediate and advanced—swirled around in my head.

  Hot baths have always been my favorite thing. Soaking in some hot, scented water was the girliest thing I ever did. I pushed handfuls of water over my body and closed my eyes, pushing all thoughts from my mind and enjoying the brief moment of peace and quiet before the madness started.

  The only thing I looked forward to about the debutante ball was seeing Cash Jackson. Honestly, if he wasn’t going to be there, I would probably just run away from home to avoid the whole mess. He was hot—and, I mean, drop dead gorgeous. But he was also way out of my league.

  The first time I saw him was in middle school, years and years ago. He’d emerged from the pool, tanned and fit and gorgeous. Water dripped all down his chest and abs. All the girls watched him. All the girls wanted him. I stared at him like some dumb animal, agog as he whipped the pool water from his hair and grabbed a towel. I took the image of him all shirtless and glistening home with me and put it to use. Many, many, many times. I longed for the day he’d be between my legs…

  I slipped my hand down and rested it lightly between my legs, trailing my fingers back and forth across my bikini line. It was too late to start something, but I couldn’t help it.

  All day long, my nervous energy had twisted inside me, tightening like a fist, making the pressure between my legs get stronger and stronger. I couldn’t ignore i
t anymore. With one final look at the door to make sure it was locked, I slipped my fingers a little deeper…

  I’d learned all about how to touch myself from a book at my best friend’s house. It was an old paperback from the 70s, a manual for the sexual revolution. I’d memorized every page of it. And I’d practiced. Again and again, every day. I imagined Cash every time… well, almost every time. Sometimes I’d see someone else—oh, god, it’s embarrassing. If I tell you, will you promise not to tell? Sometimes, just sometimes, I’d see Jack… my mom’s old boyfriend. He was so big and strong and gorgeous. His fingers were all calloused and he was bronzed from working in the sun. Not the sort of man a girl of my class should be thinking about, my mother’d say. Also, obviously, he was off-limits in other ways. But since when did I pay attention to things like that?

  The water sloshed around the tub as my hand moved a little faster. I imagined Cash’s lips exploring my body, taking my nipple in his mouth, sucking it gently as he slipped inside me, filling me up. I gasped as the first little foreshock rocked me. The image changed, it flickered and it was Jack driving into me as I was pinned to the wall. I let the image stay, mulling it over in my mind as I rubbed myself a little softer. A little slower.

  Yes, yes, yes, I mouthed into the humid little room.

  Hot, sticky juices escaped from me, coating my fingers as my back arched out of the water. I imagined him there, between my legs, growling like a beast and gripping my hair as I started to spill over the edge… the pleasure came suddenly. Violently. Biting my lip to keep quiet. The orgasm sparkled through my mind like a firework, blinding me for a second.

  “Cassidy Lucretia Peterson, get your ass in gear. They will be here at any moment.”

  My mother spoke as if there were a period after each word. Losing her fluid, languid way of speaking was the closest she ever got to shouting. She ripped me from my fantasy, back to a reality of humid air and impending doom.

  “I’m coming,” I shouted back. My voice was all thick in my throat. I climbed from the tub on shaky legs and dried off, then coated myself in lotion and dabbed some scent on my neck.

  The stretchy lace shaper and bustier lifted my breasts up high and nipped in my waist, which was a blessing considering the paunch I carried around my middle. The dress was heavy and white, tea-length with a tulle skirt. It hugged my waist and flattered my chest, the princess neckline framing my face. I breathed a sigh of relief when the zipper closed. In fifteen minutes, I was dressed and my hair was coiffed to perfection. My makeup was subtle but nice—pink lips, pink cheeks, black mascara. Even my mother couldn’t complain.

  I took one last look in the mirror. My body still had that loose, glowing feeling I always got after touching myself. I hoped it wouldn’t be too obvious to the guests downstairs. I hoped they wouldn’t know I was thinking about my mother’s ex-boyfriend. I cringed a little and grabbed my handbag before heading out onto the landing.

  Downstairs, I heard laughter and the clinking of glasses. The Baxters had arrived.

  Lord have mercy, I thought as I stood at the top of the stairs and took a deep breath. Here goes nothing.

  “Well, look who’s decided to join us.”

  My mother’s voice was dangerously sweet as I came into view, although it looked like she’d been sucking on a lemon. She and Liz Baxter, my daddy and grandma and a half dozen other relations all stood around in the parlor as I made my way down the stairs.

  Murmurs of ‘Oh, doesn’t she look stunning!’ and ‘Boy howdy, she cleans up nice.’ filled the air. The words themselves were nice, but there was a little poison in the honey. They were all just so surprised that I could look like a lady. To be fair, I can’t blame them for being surprised. The closest I ever got to being dressed up was when I’d wear shoes without laces.

  “Thank you all for coming,” I uttered. I’d memorized the script my mother had given me, and the graceful hand movements. My mom mouthed the words along with me, as if I was a first grader at a school play. I cannot tell you how pissed off that made me. “I’m just so pleased you all could make it.” I paused and added: “Shall we shag ass to the ballroom?”

  “Cassidy!” My mother hissed with a look of utter shock on her face. My step-daddy and the other men all laughed into their Sazeracs while the women gasped and blushed.

  My grandma, bless her, favored me with a smile. she hadn’t heard a thing.

  Chapter 2

  Blue sky, red dirt and a tangle of lush green blurred past as we drove to the debutante ball. We went down the empty streets of Buford, my hometown, and along county roads lined with ancient oaks smothered in moss, past placid green swamps filled with cypress trees and through a cane field or two.

  The day’d been hot and it was set to get hotter before the sun went down, a sort of last hurrah that I knew would ruin my hair and makeup. I shifted and squirmed in my huge, white dress, fighting with the boning in the bodice. It dug in, stabbing me in the ribs.

  “Don’t fidget, Cassy. You’ll wrinkle it.” She tsked and looked out the window, shaking her head. “I swear, child, you are the same now as you were when you were five years old. Next thing you know, I’ll catch you running buck naked through the sprinklers in front of the Governor’s Mansion.”

  “Sorry, mother.” I laid my hands meekly on my lap and stared out the window. It’ll all be over soon. It’ll all be over soon, I chanted in my mind as we zipped along a country lane. It’ll all be over soon and you can go home and finish reading Northanger Abbey.

  The ball was held at what is locally called the Governor’s Mansion. It wasn’t actually the governor’s mansion, it was just an Antebellum monstrosity of white pillars and marble sinking into the swamp at the edge of an old country estate. You could see it from miles off. I watched it get bigger and bigger until it loomed up over us like an iceberg.

  The car slid along the circular drive before braking beneath a massive, spreading magnolia tree smothered in creamy white blossoms. Men in white gloves and evening jackets lifted me from the posh, air-conditioned interior of the car and into the languid heat of the outdoors before ushering me into the mansion.

  “Right this way,” said one of the men as he guided me hastily into an impossibly huge ballroom, where I joined a gaggle of giggling, empty-headed girls in white.

  My sisters in society, I realized with a certain flavor of horror as I took in the glossy-haired, heavy-lashed group. We were all coming out together, bound forever in that antiquated tradition.

  There was oohing and awing, whispers and sips off hidden flasks. One or two girls practiced their dance steps while others stood back, awkward and silent as the whole thing commenced. It happened so fast that there was hardly time to get nervous. There was dancing and processions, speeches and tears. The whole thing went by in a kaleidoscope haze guided by a leggy redhead in a glinting red dress named Jolene D’Hauterive, the queen of local high society.

  “Girls. Now, girls, line up… line up,” was her refrain as she attempted to wrangle us into position. Poor woman; it was like herding cats.

  I barely had time to catch my breath before I was crushed in a group hug. The smell of a hundred different types of perfume all mingling in the humid air made my eyes water, which was just as well because half the girls were crying their eyes out for happiness and exhaustion and weeks of starving themselves to look their thinnest for the cameras.

  Desperately, I searched the room for a way out. It was all too much. I was exhausted. I was uncomfortable. I was done.

  Then Cash showed up. My eyes fixed onto him as he entered the ballroom and everything else faded. He was the center of my world for a brief instance. Everything in the room spun around him as if he was the sun and we were all minor planets in his orbit.

  A hundred other girls snapped their heads in his direction, honing in on him like heat-seeking missiles. He seemed to know it, too. How could he not? To them, he was the main course, but to him they were his buffet. He was making his choices before he filled up h
is plate.

  His eyes scanned the room, a cocky half-smile on his lips. When his gaze landed on me, I trembled. My heart was beating so hard it nearly broke the stays in my corseted bodice.

  Conrad, my step-daddy, sidled up and set his hand on my shoulder as I stood on the byline with a glass of punch weeping into my silk glove. I smiled at him and his flushed face and shiny bald head.

  He followed my gaze and raised his glass, nodding toward the dark-haired boy taking a girl by the hand and leading her onto the near-empty dance floor.

  “Could do a lot worse than him, honey,” he said as he sipped his drink. “His daddy’s rich as Croesus and that boy will be, too, you just watch. It’s in his blood.”

  Conrad always credited things with being in the blood. Whether it was a race horse or a skilled gambler, it was all in the blood. By that reckoning, I had some pretty poor blood since everything I knew or did came from study and practice.

  Nonetheless, he had a point. Cash was golden and everyone knew it. If he failed in life, he’d fail upward. Hell, he might even stumble ass-backwards into the governorship, if his luck held true.

  “Conrad,” I sighed through my teeth as I smiled up at him. It was a little too awkward talking about boys with my stepdad.

  If I nodded or acknowledged that I liked Cash, he’d start the wheels in motion by talking to Cash’s daddy. Before long, I’d be having Sunday supper at his house every week and next thing I knew I’d be pregnant and alone in some vast mansion waiting up half the night for him to come home. I sipped my drink and kept quiet.