The Betrayal of Natalie Hargrove

by Lauren Kate

  "Ever heard the saying about letting sleeping dogs lie?" I said under my breath.

  Darla's face changed. Her eyes grew cold. Before I could apologize, she sat up in her chair.

  "You might be older and more popular," she said with more venom than I knew she had in her, "but I've got bigger boobs and more money."

  I laughed and cocked my head at Darla.

  "And I'm supposed to be jealous of you?"

  Darla shrugged. "You know, there's another saying. This one's about the apple not falling far from the tree." She swiveled her head like a contestant on a seedy talk show. "You are your mother's daughter."

  "Darla Duke." A secretary's head popped out of the office. "Officer Parker will see you now."

  Darla stood up, but before she entered Magnum Sleaze's den, she looked over her shoulder at me.

  "We can be sisters," she said, quietly enough that the secretary wouldn't hear. "Or I can treat you like the sponge you were raised to be. Your choice."

  Then she was gone. If these walls weren't so transparent, I might have grabbed Darla by the hood of that sweatshirt.

  But then I spotted Mike further down the hall. As I rushed toward him, I tried hard to regain my composure. He was talking to the football team, laughing and banging his helmet on the lockers. Maybe he didn't know we were on the cusp of being blackmailed and arrested. By the time I reached him, I was furious.

  He took one look at my face and turned to the guys. "I'll catch up with you in the locker room, okay?" He put his arm around my waist and pulled me in. "What's up?"

  "You met Sergeant Sleaze this morning. Why didn't you tell me?"

  "What are you talking about?" Mike looked at me blankly.

  "He's got the DVD," I said slowly.

  "I know," Mike said, actually grinning. "The guys were talking about it during practice this morning. I've been dying to see you in person all day so I could tell you." He wrapped his hand around the back of my head and whispered, "It's only a matter of time before we're off the hook."

  "Are you crazy?" I swatted him away. "Didn't Officer Parker jog your memory about what else is on there?"

  Mike's brow furrowed and he shook his head.

  "That's great," I unzipped my backpack for a piece of gum. "He didn't mention anything. So it's only me he's blackmailing."

  Now Mike's face darkened, and he clenched his teeth. He curled his hand into a fist. "What did he say to you?"

  "Let's just say he's more than a little bit interested in how much of my flesh Baxter captured." I chewed. I tried to push him away, but his grip was too strong for me. "Why didn't you think of that, Mike? You should have done something about the DVD. That was your end of the deal."

  Now Mike dropped his hands from my waist.

  "You didn't think of it either," he said, exasperated.

  "Well, now it's your turn to step up and figure out how to get your hands on it," I said. "There are a few things that need to end up on the cutting room floor before anyone can take Baxter down."

  "That's ridiculous, Nat, you know it," he muttered. "Who do you think I am?" He leaned in and lowered his voice. "The DVD is in police custody, and I'm supposed to magically lift it off their hands so you don't get embarrassed for showing too much skin."

  "What if there's more on that DVD than just too much skin?"

  "Remind me what you've done to help get us out of this? What was your end of the deal again?"

  I crossed my arms. "I haven't had a chance to talk to Tracy because I was too busy being blackmailed by the cops."

  "Right, I forgot, you were supposed to talk to Tracy. I hope that won't be too risky for you. Let me know what she says--if you make it out alive."

  "Mike--"

  "I'll see you after school."

  By then, he was already halfway down the hall. I wasn't about to make a scene by yelling after him in front of the Bambies clustered near the Coke machines. I stormed up the stairs toward the junior bathroom. I would find Tracy. And Mike was going to have to do some serious groveling if he wanted to know what I learned.

  "There you are," Tracy said, pushing her sapphire glasses up on her nose when I barged through the bathroom door. "Jesus, Nat, you look like shit."

  "I just--" I started to say . . . I just what?

  Had a blow-out fight with my boyfriend/coconspirator?

  Got compared to my social-climbing mother by the biggest loser in school?

  Almost cracked under the pressure of this monster secret?

  "I just got hit on by our new 'police liaison,' " I finally said. "It's wigging me out pretty bad."

  "Poor thing," Tracy said, gathering her braids in a thick ponytail. "I met O.P. this morning. Smokin' but slimy, right?" She guided me over to the mirror and lit some incense. "Here," she said, starting to brush my hair with her fingers, "let's calm you down."

  In the mirror, still shaking, face flushed, I hardly recognized myself. I looked so tired and so old. My hair had lost its luster, and even my dark brown eyes looked dull. Had it only been a week since Palmetto judged me worthy of the crown?

  "That man is an absolute slimeball," I said.

  "I know," Tracy cooed. "But as much as you might hate to hear this, you have someone in common with Officer Parker."

  I shook my head. "What are you talking about? Where would you have heard something like that?"

  Tracy clucked her tongue. "You know I never reveal my sources." She looked thoughtful. "I guess that's the only thing I have in common with the rumor mill. Anyway, if you want to get even with O.P., all I'm saying is, an old friend might come in handy."

  "I don't get it. How do I--"

  The bell rang. Tracy blew out the incense and shrugged.

  "I really can't say any more. Except this: Revenge is often closer than you think, and the fall is never far behind it."

  CHAPTER Thirteen

  MORE POTENT THAN THE FIRST

  After school on Monday, I ducked out the fire exit toward Mike's and my spot under the bleachers. I really wasn't up for getting sideswiped by any of the numerous people I was avoiding--from Darla Duke to Officer Parker. And I definitely didn't want to see Kate. My head was still spinning from trying to make sense of Tracy's latest enigmatic prophecy. Maybe Mike would be able to shed some light.

  We always tried to hook up under the bleachers for our own version of a pep rally. Usually, I let him score a touchdown before practice because, on the field, he had to play defense. But today, after I ducked under the third rusty bleacher and navigated over the puddles to our little grassy knoll, I was surprised to find that for once, Mike hadn't beaten me there.

  We didn't like to go to class angry, and we never stayed mad past the last bell. I just assumed that both of us would be racing from eighth period toward the bleachers to make up. Now I wondered whether our argument in the halls still hadn't blown over for him. I reached for my phone to text him, but something made me hesitate. He'd either show up, or he wouldn't. And if he didn't, I thought, spitting out my gum in the grass, at least I'd know that he was really mad. Which had never happened in the whole history of Nat and Mike.

  I waited, peeping out at the field from under the bleachers, and remembered a couple times this year when Mike and I had been mid-makeout, and I'd opened my eyes and strained my head to catch a glimpse of J.B. running laps around the track.

  I know it was a weird thing to do, but it had always made me feel good--to know that finally, I was with the right guy. But now, the memory just made me feel sick and alone. I'd never get that same feeling again, never see the pulsing sinew of J.B.'s calves or the blond flop of his hair rustle in the wind as he ran. More than ever, I wanted Mike in my arms to take some of that pain away. I couldn't let him slip through my fingers, too.

  Then, there he was, jogging out of the locker room with the rest of the guys. I felt a sharp sting in my chest. He'd ditched me. Hadn't even tried to call. And when the team made their first lap around the track, Mike looked the other way when he passed our
hiding spot beneath the bleachers.

  My cheeks flushed with anger. Part of me wanted to run out there and let him know that he couldn't just make an executive decision to blow me off like that. We were a team--even when things got tough, the bond we shared still had to remain sacred.

  But this wasn't the time or place to bring that up, and I still had the big project of Tracy's prophecy to unfold--on my own.

  I couldn't shake the memory of the vile O.P. running his hand along my leg, but it wasn't only him I needed revenge against. Baxter and O.P. were connected for me now; neither one would fall without the other. And what had Tracy meant by an "old friend" who knew Officer Parker? I scrolled through my cell phone rolodex for answers, hovered over Kate Richards' name . . . but kept scrolling. I didn't stop until almost at the end of the alphabet.

  Sarah Lutsky. My old best friend from Cawdor. I was surprised that I even still had her number. Well, she had always had a thing for men in uniforms. But could Tracy have meant that old of a friend?

  There was only one place to find Sarah Lutsky--that is, assuming some fundamentals of the planet hadn't changed. Within minutes, I was starting up my car and driving east. I drove across the train tracks and soon found myself back in a part of town I'd once thought I'd never set foot in again.

  Other kids from Palmetto went over to Cawdor occasionally when they needed a dive-bar fix. Whenever my friends decided to go slumming, I'd always make up some emergency family excuse. The thought of those particular two worlds colliding was more than I could stand.

  Today, I went in search of one old friend, in the place where I'd likely find another: my old BFF, cheap booze. Mike, of course, hated when I drank before the country-club-approved cocktail hour, but by abandoning me under the bleachers, he wasn't really leaving me much choice.

  I drove past the strip of bars on Cawdor Street, recalling the years when I'd definitely patronized them a few too many times. Slowing down to find a parking spot was quite a trip down black-out lane. There was the old brothel-turned-dive-bar that probably had a few of my lacier training bras still hanging from the chandelier. There was the Mexican taco stand where I'd turned twenty-one at least twenty-one times because on your birthday, the tequila flowed freely for free. There was my favorite punk rock club--wait, where was my favorite punk rock club?

  My ex-favorite haunt had a new sign, new paint job . . . and a new name.

  A shiver went down my spine as I parked my car in front of the club that was now called . . . Sweet Revenge. Perhaps there was more to Tracy's prophecy than I'd guessed.

  I pushed my way through the old Western-style doors and entered the bar. It was smoky inside, but when my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I could tell not much had changed. Suddenly, I was thirteen again, standing in the back corner by the pay phone, teasing guys two times my age, and taking charity Jagerbombs from my friends. You know you're too young to be drinking when a place like this won't even serve you. Back then, I'd had the kind of friends who'd give any rational mother an ulcer--that is, if said mother wasn't too busy being passed out on the couch.

  This time, I took a seat at the bar, feeling bold from all that I'd been through in the four years since I'd set foot in this place--first the big house, then the fast car, the hot boyfriend, the sparkling crown, oh, and that one freak homicide. . . .

  I shivered and pulled my jacket tighter around me.

  "What can I get for you?" the bartender asked, scooting a cocktail napkin in front of me.

  "SoCo and lime," I said. "Make it a double."

  The drink arrived and I swallowed it down, forgetting that it was bad luck in the South not to toast to anything, even when you were alone. It just tasted so good to drink it fast. Slamming the glass down, I winced and shook my head.

  "Keep them coming," I called to the bartender.

  "I had a feeling you'd be back," a high, tinny voice called out.

  There she was. I figured I'd have time for at least one round before Sarah got off her shift at the bowling alley. But when I looked down the bar, she was perched on the corner stool. From the looks of the row of empties in front of her, she had been sitting there since I walked through the door. Her wavy strawberry-blonde hair hung down over her tank top, and her hazel eyes were smudged with charcoal liner. Her long, narrow fingers peeled at the label on her beer, and when she smiled at me, I saw the tiniest gap between her two front teeth.

  "Sarah," I said, more and more amazed by Tracy's prescience. "I can't believe it."

  "Believe it," she said, standing up to slide closer to me. "People don't disappear completely just because you cut them off, Tal."

  The old nickname rattled me. No one had called me that in years, not since Sarah and I had been inseparable, not since I was a Cawdor Kid, instead of a Palmetto Princess.

  "And, yes," she nodded. "I heard what happened to him." She put her drink down and scooped her hair into a low ponytail. "Are you okay?"

  "Fine," I said quickly. "How'd you hear?"

  She looked around the empty bar and cupped my elbow. "Maybe we should grab a booth in the back," she said. "To talk."

  I followed Sarah to the back of the bar, a walk we'd done many times. For a second, it felt like I was still Tal and she was still Slutsky, with her tight jeans casing her stick-straight legs and her thin tank top showing goose bumps on her arms. Slutsky was always freezing, which is why we used to joke that she needed so much warming up from the guys who hung around us.

  "Hey, Slutsky," a rakish guy called from the pool table.

  "Not now," she said with her same old snap. She nudged me into a dark corner booth, slid out her flask, and took a swig.

  "So, I'm seeing someone new," she said.

  "That's . . . good," I stammered. If she went on to say what I was hoping she'd go on to say, I was going to have to take out stock in Tracy Lampert.

  "I mention it because the person I'm seeing might be of interest to you."

  "I'm all ears."

  "Derek Parker," she said, smirking suddenly. "You might know him by his uniform?"

  "You're dating Officer Parker?" I chuckled, trying to sound as shocked as I felt excited.

  "Dating? You could call it that," she said, waving her hand dismissively. "He's married, so that might not be the exact term."

  In the old days, I'd say, "Slutsky, EW!" and we'd fall over ourselves, laughing about how it was kind of nasty but also kind of hot. And she'd go into more graphic detail than I even understood. But now . . .

  "I can see you judging me even though your mouth is shut." She sighed and lit a cigarette, offering me the pack. I shook my head. She shrugged again.

  "The point is," she continued, "I've moved on from the old days just like you. Maybe now we can be friends again."

  "How do you know I've moved on?" It wasn't exactly easy to keep up with the news from the other side of town.

  "Ahh." Slutsky rubbed her hands together and smirked. "Now we're getting to the good stuff," she said. "Let's just say there are certain advantages to sucking off the law. Like . . . official police evidence?"

  My mouth dropped open. "You watched that DVD?"

  Slutsky nodded. "I have to say, Tal, I'm impressed. Usually when people cross over to nouveau riche, they get even more uptight, but this new guy--what's his name? He's really loosened you right up."

  "You're lying." My hands gripped my glass to keep still. "Why would you, why would he--"

  "Mostly for research purposes," she said. "Derek and I dabble in film a little bit ourselves. He thought we might get inspired--"

  "That is so illegal and so sick."

  "Chill out," she said. "You weren't half bad to watch. Nothing I haven't tried before but--"

  "Slutsky," I said slowly, "do you still have the DVD? I mean--"

  "Yeah, right." She shook her head. "That thing's on lock-down at the station." She blew a ring of smoke, raised her flask again, and took another long swig.

  That was the thing about Sarah: She was always up for
a good time, but when push came to shove, you could never really trust her to bail you out. There was no way she could understand why my reputation at Palmetto depended on that tape NOT getting out.

  Maybe Tracy Lampert had been wrong, and this whole cross to Cawdor had been a waste of time. Why force me back in contact with this "old friend" if it was just going to be the same old shit? And why was Slutsky rooting through my purse? She used to do that all the time, but now, it felt really invasive.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Your phone's ringing," she said, fishing it out. "Ooooh." She looked at the caller ID. "Who's Mike?" she sang. "Is he the boy?"

  I grabbed the phone from her and stared at Mike's number on the screen, waiting for the call to go to voice mail. I was relieved to see him calling, but there'd be no way to explain to him what I was doing in Cawdor right now.

  "What was that all about?" Slutsky asked. "Trouble in paradise?"

  I squinted at her, shocked to realize that it had been so long since we'd spoken, she didn't know anything about who I was anymore. There was no way and no reason to catch her up. The last time I'd talked to Slutsky, the biggest guy issue in my life had been my newly incarcerated father. I remembered the final fight we'd had, when Sarah had the nerve to take my father's side, like she was his friend over mine.

  Wait a minute. Maybe I was barking up the wrong tree altogether. Was it possible that the old friend Tracy had suggested was . . . my father? On a good day, Dad had always been more of an old buddy-type than any sort of authority figure. On a bad day, well, those were the scars keeping me from getting back in touch with him. Until now.

  The thing was, my father did have his connections--ethical or not. Maybe he was the only one who could help me now.

  Or maybe I was crazy to believe anything Tracy Lampert said. Maybe I was really losing it.

  "Hey," I said to Slutsky, making a show of looking at my watch. "I should probably take off."

  Sarah looked around the bar. "Too many old ghosts for you here, huh?" she asked. "Okay, I'll walk you out."

  I downed the rest of my SoCo and followed Slutsky's lead out the creaky back door of the bar. We walked through the gravel parking lot, both taking in the difference in pitch between the bustling bar and the quiet night outside. In the darkest corner of the back lot, Slutsky pointed toward a camper van with a dim kerosene lamp hanging from it.