by Tara Brown
I can’t believe the three men in my life—the only three people I count on, would abandon me the same day. I look up at the sky and wonder if my mom is watching. If she is ashamed, as ashamed as my dad is? It hurts more to imagine that because from there she can see it all. She knows every secret, not just the ones I’ve been caught for.
I ponder it and walk away from the path to my dorm in Hurlbut. It has the worst name but it had the best potential for a renovation. Most of the dorms are livable for regular students, but mine was renovated for me specifically after my dad donated a huge amount of money toward improvements in all the dorms.
A knotty lump sits in my throat as each of the wonderful things my father has done for me slip past in a movie montage-styled flashback. It dawns on me I have never even thanked him once. It always seemed like the thing he was supposed to do, because he was my dad. I don’t know how I feel now but ungrateful is one of the words I am blocking my brain from mentioning.
I don't want to be the bad guy in the story. I don't even see how it’s possible, but I have a horrible feeling I am. I have always been a let down, even as a little kid.
My dad was so angry. I have never seen him that way, not even in Germany.
A girl gives me a narrow gaze, as she passes me. One of the annoying law students, no doubt. They’re all pompous pains in the ass. Most of them are more conceited than the real celebrities I have spent my childhood with. They make most A-listers look humble like Mother Theresa. A smug thought about how many of them will not have real jobs at the end of their education tries to drift through my head, but I then recall my own situation and try not to be haughty too. I have no reason to be self-assured like I did an hour ago, and seeing them makes me realize how conceit doesn’t match poverty stricken.
Shit.
I need to fix this whether I’m the bad guy or not.
I pull my ball cap down and hurry along the road to the park I know. It’s the only one I’ve actually gone to—ever. It’s pretty, for a park. I never have understood the need to stand in nature, but knowing there are probably a hundred reporters stalking the grounds looking for me, it seems like a good idea.
Chapter Eight
Fast runs and hot moms
James
The coach gives me a look like he doesn't get it. “So you left the party, left two minors at a party, they ended up getting drunk and high, and now Weaver is in the hospital? This seemed like a good plan?”
I drum my fingers nervously. “I’m not their babysitter. I told them I was leaving. There was a pile of fucking coke the size of Scarface’s and booze everywhere. I didn't want to get kicked off the team, or worse.”
“You asked them to leave with you?”
I contemplate lying for a second. “Not exactly. But I made it clear I was uncomfortable being there with that level of drugs and whatever else.”
He sighs. “I feel like you dropped the ball when it came to protecting the young members of the team.”
“Yes sir.”
This is fucking bullshit.
He continues, “I feel like maybe this could be some retaliation on your part for the loss of the incentive program we had been paying your way with?” He sits back, rubbing his hands on his chubby belly. “Now son, we told you when we gave it to you that if anyone ever found out about the incentive program we have here, we would have to end it.”
I swallow my seething rage and smile. I feel like I borrowed the pathetic grin off one of my silver-spoon teammates. Everything they do is fake. “No sir. I would never. I am grateful I got my first two years paid for with the incentives. It's more than I could ever hope for. I have my third and fourth year taken care of.” I want to punch him in his fat face but that would get me kicked out of school.
He nods. “Okay then. Get out and let’s not have this happen again.”
As I leave I’m vibrating, to the point of raging on the next thing I see, so I don't go back to my dorm or to the field. I go for the only thing that's going to take this away—a run. Eight miles, to be exact.
I’m three miles in when I see it, or her rather. She’s sitting at a picnic bench on a field in a park like she’s a regular girl. But I know she isn’t. I know she’s Satan’s mistress. I run past her, wanting to scream at her or even chuck her in the river, but I see something I don't expect. Her hand lifts to her face. Jumping Jesus. The ice queen is crying again.
My insides burn and beg for me to keep going, but my legs take me across the grass to her and I can’t help but think this might be the right moment.
She turns, scared at first but then maybe relieved—which is an odd reaction. She sighs and gives me a strained smile. “Hey.”
I sit next to her on the bench, trying to stretch my calves a bit. I can feel the rage and anger being sucked out of me by the calm park and the crying diva. “What’s wrong?”
She shakes her head. “I don't think I even know where to start.”
“Limo broke down and all you had to eat were the suckers you were saving for the rave next week?” I smile but she looks at the grass. I have a horrid feeling I’m not actually cut out for the type of details I’m about to get, but she doesn't say a single thing. We sit in silence, her being the most surprising girl I think I have ever met. I have watched her for three years, seeing one side of her rule her completely, but knowing there is another side. In the last week of being near her, I can’t say that the one side has won the battle. In the limo I didn’t see it at all, but now the thought comes back again that maybe—just maybe, she might be redeemable. I’ve seen her be the biggest bitch I know but I’ve also seen her scared and alone. That's about the only time rich kids are ever real about anything. They get vulnerable and drop the act.
Finally, I can’t take another second of it so I tell her my problem. One of us has to talk. “My coach gave me shit for the morons at the party who got themselves in over their heads.”
She turns, looking like something out of a paranormal movie and growls. “I didn't know they would do that! I wouldn't have invited them had I known! Jesus! I’m sorry, okay? What do you people want—blood?”
I lean back slowly, hands up and eyes on hers. “Lana, calm down. I was just sharing my sad fact hoping you would share whatever is picking at your ass. You‘re crying in a park alone. I assumed you needed a friend.”
Jesus, tell me I didn’t just call myself her friend?
She slumps and the demons are gone again. Why am I always drawn to the crazy chicks? She shakes her head. “I just can’t take one more bad thing and I have a feeling the week’s just starting out.”
“I think you’ll feel better if you tell me what’s going. I’ll feel better.” She has me worried. She seriously looks like she might hurt herself.
Finally she just says it. “I took all the blame for that party. The drugs, the booze, the minors—everything. They dragged that kid’s unconscious body to the apartments below and left him there for the ambulance attendants.”
It’s much worse than I thought it would be, but for her reputation it’s still not that bad. “You weren’t even at the party for one thing—and for two—wouldn't leaving him in the apartments below clear you of any blame?”
She shakes her head, laughing like a mad woman. “No. That's the best part. I bought the apartments below Nance’s as an investment with a dummy company I built. It was so that we could party and not worry about the people below. They dragged him into my place, essentially, and left all the blame with me.”
“Your friends would do that to you?” Nasty, but you are who you hang with and she’s mostly known for being a giant bitch.
“I’m not sure I have any friends, James. Now if you don't mind, I just want to sit here and pout about how my daddy is cutting me off and my life is in the shitter as you colloquial types like to say.”
It makes me laugh bitterly, mostly for her. “Wow, you do know bigger words than Gucci. Congrats for that.” I get up and lift my ear buds up, pausing and looking back at her
. “Your dad cut you off?” She looks just depressed enough to tell me what she means.
She glares but her mouth opens. “He’s hosting an intern competition for my spot at the company, and if I don't win it, I get cut off for life.”
“He’s giving you a chance to win. That’s the part you gotta focus on. It doesn't matter what it is, Lana, you go balls to the wall and you win it. Whatever it takes. And personally, I would get some badass revenge on your piss-poor excuses for friends.” I point at the picnic table. “Whatever the bill is for this little session, I’ll send it to your dad before he cuts you off.” I put my buds in and start to run again, almost feeling sorry for her, but I can’t. Girls like her need a dose of reality. Her dad is a brilliant businessman with a natural talent at making stars. She needs some tough love, and it makes me respect him even more for doing it. I can’t help but wish Weaver and Nick’s dads gave them the same ‘step up and take-responsibility’ chat she clearly got. Now I know I have my chance. I just have to figure out a way to talk to her.
My phone vibrates with a message from Dana for seven tonight. I run harder so I can squeeze in an arm workout beforehand. She always pays for everything but expects very little. She’s my friend Duncan’s mom, but she’s divorced, fit, and lonely as hell. Big Duncan took off with a Victoria’s Secret model two years ago and Dana just likes to go dancing. I take her to a different class twice a month, and then once a month we go to a club and try out our new skills. She doesn't want anything from me, just to not be so lonely. I actually like her, not like Marlene, who loves the fact I’m twenty-one. It’s creepy but at least she’s hot, crazy hot. And crazy good at the things I like. She could suck start a Buick.
Chapter Nine
Betting on you
Lana
The club is noisy and the band sucks ass. I don't know where Henry got his intel from, but it’s the eleventh bar I’ve been to and I haven’t seen a single possibility of a Lochlan Barlow yet.
I wince, leaving as my brain threatens to explode with the speakers that can’t take what they’re being given.
Este nudges me. “No raw talent in there?”
“I am never going to find a hot band, like ever.”
“Girl, you have seen like what—fourteen bands? You need to give it some time.”
I wish I had time. “I can’t. The competition starts at the end of May. It’s the network’s summer blockbuster. June is showcasing the band or singer as they enter the contest and start the trials. July is the big ‘getting rid of people’ and drama-filled teary goodbyes. August is final six all the way to the finale. I have two weeks to find a band or an individual artist or make a band. Two weeks. They’ll need April and May to practice and get used to the other members.”
She winces. “Well, at least he gave you a heads up before he announced it on TV.”
I roll my eyes, they almost roll on their own. “Henry e-mailed me yesterday and said five bands have already been found by competition. It’s been leaked. He thinks my dad is doing it to spur me on.”
“I read your dad was getting a divorce in the papers and that you got expelled, and he cut you off for being a high-priced hooker. Oh, and Nance Hensley’s dad and you were engaged. So honestly, a little competition is the least of your troubles.”
It makes me laugh, God love her. I nod. “That's true, it is the least of my troubles.”
She wraps an arm around my shoulders. “Things could be so much worse. At least you still have me.”
“You’re sort of stuck with me, sharing a wall and all.”
“I could’ve gotten moved. The dean asked me if I wanted to. I was like dude, the devil you know over the devil you don't?”
“Are you calling me the devil?” Her comment makes me scowl.
She nods slowly. “Okay, we can go with that one, or I could tell you it’s an old saying. But you are the devil.”
When we get to the dorm, I don't feel like sleeping so I go for a walk. The night is young, thanks to the lame-ass band. And I’m trying to get back my spine. The whole foot dude thing has me hating the dark and constantly looking over my shoulder.
Leo passes me with a group of guys. He nods his head but I keep going, like we never were friends. He stops and backs up, holding a hand out. “I need to talk to you.”
I have to fight every urge to slap him in the face, but I don't need any more bad press. Growing up in the spotlight I have seen what happens to the bad girl du jour when she goes even more rogue.
I keep walking, shaking my head at the gall of some people but he follows.
“Look, it was Nance’s dad. It was all him. She called when we realized what happened, and he told us to take the kid downstairs. He knew you owned the apartments. He said your dad would pay to make it go away, he always does.”
“Guess he was wrong about that one, huh! Did you hear the police are investigating me for drug charges and distributing alcohol? Did you hear they’re interviewing witnesses?” My blood starts to boil. “I wouldn’t have done that to you. I would have just split and lied. How hard was it to say Nance gave the keys to the kid so they could party?”
“We couldn't. There were too many people still there. The easiest thing was to grab some drugs and the kid and leave him down one floor. The cops never even came up to the penthouse till after we got it all cleaned up and left. They called and asked if Nance heard anything. She said no, she hadn’t been there. The doorman covered for us.”
“You, not me! I wasn’t even there.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “Look, I just need those pictures of the weekend we spent in Grand Turk last year. I’ll never bother you again.”
It hits me then. “You think those are the only pictures I have of you—doing your thing? You don't think I have a million pics of you and your boy toys? Don't worry, Leo, if I’m going down, everyone is coming. I have plenty of decent shots of you and Nance, keeping it real.” For once I am grateful I forgot my cameras in LA last time I was there. He can ransack my room, which he probably already has, and he won’t find shit.
His eyes widen and I can see he’s about to lose it so I back up, giving us a little space. The way he vibrates when he speaks is creepy. “You need to give those to me. They’re my property.”
“Yeah, whatever. Just like the drugs were mine? Screw you, Leo.” I walk backward, watching him. I’m not a hundred percent, but he seems kind of high.
God, I miss being high.
“Lana, don't make me do anything I don't want to do. Just give me the photos.”
I walk right back up to him, getting right in his face. “Push me, Leo. I have nothing to lose. I have nothing left. Clearly, you haven’t heard Daddy cut me off. The next place I have to get money will be from selling those photos. I owe you and Nance, so piss me off and you’ll be bumped to the head of the line of people I have dirt on. That's the fun thing about being out of shit to lose. I don't even have a scrap of dignity left.”
His jaw drops.
I spin around and leave him there, no doubt flipping out. He’s been a bad boy, and I have all the proof I need. I turn around. “If anything happens to me, Henry has instructions.”
His face is pale, not red with anger but losing color with sickness.
It inspires me to tell a little fib. “I have some video footage too, in case you are curious in about ten years where those blackmail messages are coming from, it’s just me.”
I am so done with college. I have a sudden desire to win this absurd contest and show the world I am not just some imprudent trust-fund kid. I have a brain, granted it’s hidden under layers of sleeping pills and antidepressants and E.
Luckily, Henry stole most of my pills that were working the day he left me. The ones he left me sucked anyway, so I stopped taking them. I’ve been sober for two weeks and it’s been odd to say the least. I haven’t had any of the normal withdrawals, apart from thinking about them when I felt a panic attack coming on and when I had a hard time falling asleep. I Googled it and it�
�s supposed to bounce back after a couple weeks.
Este has me drinking green tea instead of coffee and taking vitamins. She swears I’ll feel better if I just take better care of myself. Her dad is a naturopath in Atlanta. I don't understand the whole science behind it, but I have some celebrity friends who see them for everything. It’s probably why her skin is so soft and shiny, compared to my pale ass. She has a glow and she’s never winded, no matter where we walk.
I stroll over to the fine arts library, trying desperately to come up with an idea of what to do about my problem. It’s bright and a little too intense but it’s better than hanging out in the common room—as if that would ever happen.
A man walks through the front doors just behind me, looking too friendly for a middle-aged dude. “Lana, I was hoping you had a statement? You’ve been really quiet about the whole last couple weeks and avoiding the press. I figured you wanted to defend yourself maybe.”
Shit!
I look around for the security guys but no one is here—of course. I put my hand up to block the camera that I suspect will pop up any second. “Look, you guys want statements, go ask the cops.” I turn away from him, but he grabs my arm. “Lana, just one question.” He holds something in my face and blurts, “What kind of sex games did you play at the party that almost killed that kid? Did you take his virginity?”
My hand comes back, but before I punch him in the face, someone grabs me. I snarl as I turn but my rage is deflated when I see it’s Andy.
He shoves the reporter. “Beat it, before I let her smack you around. Fucking parasites.” He spins us both and drags me farther into the library as two guards come rushing to his aid—figures. They talk into their radios on their shoulders as they escort the press dude out the front door.
Andy pulls me to the very back of the arts and architecture section, sliding us into a nook and smiling down on me. His handsome face is like staring at the sandy beach, a welcome sight until he decides to lecture me. “Why do you always have to take the bait? Just walk past them. Don’t let them get you going.”
