by Alice Ward
When the Drydens left in the early evening, Bernadette smiled and thanked my parents for the invitation. I leaned in to give her a chaste kiss, and she turned so my mouth grazed her heavily powdered cheek.
Then she came up close to my ear and whispered to me, a warning look on her face, “Don’t fuck with me, Cameron.”
I stared at her.
“I’m on your side,” she seethed. “But I don’t have to be. I will rip you to fucking shreds, do you understand?”
Never had such vile words come from such a pretty mouth. This was a woman who understood the rules of the contract our parents were etching. In it, she wasn’t required to have an opinion. She was only required to be present, on my arm, a figurehead for the perfect family. Love, or even affection, was not mentioned anywhere, and it was clear she didn’t feel it and didn’t need to feel it, where I was concerned. The purpose was to get me closer to the White House, plain and simple.
What a fucking bright future I had.
When she turned back to my parents and kissed them both, the smile had returned. She breezed outside, as if she hadn’t just threatened me. The door slammed, and there must’ve been surprise on my face when my father demanded, his face red, “What are you doing, boy?”
I blinked. “What?”
My mother tottered on her heels, eyes bleary, completely blitzed. “She looked like she can’t stand you!” she gasped, devastated. “What was the purpose of putting her on the spot, interrogating her like that? She’s a fine woman!”
I shrugged, feeling for my keys in my pockets. I knew what this was shaping up to be. Another Cameron-bashing session. I had to get out soon. “She is. And we’ll be fine,” I muttered, surprised how little I cared.
“Are you?” my father snapped, inspecting me. I was wearing one of the several custom-made Kiton K-50 suits I owned, but I hadn’t slept all weekend. First, with Cassandra, and then last night, thinking of her. So I’d forgotten to shave. Who cared? “You look like hell. And you act like you don’t care. What you need to do, boy, is go to her place and get down on your knees. Bring her flowers and make her—”
“Dad.” I looked at Mom, uncomfortable with the way they were both nodding in agreement about this, as if they’d discussed their plans for my courtship with Bernadette at length. This went so much further than political parties or views… this was archaic. I knew I could easily show up at Bernadette’s apartment later tonight, take her to bed, and all would be forgiven. But I sure as hell didn’t want to. I held up a hand. “Stop.”
“It’s you who needs to stop this behavior, Cameron,” my father said. “You need to get on the ball, and now. Don’t ruin everything we’ve built.”
My father started to grab his jacket from the coat closet and inch toward the front door. If I wanted to get his ire up, to put an end to this conversation, all I’d have to do is speak one word: Shadygate. His not-so-secret shame.
But that word was forbidden in this household, and I really didn’t feel like getting disinherited tonight.
My father clicked open the front door. In a flash, my mother shifted all her concern toward her husband. “Where are you going?”
“Meeting some friends. Local,” he said vaguely, leaning forward and kissing her before turning a hard stare at me. He pointed his finger at my chest, drilling me in the sternum. “I expect you to get this done right.”
Get this done. As if marriage was a business contract. To my father, it was. “You’re not seriously expecting me to…” I murmured.
He huffed, and I could see it written all over his countenance. He wanted me to propose to Bernadette.
“But we’ve only been seeing each other for a few months,” I put in, my thoughts a tad fuzzy from the drinks. Truthfully, it was simply a duty, a chore I had to perform to stay in my father’s good graces.
He’d long since grown tired of my protests. “I don’t give a shit. Make the move.”
I watched as he stepped out the door, knowing exactly where he was headed, despite it being nearly eight in the evening on a Sunday night. My mother, from the way she trudged into the parlor and poured herself a double, knew it too. It was the elephant in the room.
“Really, Cameron,” she said to me, disappointment dripping from her voice. “This could be so easy. Why do you have to upset us so?”
I followed my mother as she collapsed on the sofa. “Instead of worrying about me, why don’t you do something about that?” I asked her, pointing out the window, where my father’s taillights could be seen before he pulled out of the driveway in his Mercedes.
She closed her eyes for a few long seconds, then opened them with a sigh. “About what?”
“About him,” I said. “You know he’s going to some other woman.”
She gave me a reproachful glare. “Cameron. How dare you.”
The surprised look was an act. My father had never been faithful in their thirty-five years of marriage. I’d become wise to that when I was seven and caught him naked with my governess, fucking on my parents’ bed. He’d been vice president then, and we’d been living at Observatory Circle. I never told my mother, but I gradually came to understand that dalliances in this world of men of power and ambition were almost expected.
My mother had come from an old, respectable name, a descendant of the Roosevelt family. My father’s grandparents had immigrated here from Europe. He had come from working-class roots but had been so ambitious and talented that he quickly rose to fame after law school. Her name only bolstered his position, added to that status. I never saw love between them, not even regard, really. I was positive there’d never been lust. They simply tolerated one another for the sake of… what?
Me?
No. A son was just part of the process.
They tolerated each other for the sake of appearance, for the illusion it gave to them both.
“You know what I’m referring to,” I muttered. “Why do you accept that kind of treatment from him?”
Her cheeks pinked. “Your father is a good man.”
“He treats you like shit.”
Her eyes snapped to mine. “Cameron.”
“Mother,” I said, mirroring her tone, exasperated. Could she really not see it? Did she really think that this was what life was — doting on her husband, spending time at galas, entertaining and presenting the perfect plastic model of stability while he went out and sowed his wild oats, fucking women just because he could? “How can you stand it? Don’t you want more?”
She straightened on the couch. “I’m quite happy,” she said, though it didn’t ring true.
That was what came from treating marriage like a business proposition. That was the fate they wanted for me, and exactly what I’d have with Bernadette. Because Bernadette was my mother, thirty years earlier. Bernadette would mold herself around my life seamlessly, almost as if she wasn’t even there. She’d let me spout my own opinions, no matter how wrong, let me fuck a hundred other women if I liked, as long as I slept beside her at night. I ran a hand through my hair, utter exhaustion setting in, then started to laugh.
My mother shook her head at me like I was deranged. “Really, Cameron. What’s gotten into you?”
I stalked to the bar and poured myself a scotch, then downed it in one gulp. I wasn’t entirely sure, but it felt a little like clarity.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Brooke
I stood in the shower Monday morning, washing off all trace of Cameron from my skin.
I hadn’t had anywhere to go all weekend, so I’d stayed at home, replaying the events of that night, believing I could smell his scent oozing from my pores. I browsed the millions of Google results for Cameron Brice online, my heart skipping every time I found a particularly hot picture of him. As I gazed at each one, I’d think, Here is a man who can slay in the bedroom just as well as he can in the boardroom.
And I had been slayed. Dead. Not in body, since my body still buzzed from his touch, but my mind had been completely fried. It was enough
to keep me out of commission for the entire rest of the weekend. I hadn’t responded to my mother’s calls or texts, and Kiera had sent me a standard, Want to get together for drinks tonight? That was Saturday, and I’d blown her off.
I just... couldn’t. And it wasn’t malaise that filled me. Not at all. It was the knowledge that anything I attempted to do would be positively dull compared to Friday night. And, I didn’t know how I would hold in, much less hide, the humming in my very pores.
Sunday night, I finally went through my photographs on the camera, gazing at his picture with longing as I relived each moment of my night with him in vivid detail.
Then, I deleted every picture and shoved the camera under my bed.
After that, I’d opened up an email to Owen Blakely’s secret account. In it, I attached the only things I could find that might’ve been of any use to him — summary of Cameron Brice’s activity for the previous week, conveniently leaving out everything that happened midnight on Friday. I also attached Cameron’s meeting schedule for the upcoming week along with a note…
Hello, Mr. Blakely,
As promised, here is my weekly report on the subject. Please let me know if there is anything I can elaborate on.
Thank you.
B
I also included my mileage report from all the tailing I’d done, which by now had nearly five-hundred miles on it. Five-hundred miles of absolutely nothing, and I expected him to reimburse me for it?
Shame had filled me as I hit “send.” It was far from privileged, top-secret information. Any moron could’ve put together a similar dossier.
I’d gone to bed thinking I needed to step up my game. There had to be some illegal donations he’d accepted, or secret meetings he’d had, and I simply needed to put my nose to the grindstone and uncover them. He had a slew of meetings scheduled for Monday. Perhaps I could find some time to get into his office while he was out.
But Monday morning, as I showered, a new life force surged through my body, one that had nothing to do with my FBI ambitions. As I thought of going to headquarters, I shivered in anticipation.
I didn’t want him to be out at meetings, and I didn’t give a fuck about searching through his office for dirt. I just wanted to see him again.
After I blew my hair dry and started to fix that awful wig with the heavy bangs over my head, I sighed in desperation. He’d been nice to Violet, wanting to carry on a conversation. It had made me think that he was lonely. Maybe if she pressed him enough, he would open up and talk to her. But that was the most I could expect, and it wouldn’t be enough. The way he looked at her was altogether different from the way he looked at Cassandra. It was sterile, almost pitying. He was just being nice.
Part of me wished he would see who I was, so he could see me. The real me.
I couldn’t let him. I had to wait for Friday.
Damn him, I thought, unbuttoning my sweater. I fished the chain and clamps out of my underwear drawer and affixed them into place. As I did, I breathed out a sigh. Cameron was wrong. I didn’t need these to think of him. It was like he’d been my high, taking me to places I’d only dreamed of, and now, I needed the clamps just to give me some semblance of that feeling, to keep me from losing it during the long and dull days that stretched ahead.
I wasn’t sure if I was addicted to that high, or to the person who’d created it.
My phone buzzed as I fixed on the horn-rimmed spectacles. It was an email from Owen Blakely. I groaned inwardly as I opened it, and read the very terse wording:
Thx.
O
I frowned. The Blakelys were rich, but not ridiculously so, and they rarely flaunted it. When I’d become friends with Kiera, I’d gone to her house in Radnor a few times. It wasn’t Delancey Place by any means — it was comfortable, small, and homey. Nothing like Cameron’s wealth, which oozed from his every pore. Blakely drove a Toyota Prius, for god’s sake. But above all, he was a genuinely nice, down-to-earth guy. You could joke with him, relax with him. The first day I’d met him, he’d made us pizzas while singing “`O Sole Mio” in Italian falsetto.
But when I became his employee, that changed.
I’d heard he was a hard-ass to his workers, and that you didn’t want to cross him when he was angry. Kiera had told me I was crazy for wanting to put myself through this assignment because he drove his people to tears on a daily basis, but I couldn’t believe it. Surely, he’d make an exception for me?
Wrong.
He called me into his office and tented his hands on his blotter. He told me that, in no uncertain terms, he was depending on me. He’d clapped me on the back as I left, giving me a smile, but since then?
Nothing. I’d only spoken and emailed with him a couple times since the official hiring, but he’d only become icier and more terse in our communications. He hadn’t said as much in the email, but I could sense it…
He’d wanted more than what I’d given him so far.
He was disappointed in me.
Never had I screwed up so royally on an assignment. In school, I always went above and beyond. I’d never gotten less than an A in my classes, even from the youngest age. Guilt anchored itself around my neck.
Closing out of the email, I finished stepping into my Easy Spirits, trying to summon up a plan to dig deeper, get more dirt on Cameron. But every time I thought of him, a picture of him lost in the throes of our lovemaking came to me.
I cursed myself as my phone began to ring. Kiera. I answered, “Good morning, gorgeous,” knowing exactly why she was calling and preparing for the onslaught.
“Really?” she asked, sounding peeved. “Is that what I get after you ignore my messages for the second weekend in a row? What, did you find a new best friend? Is that it?”
“I’m sorry.”
She scoffed. “‘Good morning, gorgeous?’ Why do you sound like you’ve been cheating on me?”
I cringed. In a way, that was exactly what I had been doing, sleeping with the enemy. I was instantly regretful. Even though it was Kiera’s way to be the ultimate drama queen, for the past couple weeks, her ire was deserved. I hadn’t been the best of friends. I’d blown her last two invitations off, and I hadn’t responded to her texts as quickly as I should have.
“But she’s really hot,” I said, trying to make a joke of it. “You’d like her too.”
“No, thanks. I don’t do threesomes,” she said with a little snort. “Listen. Last chance for you, before I go off and find another love of my life. Friday night. You in?”
Friday night. The night I’d practically red-circled in my head, since it was the next time I’d be with Cameron. “As long as it’s not too late,” I started, then realized I sounded like an old grandma the second the words were out.
“Why? You have something else going on?”
“Um.” I tried to come up with some excuse but found myself grasping at straws. “Saturday morning, I was planning to get up early and tail Brice. He has a golf thing.”
“Oh, right.” I knew she could never fault me for working to bring down her father’s biggest enemy. But it was a total lie. I had memorized most of Cameron’s schedule, especially Friday through Saturday, just to see how much time we’d be afforded together. And though his schedule was as full as the Schuylkill Expressway at rush hour, with dinners with important people every night this week, he’d had a glorious ten-hour opening from midnight Friday night to ten on Saturday morning, right between a dinner with the mayor of Philadelphia and a golf tournament in Ardmore. “How are things going with that?”
I shrugged. The way they were going was, in my opinion, very, very good… if you considered the sex. In all other regards, it was terrible. I doubted Kiera, as close as we were, would understand. No, in fact, she’d hate me. I was failing her father, big time. “Okay,” I said vaguely. “Haven’t really come up with any good dirt. He’s squeaky clean.”
At that point, I had an image of washing his delicious, naked body under a shower, soaping him up, and I
nearly went weak in the knees.
“Well, that sucks.” She sighed. “But there’s got to be something. You’ll find it. He’s such an asshole.”
“Yeah. He is,” I agreed, not sounding nearly as resolute as I’d wanted to.
“Great. So… Chickie’s and Pete’s. And don’t blow me off this time, or your name is mud.”
Ugh. I couldn’t understand why I’d have to travel all the way to South Philly during rush hour when there were so many places in the Northeast which would do just as well. “Why there?”
“Craving their crab fries. And the Phillies are playing. So Lorenzo wants to meet there.”
Of course, it had to be a guy. Lorenzo had been Kiera’s man since the beginning of spring. He was a political intern in his first year of law school and worked on her father’s campaign. Speaking of assholes, he seemed like one too, from what I’d seen. But I’d never seen Kiera so whipped over a guy. He said “jump,” she jumped. And Kiera had been doing a lot of jumping lately.
“Oh. How is Lorenzo?” I asked, not caring to know, really. Just the fact that he was still in the picture was enough to annoy the shit out of me.
“Good. Progressing,” she said, and I could tell she was smiling. Who was I to fault a friend for loving a man if he made her that happy? She lowered her voice. “He is a fucking beast in bed. I have to tell you more when I see you, but let me just say, if there was an Orgasm Olympics, we’d win gold.”
I let out a breath, and the clamps tightened under my clothes, my thoughts again drifting to last Friday night. Kiera and I had always been totally honest about our relationships, sharing all the gory, and sexy, details. In the past, there was nothing I couldn’t tell her. But this? I couldn’t tell her about this, no matter what. Even though it had been amazing. Even though it’d been consuming the majority of my brain for the past few days, it was completely and entirely off-limits. Even if Cameron had made me the Queen of Happiness, she’d definitely fault me.
