In Too Fast

by Mara Jacobs

  “Ya perv,” Jane said as she got to the couch and sat beside me. “You were looking at me like Edgar Prescott did when I was wearing that bridesmaid’s dress.”

  The comparison stung, but there was no bite in her voice. “But there’s a difference,” I said.

  “Yeah? What?”

  I leaned closer to her so Syd, on a chair across from us, wouldn’t hear. “You want my hands all over you.”

  I waited for her comeback. I loved how I waited for Jane’s comebacks—would it be funny, would it be lethal, would it total eviscerate me?

  She looked me up and down, much like I’d just done to her as she walked over to me.

  “You’d be right about that,” she said. Yeah, totally eviscerated me—but in a good way this time.

  Before I could come up with a way to snatch her away from this party and get her to the guesthouse, where I could slowly peel that clingy green material down and off her body, she turned to Syd and said, “So, how’d you get roped into this? And sorry, by the way, that you did.”

  “Do you not want me here?” There was a chip on Syd’s shoulder that I recognized right away. Because I had one too.

  “I don’t want anyone here,” Jane said. “I mean, I don’t want anyone to have to be here.” She took a bite of something from her plate, watching Syd as she chewed.

  One day when we were in the garage while I was working on the cars, Jane had told me that she and Syd were sometimes oil and water. Jane had been sitting on top of the long counter that ran the length of the huge building, swinging those long legs, crossed at the ankles.

  It was before we’d started having sex, and as she explained her sometimes complicated, but right now good, relationship with her third roommate, all I could think about was stepping closer and unlinking her ankles and wrapping those legs around my hips.

  So, yeah, I didn’t get all the nuances of what she’d said.

  But now, Syd seemed to accept Jane’s explanation and visibly relaxed, taking a few bites from her own plate.

  “Why didn’t you tell us it was your birthday?” Syd asked Jane.

  I felt her shrug next to me. “I’ve hated my birthday since I was ten. Honestly—and this is the truth—I kind of block it out. So, yeah, it was really a surprise.”

  “So, you didn’t think something was up because of the double date and asking you to wear a dress?” I said.

  “Asking me? More like telling me. And no, I didn’t even put it together that it could be birthday related. Because I didn’t think any of you knew it was my b-day.”

  “Caro knew. She’s the one that got it all rolling, I guess,” Syd said.

  Jane seemed to stiffen for a second, then relaxed. But I noticed she’d stopped eating. “Yes, Caro would know my birthday. When I was a little kid, she’d drag Joey and Betsy to some hotel—or at least a neutral site—and make them give me gifts and wish me happy birthday. They hated it. I hated it. But it was important to her that her kids knew me, even if it was for only one day a year.”

  I held my plate with one hand and put the other at the small of Jane’s back. But she leaned forward, away from my touch, not wanting comfort. Not wanting to seem weak.

  The move would probably piss off most guys, but it just made me…like Jane all the more.

  Yeah, I was way beyond “like” with Jane. But, just as she’d moved away from my touch, I mentally moved away from that thought—that there was more than just a grudging mutual respect, and hot-hot-hot sex between me and Jane Winters.

  “What? You think I’m going to pull out the violins and play for your sad story?” Syd said to Jane. “At least you had presents on your birthday—and from rich kids, no less.”

  A moment passed where the two girls just stared at each other and I kept my mouth shut. Then Jane cracked a smile. “Bitch,” she said to Syd with no malice in her voice, almost as a tip of the cap.

  “Takes one to know one,” Syd said easily, and the two of them smiled at each other.

  We all ate in silence. The food—no surprise—was first rate, and I gobbled up my full plate.

  “What I don’t get,” Jane said after a while, “was how Caro felt comfortable enough to have Syd and Lily and Lucas here. Seeing her in her condition.”

  “What do you mean? I’m not going to say anything,” Syd said, the chip back firmly on her shoulder.

  Jane waved a hand. “I know that. I can vouch for you and Lily. And I’m sure Stick vouched for Lucas. But if I were Caro and didn’t want news of how sick I was getting out, I wouldn’t take any chances.”

  “It won’t matter soon,” Caro said from behind us. I started to get up, but she motioned me to stay seated so I did. She made her way around the couch and sat in the other chair, beside Syd and facing Jane and me, in the small seating area tucked away to one side of the mammoth living room.

  “What do you mean?” Jane said. I could hear the fear in her voice. Did Caro mean she didn’t have much longer?

  We’d talked about it a lot, and Caro still wouldn’t let me call Betsy or Joey and get them back here. Based on her physical abilities, and what I’d seen my father go through at the end, I would guess Caro still had several weeks left.

  Not that I was any kind of expert or anything, but I’d done a lot of reading about it all when my dad was dying, and even more now that I was the primary caregiver to Caro.

  I put my hand at Jane’s back again, and this time she leaned into it—wanting the comfort now. Needing it to hear what Caro would say.

  But it wasn’t a death sentence Caro was handing down. At least not hers.

  “We have the interview scheduled. You, Joe and I will be meeting with Amanda Teller on Monday to do the family interview. There will be no way around news of my condition getting out after that. We’ll try to control that, but…”

  One would think that Jane would relax at that news—that it wasn’t that Caro only had days to live. But no, Jane tensed up even more.

  Because in a few days Jane would have to endorse her father and pretend they were all one big happy family.

  Sure enough, even as I rubbed it, her back went ramrod straight.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Jane

  The rest of the party went by in a blur. There were presents, which were excruciating to sit through. Not that I didn’t like stuff, but it all reminded me of those birthdays years ago. I half expected to hear my mother screaming from the next room that it was time for Caro to leave, that Pandora was my mother, all while my father tried to placate her and Caro would sit with a serene smile etched on her face.

  But my mother wasn’t in the next room, and Stick sat next to me while the whole thing was going on, giving me a sense of calm about the whole night.

  Yeah, Stick was my calming influence—how’s that for an oxymoron?

  My father and Caro gave me an all-expenses paid trip to New York for a weekend for myself, Lily and Syd. Included were huge gift certificates for Barneys and a very fancy spa and salon.

  It was very generous, and very nice of them to include Lily and Syd. But I knew the advantage to them was a. making sure I went (by including my pals), and b. ensuring I’d have nice, appropriate clothes to wear this summer while out campaigning (Barneys). There would be no thrift store shopping on this trip.

  Lily and Lucas got me a monogrammed keychain, which was very nice, and I knew Yvette’s key fob would be going on it soon. Syd gave me a really nice leather-bound journal. “For your adventures this summer,” she said. The Spauldings gave me gift cards to several of the restaurants in Schoolport.

  And Stick gave me a pair of sunglasses and a scarf. It wasn’t the big, dramatic, drapey kind of scarf that Syd had gotten and which I thought was cool. It was smaller, lighter, in a pretty green with a small pattern of gold woven through it.

  “It’s to wear when you’re driving the Vette, now that the weather is near top-down level. Like some French aristocrat or something, driving across the countryside.”

  I did
n’t know what movies he’d been watching, but it was perfect, and I told him so. There was an awkward moment when I could tell he wanted to kiss me, but wouldn’t with so many people around. Which was fine with me—I didn’t need any big PDA either.

  We were saved by Dotty, who brought in the cake, candles lit and all. They sang for me and I blew out the candles.

  “Did you make a wish?” Syd asked.

  I looked at Stick. “I wish I knew your real, full name.”

  Everyone laughed. Stick just smiled and said, “It doesn’t come true if you tell people what you wished for.”

  I looked over at Lucas, brow raised. “I don’t rat out friends,” he said, his hands in the air.

  The night went on, cake was eaten, small talk was made. Those of us under twenty-five naturally congregated together, as did Caro, Joe, the Spauldings and Elliot. From the bored look on Lily’s mom’s face, I guessed they were talking about Joe’s campaign. She was the only one in the group that looked bored.

  Everyone left around ten. Lucas took Stick’s car and they gave Syd a ride home. Stick and I helped Dotty clean up while Joe sat with Caro in the living room in front of the fireplace. I stood in the entryway watching them—witnessing the ease and comfort they felt with each other, even after all the shit they’d been through.

  “It’s nice, right? Them?” Stick said softly behind me, watching the couple too.

  “I guess,” I said, not really sure.

  We got the place cleaned up, and my father left, giving me a hug before he did. I thanked both him and Caro for the party. And, mostly, I meant it.

  Stick asked for me to wait for him in the kitchen while he and Dotty helped Caro settle in for the night. I sat at the table in the nook area, where I’d spent so many afternoons drinking tea and talking with Caro—sharing her memories. Making some of my own.

  “Ready,” Stick said quietly as he came into the kitchen. He had a monitor to Caro’s room in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other.

  “You know I only turned nineteen, right? Not twenty-one?” I said, rising from my chair and leading the way out the French doors and toward the guesthouse.

  I heard Stick snort from behind me. “Please. The first time I met you, you asked me to buy beer for you. The second time, I had to drag you out of a club and you were too hammered to sit up straight in my car.”

  “Yes, but neither of those times were on Stratton estate grounds.”

  “True enough.” We entered the guesthouse, and Stick turned the lamp on in the living area, but took my hand and led me to the bed. He sat down and I sat next to him, our hips touching.

  “Now, tell me,” he said. “Did we totally fuck up by throwing that party? Did you hate everything about it?”

  I placed my hand on his knee. “No. Not everything. Getting stuff was cool.”

  He opened the champagne bottle effortlessly, without a drop of it spilling. He handed the bottle to me and I took a swig from it. It was cold and sweet, and the bubbles seemed to explode in my mouth. “Mmm, good. Sure nobody will mind that you took this?”

  “I didn’t take it. I bought it a couple of days ago, but kept it in the fridge in the house so you wouldn’t see it in this one and get suspicious.” I handed the bottle to him and he took a drink. “Okay, so, you gonna tell me why you hate your birthday so much?”

  It was casual and he was handing me the bottle as he said it, but I knew he’d picked up on something. I wasn’t about to ruin being alone with Stick and a bottle of good champagne by retelling the stories of the excruciating visits by Caro and her kids for my younger birthdays. “I could,” I said, and took a small sip, keeping the champagne in my mouth. I leaned over, pressing my boobs against Stick’s chest. He’d taken his suit jacket off long ago, and the tie was discarded while we were cleaning up. I kissed him and let the champagne flow from my mouth to his, our tongues tangling amidst the sweet nectar. “Or,” I said, pulling away, “we could spend our time licking this champagne off of each other’s bodies.”

  He studied me, seeing my diversionary tactic for what it was. He wanted to call me on it, I could tell. But then…he also wanted to do wicked things to my body.

  “Fuck it. Tell me about your childhood scars some other time,” he said, making me laugh. The gurgle of laughter had barely escaped my mouth when he’d started kissing me again.

  It was different this time, because we had all night, not just some rushed time at the end of our afternoon visits. We slowly undressed each other, instead of tearing our clothes off, or even just working around them as we’d done on several occasions.

  The champagne was used…creatively.

  After the first time, we kept the lights on and explored each other’s bodies slowly, languidly.

  “I was shocked that first day, when you didn’t have any tattoos. I would have thought for sure you’d have a bunch,” I said as I ran my hands down his lean body.

  “My dad said he’d kill me if I got one.”

  “Why didn’t you get one after he died?”

  “I didn’t seem to need one then.”

  “Hmm,” I said as I kissed my way down that ink-free torso. “Seems complicated.”

  “Isn’t it always?” It seemed like he was going to say more, but I took him in my mouth and all he could do was groan.

  Later, he returned the favor after he’d spent an inordinate amount of time kissing, sucking and playing with my breasts. It seemed as if he never got enough of them.

  I totally got it, because it seemed as if I never got enough of him.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Jane

  Amanda Teller was supposed to be the next Diane Sawyer. She was looking for that big interview that would catapult her into Katie/Diane/Barbara status, and so Grayson gave her our interview. I was guessing that he assumed she would be…manageable because she’d be grateful to get the gig.

  She was, and it was pretty much a puff-piece interview, but I still felt incredibly uncomfortable.

  Because, after trying not to my entire life, I was totally selling out.

  We were shooting it in Caro’s living room, with as small a crew as possible, and they’d all had to hand their cell phones to Elliot so there would be no photos of Caro—and her obvious decline—leaked before the interview aired.

  At first they interviewed Joe alone. Caro and I sat in chairs along the far side of the living room. Stick and Grayson stood behind us, Stick leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, his dislike of my father obvious.

  I was okay with that.

  Grayson stood behind Caro, and occasionally she would wave him down and whisper something to him about whatever Joe had just said, or Amanda had just asked. Grayson would nod his agreement.

  Much as I assumed they had in years past, they put their personal power struggle aside for Joe’s benefit.

  And my father had pissed all that away all those years ago by falling prey to my flighty, yet incredibly calculating, mother.

  As if thinking about my mother had some kind of physical effect on me, Caro looked over at me like I’d twitched or something. Who knows, maybe I had.

  She leaned over and said quietly, “Jane, you have told your mother about this, right? About your involvement in the campaign and especially the interview?”

  No, I hadn’t. I honestly didn’t know how she’d react. One part of her would rejoice thinking about the time I’d be spending with my father, and how she could get in on that. The other part of her would totally lose it thinking of me spending time with Caro—putting forth a united front with the woman my mother felt was her nemesis.

  She wasn’t, of course. My mother wasn’t important enough to my father to be Caro’s nemesis, but she’d never understood that.

  The problem was, I wasn’t sure what part of my mother would show up when I told her about working on the campaign and going out on the trail this summer.

  “Umm…” I couldn’t outright lie to Caroline Stratton, but maybe I could he
dge a little bit.

  “You really need to tell her, Jane. She should not have to find out by watching Amanda Teller.”

  “When’s the interview going to air?” I asked, trying to buy time.

  “I’m not sure.” She looked up at Grayson.

  “Four weeks,” he said with absolute certainty. I could tell by the way Caro sat up straighter, and moved a bit away from the back of her chair, that she didn’t like that he knew something she didn’t.

  Four weeks. Four more weeks of pseudo-anonymity at Bribury. Four more weeks of not having to tell my mother. Four more weeks before my life as I knew it would change forever.

  “But they’ll probably start running promos for it in a week or two, once they make sure they’ve got all the footage they need,” Grayson added.

  Shit.

  “I’m kind of surprised that Amanda Teller would do an interview for just a candidate for governor of Maryland. Seems like it would be more of a local news thing.”

  Caro looked over at me like I was a total newbie. Which, of course, I was, though I had picked up an awful lot about the political world in the last couple of months. More than I’d wanted to know.

  “This is bigger than Maryland, Jane,” Caro said, a bit of hurt in her voice, like I should know that fact. “Joe is bigger than Maryland.”

  Wow. All these years later, with the man’s infidelity by-product sitting right next to her, she was still sipping heavily from the Joe Stratton Kool-Aid.

  “Tell your mother, Jane,” she said again.

  “I find it interesting that you care about my mother finding out from someone else, about her feelings at all,” I said to her, still speaking quietly even though my father and Amanda had wrapped up and were now out of the living room chairs and the crew was setting up for Caro to join them. “She certainly wouldn’t care if you found out something the hard way. She wouldn’t care about your feelings at all.”

  Caro looked off into the distance, out the side windows, and for a moment I thought she’d lost her train of thought. That was happening more and more regularly. That and her not being able to remember certain words; it was incredibly frustrating to her—a woman who knew her way around a thesaurus.