Anne & Henry (2 page)

I
can't help but stare as Henry shifts awkwardly at his Barbie girlfriend's obvious unease. He seems cocky and pretentious. Really not my type.

I've got eyes, though.

“You just moved here?” Barbie says, flashing me another make-believe smile. Fitting, since this whole mansion looks like it belongs in a fairy tale.

“Oh good, you've all met,” Mrs. Tudor's voice coos before I can bite off a sarcastic response. She lowers her ruby-lined mask and rests a hand on her son's forearm. “Come, Henry. Mr. Harris has the plans for the new center with him. You'll want to take a look.” She leans forward and, to me, adds, “Your father is so talented.”

“Stepfather,” I correct.

Her smile falters only a second. “Of course. My apologies. We're just so thrilled to have the country's most celebrated
architect here at our gala.” I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

Mrs. Tudor leads her son away, her head bent toward his ear in a hushed whisper. Lagging behind, I can't make out all the words—something about my mother being a former waitress—but I can read between the lines.

Bitch.

Henry shakes my stepfather's hand. “I've seen your preliminary work, sir,” he says, all gushing and cute. “It's impressive. I wish I could perform on that stage. I know my way around the old theater.”

My skin prickles a little at the lame admission and I study Henry's build, the way his tux shows off his broad chest, lean legs. No doubt about it, the guy's got a great ass. But an actor? I don't see it.

“Art is a skill best practiced,” my stepfather says, and this time, I do roll my eyes. “What are your plans next year? We could use some experienced help when things get up and running.”

“Henry has applied to Harvard,” Mrs. Tudor says, a little too quickly.

My mother swoops in from the sidelines, her smile of approval all glittery. “A business tycoon in the making?”

“He'll be senator one day,” Mrs. Tudor says. She's in her element now, obviously well versed in the role of political cheerleader. “My late husband passed his acumen on to his sons. Henry has already started his career.”

“Interesting,” I say, though I'm bored as shit. “So, you're on Student Council or something?”

Henry stands taller, proud, poised to impress, his chest puffed out like he's solved world poverty. “President, actually. Have a question for council?”

Mischief tugs at the corners of my lips. “I heard I can't park my motorcycle on school property. Afraid it might clash with your precious Jaguar?”

Henry's eyes twinkle. “Audi.”

“That's enough, Anne,” my stepfather growls.

“I'm sure you'll agree with the rule when you see the school grounds, dear,” Mrs. Tudor says. “They're quite stunning.” She glances back at Barbie, who adds, “You get a great view of Lake Washington from almost every classroom. It's a beautiful place for prom. Are you a senior, Anne?”

“Junior,” I say. Not like she cares.

“Perfect. You'll have two years to get used to the place before graduation.” She offers me a coy sneer so subtle no one else would notice. “Maybe even fall in love. Find your own Prince Charming.”

I almost laugh aloud.

“Forgive me if I'm being presumptuous,” my stepfather says, oblivious to the tension, the message Barbie is sending. He drapes his arm around my shoulder and I tense up. “I really want Anne and her mother to fit in here. Would you be willing to give her a tour of the school? Maybe pick
her up tomorrow on her first day and show her the way?”

My stomach clenches. Is he kidding?

“Oh, I couldn't.” Barbie presses her hand against her chest. “I mean, I'd love to, of course. But I have cheerleading practice tomorrow.” She seems to regain her composure, as though she's just dodged an unwieldy arrow. “I'm the squad leader.”

Of course.

There's a beat of awkward silence, a slight hesitation in time, and then—

“I'll do it.” Henry's Adam's apple bobs. “Give me your address. I'll pick you up at seven.”

My stomach clamps like I've been drop-kicked, and the chill of Barbie's gaze is enough to give me frostbite. “Don't you have football practice, Henry?” she says through clenched teeth. And then to me whispers, “He's the quarterback.”

All so very cliché.

“Afternoon practice,” Henry says.

Based on the slight slur in his voice, I'm not sure he's up to play morning tour guide, but I keep my mouth shut. Frankly, I'm shocked they're serving drinks to minors, even if it is just champagne. Maybe Medina isn't as prissy as I thought.

My stepfather pats Henry on the arm, my mother breathes some kind of thank-you, and while they slide into easy banter about the Seahawks and politics, my pained silence stretches into eternity.

“We should get back to our friends,” Barbie says, looping her gloved hand through Henry's arm, steering him away from me, clinging to some kind of fairy tale romance.

Yeah, I believed in it once, too.

My mother makes nice with Mrs. Tudor, bending her head forward to whisper and compliment, to tell tall tales. It's like she already thinks she belongs here, fits right in. She doesn't.

Neither of us do.

My new world is etched in diamonds and sealed in gold, drowning in pretension. With each insignificant hour that I spend here, my dreadful past blurs and fades.

Disappears.

With any luck, soon I won't remember it at all.

A thread of resentment coils around my neck. Thomas may have saved us from poverty and shame, but the rescue comes with expectations. How am I supposed to blend in with all of—

This?

A masked waiter hands me a champagne flute. I sip, roll it around with my tongue. Swallow. Repeat. I'd kill for something stronger. “I'll be at the buffet if anyone needs me,” I say, my eyes on the volcano erupting with chocolate lava.

Before I can escape, Mrs. Tudor says, “Your mother tells me you've had a rough past. It's a shame Henry and Catherine didn't take time to introduce you to some of their friends.”
Her eyes glisten with the illusion of sincerity. She sizes up my dress, the curve of flesh that rises from the low-cut bodice. “Feel free to mingle. I'm sure you won't have any trouble getting around.”

Fuck her.

I swallow the last of the liquid in one gulp, but the lump of unease in my throat doesn't move. It grows and swells, daring me to say something in my own defense.

Thomas has made it clear that this party, these people, are important.

I ease away from Mrs. Tudor, my mother, and the suffocating expectation of putting on a good show.

Four guys about my age stand at the end of the dining table, laughing, talking, raising their flutes in raucous cheer. I consider saying hi, getting the tough stuff out of the way—I've never been great at introductions. But Mrs. Tudor's voice echoes in my ear and I hesitate. I pull up the top of my dress, cover a bit of skin, mask cleavage, and hover behind the chocolate fountain, just out of sight. Sudden insecurity sinks its teeth in, vicious and biting.

Why the hell am I already letting these people get to me?

A male voice rises over the white noise of chatter, obnoxious, maybe drunk. “Hey John, did you check out the new chick?”

Are they talking about me? I peer around the fountain. Another voice, less obnoxious, less drunk: “I heard her mother is shacked up with the architect.”

“Just another gold digger, then.”

The thump in my chest fades to a dull ache. My ears prick up anxiously. I hear them all the way at the end of the table—the whole room probably can.

“She looks like she's got a chip on her shoulder,” another says, and I wonder if he's John.

“Sounds perfect. John loves a ball breaker.”

I suck back a gasp. I should walk away, go far away.

“Seriously, you assholes obviously don't know shit about me,” the guy says, and I'm sure this is John. I sneak a glance. His muscular body and sharp cheekbones are torn from the pages of a magazine. Broad shoulders, tapered torso, strong legs. He's probably a jock; he looks like a jock.

I'm so not into jocks.

“Come on, you wouldn't tap that?”

Unease creeps through every inch of my body. I stare past the fountain into the glamorous crowd, and blink, blink, blink.

John scoffs. And suddenly he's not handsome at all, more sleazy tabloid than
GQ
. “She looks like a skank,” he says. “I like a bit of a challenge, you know?”

A chorus of laughs, and then from the obnoxious guy: “I'll bet my Porsche you can't get into her pants by Thanksgiving.”

I tune out the echo of voices, their words. Embarrassment builds into something dangerous. Humiliation spreads up my neck.

STOP.

I close my eyes and Mrs. Tudor's sneer fills the darkness.
I'm sure you won't have trouble getting around.
Fuck her. Fuck John. Screw all of them and their pretentious judgment. I won't let these people, my past, my guilt control me. And before I can think it over, consider the consequences, I'm strutting—strutting!—toward the four of them, toward John, a chocolate-dipped strawberry in my hand.

The room fades around me, the glitter, the shimmer, all of it just disappears. It's me—

And them.

The boys quiet on my approach, mouths open in slight shock. I don't blame them, I'm shocked too. But there's something about being in control that makes me feel
alive.

I bite into the strawberry, allowing the juices to wet my dry mouth and soothe the scratch in my throat. My gaze narrows in on John and I bite, suck, chew, swallow.

John's face pales, goes so white I can see into him,
through
him. And even though I shouldn't, I like it. The attention, the way John looks at me, as if he wants me.

“Impressive,” I say, intentionally leaving it vague.

John rubs one hand behind his neck. “Yeah, Henry's mom knows how to throw a party, that's for sure.” He pauses, and then, “You must be the new girl.”

“Your powers of deduction astound me,” I say.

There's a collective “oooh” from his friends. I gaze at him with round eyes.

John falters a bit, but recovers quickly—definitely a jock; I
hate
jocks—and puffs out his chest, making the first move. Playing right into my hands.

He gives me a wolfish leer, like he's a pro at this whole devilishly charming gig. “You look like a troublemaker,” he says.

I throw back my head and laugh, one of those ridiculous bimbo laughs, the kind that makes me sick, makes me lose faith in women a little. “Guilty,” I say with a shrug, then lean in close. My lips hover over John's neck, raise the tiny hairs on his skin. The energy radiating from his body tingles on my mouth.

“You wanna make some trouble together?” The throaty purr sounds foreign, not like me at all.

I pull back, scan John's face. His gaze darts from my eyes to my lips, searching for truth, lies. He settles on my mouth. I flick my tongue ever so slightly. Seconds pass in slow motion. I don't move, not one

damned

muscle.

“You've, uh, got a little chocolate on the corner of your mouth,” John says. He's flirting now, showing how he can play me, how it will be so
easy
to get into my pants.

I exhale slowly, a silent cue for him to make the next move.

Come on.

John's eyes are hazy, dull. His face goes ashen, almost gray with wanting—

He leans forward. Wets his lips. Moves in so close I can smell the booze on this breath. “It looks tasty,” he says.

My response is another soft purr. An invitation.

John's face hovers over mine, invading my space. It takes every effort to control my muscles, to keep my lips from spasming into a full twitch, a soft snicker.

“I want to lick your mouth clean,” he says, sounding sexy. Or trying.

His lips are almost on mine now, partially open. He inches closer, closing in on his prize.

I wipe away the chocolate and suck on my finger. As I pull back, the gap between us widens. “Mmmm . . . divine.”

John's expression falters, but he doesn't give up. “You want sweet? I'm right here, baby.”

I bark out a laugh. “Not even if you were the last asshole on the planet.”

This time I've got him.

Heat creeps up his neck. His face blossoms in full red, and I know—know without question—that he is humiliated, embarrassed. And mad.

Shit, he's mad.

I turn on my heel and walk past his shocked friends, past the fountain, past the crowd. I am focused, empowered, a little bit giddy when I look up.

My heart slams into my throat.

Henry stands at the second floor railing, staring down at me, at the scene, at everything that has just happened. A shiver runs all the way up my spine, turns me inside out.

Our eyes connect.

And just when I think I've made a mistake, wonder if I've screwed up horribly, sealed my fate in this town, Henry lifts his champagne glass in salute.