The Betrayal of Natalie Hargrove (6 page)

Kate’s mother was certifiably insane (if those country club walls could talk), but because of her husband’s untouchable bank balance, everyone called her “eccentric” instead of “crazy.” Like there were just certain words that didn’t apply to billionaires. So Kate, unlike most girls, could get away with piercing her tongue, adding a new tattoo to her arsenal every year . . . and wearing sequined, feathered spandex—all without ever risking being called a tramp. Maybe that was why I liked her: She lived like someone with no fear.

Having climbed up from the opposite end of the money spectrum, I ran my hand along a row of leather bustiers and felt renewed pride that my own costume was the opposite of everything in this store. I was just dipping into a fantasy of Mike and I, all dressed up and gliding through the party tonight, when someone stepped around the corner and held out the skanky catsuit in purple.

“Thought you might want to try this on,” Justin Balmer purred.

The woodsy notes of his aftershave overtook me. And I thought nothing could out-stink the sensual jasmine aroma-therapy candle that the Weird Sister was burning by the cash register. Eau de J.B. wasn’t an empirically bad smell; maybe it was the proximity to him that turned my stomach.

I was trying not to look at the catsuit—or the way his blond hair fell over his eyes—so I focused on his sweatshirt. It was the same Palmetto varsity football sweatshirt that Mike lent me for the games.

“What do you say?” J.B asked, fingering the feathers on the back of the catsuit. A surprising shivery feeling spread through my chest.

“But you saw it first,” I said coolly. “I couldn’t deprive you of the perfect Mardi Gras costume.”

“Who’s said anything about a costume?” he said. “I just think this might accentuate some of your best features.”

“You mean my growing boredom with your advances?” I said, sidling past him in the lingerie-cramped aisle.

J.B. put his hands on my shoulders, masseur-style, and breathed into my neck. “So what does the Princess have up her sleeve for tonight’s costume?” he whispered.

I spun around. “That’s for the Prince to know, and you to obsess over.”

A frustrated grunt from Kate in the dressing room made both of us jump back. I’d completely forgotten she was still back there trying on the catsuit.

“How’s it going?” I called into the curtain, praying she hadn’t heard J.B.

“Bye-bye butt feathers,” she called, sounding oblivious. “Anything else out there worth stuffing myself into for Baxter’s benefit?”

J.B. raised an eyebrow at me. With a magician’s flourish, he lifted the first thing in arm’s reach off the rack and held it up for my approval. It was a gaudy hot-pink satin corset. If Kate wanted to catch Baxter’s eye, this would probably do the trick.

J.B. flung the hanger over the door of the dressing room and, without thinking, I added, “Why don’t you try this one ? ”

J.B. raised his fist at me, in recognition of our teamwork. As if the two of us would actually fist bump over anything. I rejected him but still stood there, frozen to my spot.

After a pause, J.B. lowered his fist and sighed. A tuft of blond hair blew up from his forehead. The green lettering on the sweatshirt matched his eyes perfectly, so they stood out even more than usual, almost taunting me. I was torn between wanting to break his stare and not wanting to be the one to have to look away first.

“Stop looking at me like that,” I whispered finally, hating that my voice sounded so small, that my breath felt so tight.

“It’s just a smile, Nat,” he said.

For a second, Justin Balmer sounded almost defensive. But then he licked his lips and bared his teeth at me. It sent a shiver down my spine.

“You know,” he sneered, going back to being the animal I knew, “I find your doggedness to win this pageant a little, well, amusing.” He leaned forward, dropped the purple cat suit in my arms. “And when I get amused,” he continued, stepping past me, “it makes me want to play.”

I squinted at J.B. standing in the doorframe, stroking his chin.

“Fine.” I couldn’t help grinning. “Game on.”

“Who are you talking to?” Kate called from the dressing room just as J.B. stepped out onto the street.

“No one,” I said quickly, turning around just in time to see Kate fling back the curtain. She shimmied out of the dressing room, wearing nothing but the pink silk getup, which fit her like a glove.

“You’d better be ready to throw down tonight,” she sang, dancing up against me.

Catching a final glimpse of Justin walking toward the boardwalk, I crossed my arms and said, “Oh, I’m ready.”

CHAPTER Five

“
W
elcome to Bourbon Street,” Rex Freeman said, opening the door to his parents’ Palmetto mansion Saturday night. He was topless, a jester hat covering his signature red buzz cut. He had on jean cutoffs and flip-flops. He was wearing so many strands of beads around his neck, you couldn’t see his buff, freckle-covered upper body—which might have been a shame, but I knew that in his efforts to see the upper bodies of every ho in this room, Rex would have to give up most of those beads before the night was over.

He was grinning at the sea of Bambies separating Mike and me from the entrance to the party. “You ladies can hang your coats in the closet if I can hang these beads on your—”

“Excuse me,” I said, pulling Mike’s hand past the tittering crowd of girls. “But before things get too fleshy in the foyer, you don’t mind if we just squeeze through, do you?”

Mike shook his head and smirked at me.

“Sorry, man,” he said, fist-bumping Rex on his way through the door. “You know Nat doesn’t have much tolerance for Bambi hide.”

“Pas de problem,” Rex shrugged. “More for me.”

I reached around Rex’s neck for a strand of particularly garish beads. They were hollow metallic plastic and shaped like peacock feathers.

“Fancy,” I said. “And ooh, they light up. Mind if I?…”

Rex grinned at Mike, the freckles on one cheek scrunching together. “You know, most girls would do anything to earn such special beads. Either I’m already sloshed or you have a very powerful girlfriend.”

“Not that those two things are mutually exclusive,” Mike joked.

Rex motioned for us both to lean in and nodded at a banner overhead, which read:
Lick’er in the front, pok’er in the rear.

“Ignore the signs,” he said. “Though there is poker out back. But you’ll find the high-end booze upstairs in my dad’s library.” His face got serious. “I tell you this on a need-to-know basis.”

“
Discreet
is our middle name,” I said. “Thanks, Rex.”

As Mike and I headed toward the need-to-know stash of library liquor, we could hear Rex turn back to the scantily clad pubescents in the foyer.

“Now before I grant you beauties entrance to the party,” he was saying, “I just need one small token to prove your undying Rexfection—”

Mike was shaking his head and laughing, but when I caught a glimpse of the two of us ascending the curved staircase, I stopped us both in our tracks.

“What’s wrong?” Mike asked.

I pointed at our reflection in the massive gilded mirror spanning the wall. We’d been so rushed leaving my house for the party—so as to avoid Mom’s wobbly camera-wielding hand—that this was my first full-length view of our ensemble.

My tastefully sequined soft-pink flapper dress was capped off by long white gloves and strappy silver kitten heels. Mom had spent an hour curling my dark hair into ringlets that fell a few inches below my shoulders. Every girl here would be likely sporting an over-sprayed updo, but Mike liked to be able to run his fingers through my long hair. Plus, I always felt more elegant with it down. The thick brown waves framed my minimally made-up face and the one gaudy indulgence I’d allowed myself for the party—fake eyelashes. I batted them demurely at Mike in his black top hat, tailored tux, and ruffled French-cut chemise, and in the mirror, he gave me a sexy wink.

Hand in hand, we looked like royalty. The perfect couple.

I still hadn’t figured out how to respond to—or sufficiently avoid—my dad’s disturbing text from the night before, but this glimpse of Mike and myself on the stairs was the first thing that had made me feel any better about the black cloud of problems past now hanging over my head.

Look at me. Look at us.
I had come
too
far to get pulled back down.

“I’m so glad it was my idea to go classy this year,” Mike joked.

He took the opalescent feather mask out of my hand and twirled it around on its stick before holding it up to my face.

“Yes, you’re a real mastermind.” I smirked, mounting the top stair and pushing open the curved wooden door to the library.

Inside the plush-carpeted room was your basic made-to-order rich folks’ library. Floor-to-ceiling shelves showcased all the big classics of the western canon with their gold-embossed titles on thick, faded spines. Two maroon leather shrink’s couches faced each other in the center, and a rolling ladder gave the whole place that extra touch of class. You got the feeling that the actual books were more of a backdrop to the library’s main event, which was, of course, the crystal liquor cabinet near the windows.

It was a pleasant surprise to find that Mike and I were alone. Maybe Rex had been more discerning than I gave him credit for about who comprised the need-to-know set. While Mike uncorked a bottle of champagne, I stepped out onto the balcony for some air.

“What should we drink to this time?” he asked, coming up behind me with two brimming glasses.

I looked down at the yard below us where the party was in full swing. Rex had set up the same beaded canopy he used every year. And the same drunken silhouettes were clustering around the pool. There might have been something comforting in such familiarity, but tonight I just found it boring.

I looked at Mike and raised my glass. “To shaking things up.”

“I have always wanted to shake things up with you on a balcony,” he whispered. We kicked back our flutes of the primo champagne, and Mike swooped me up in his arms. He dipped me low, and his hand moved up my dress. I tipped my head back and moaned. The air was crisp and cool out on the balcony, but the heat emanating off of Mike made me feel lightheaded—or maybe that was the champagne’s contribution. His hands felt so warm, so firm, so familiar, so—

“Lights, camera,
action,
” a thick southern twang interrupted us. We looked up into the bright-white bulb of a video camera.

“Don’t you know how to knock?” I asked, yanking my dress back down.

Baxter Quinn, dressed all in black, loomed over us with a camera perched on his shoulder. To add to my annoyance at being interrupted, I couldn’t help frowning at the fact that Baxter was noticeably Kate-less. His light hair contrasted starkly with the creepy bags under his eyes. He was heroin-hot, and I could see why Kate would go for him, though he was miles from my taste. He looked like a vampire with that long coat of his flapping lightly in the breeze.

“Now how am I supposed to get the good stuff on tape if I knock?” he sneered. “Anyway, the last time I checked, this library was open to anyone Rex gave the green light to.”

I raised my eyebrows and crossed my arms over my chest.

“The rich,” Baxter said, gesturing at Mike. “The royal,” he continued, turning to me. Finally, he pointed at himself. “And the relief.” He opened up his black trench coat to expose a pharmacy’s worth of powders and pills.

Mike nodded at Baxter’s trench coat. “Are you so stoned you forgot it was a costume party?” he asked.

Baxter went to punch Mike’s shoulder playfully, but instead he stumbled into the coffee table and ended up sprawled on the couch. Anyone else, I would have helped to his feet, but since Baxter’s next stumbling fall would only be a matter of minutes away, I decided to save my energy.

“Don’t you recognize my costume?” he slurred at Matt, making himself comfortable on the couch and crossing his legs on the coffee table. “Every dude knows that the best part of Mardi Gras is
Girls Gone Wild.
Since I dabble in filmmaking, I’m shouldering the task. All the top tits are out tonight.”

I rolled my eyes, suddenly glad Kate wasn’t here. “I didn’t think Rex would give the library liquor green light to such a strung-out drunken pig.”

“Feisty, Nat,” Baxter said, leaning over and attempting to run a finger up my thigh from the couch. I swatted him off.

“Let’s see that crotch shot again,” he said. “Usually, things don’t get that hot and heavy till at least midnight.” He fiddled with the camera to play back some of his footage. “So far the juiciest thing I’ve got from down below is Justin Balmer tripping over his boa.”

“What?” My ears perked up. “Let me see that. What’s J.B. doing?”

“Asking to get punked is what he’s doing,” Baxter said, rewinding his footage to show us. “Someone should cut that kid off. He’s one drink away from being worth the price of admission.”

“You said it,” I muttered as Mike and I leaned down to look over Baxter’s shoulder. The camera was so wobbly that it was hard to see much, but J.B. was definitely making an ass of himself. He was poolside, flashing a sock-stuffed lacy bra he must have borrowed from some Bambi. He was sporting red lipstick and a short leather skirt with fishnets—pretty much the opposite of classy.

My eyes narrowed.

“Let’s get down there,” I said.

Mike nodded, happy for a reason to get away from Baxter. He made a last run for the good champagne.

“Royal road pop,” he said, handing me the refill. “Who knows what the plebs are drinking down there?”

“You sure you don’t want to do one more sex scene for the camera?” Baxter called out. “I could make you big on the Internet.”

“Bye, Baxter,” I said, leaving him slumped on the studded leather couch. “Thanks for the preview.”