Hell Breaks Loose (Devil's Rock #2)

Hell Breaks Loose (Devil's Rock #2)

Sophie Jordan




One




It’s actually not that difficult to slip the Secret Service.

Or maybe it was simply that Grace Reeves was the last person anyone would expect to rebel. Everyone (and by everyone she meant the entire country) considered her the most boring, predictable, unexciting First Daughter to ever grace the White House. Ha! There was a pun she hadn’t heard before.

In elementary school Grace never so much as received a U (for unsatisfactory) on her report card. In high school she never broke curfew or got caught making out with boys. In college she never went to any wild frat parties. No one would expect her to sneak out of a hotel and ditch her detail.

Even Grace could hardly believe she was doing it.

She cast one last glance at the panic button sitting on the hotel dresser. She had to leave it behind. It carried a GPS, and she didn’t want anyone tracking her once they realized she was gone. She’d be back when she was ready. When she felt like it. The wholly selfish thought felt good. This rare moment of irresponsibility felt good.

She stepped carefully into the sitting area that separated the suite’s two bedrooms. Holly’s voice carried through the shut doors, weary with disappointment, as Grace eased past the sofa. “. . . She’s hopeless. No matter how often we rehearse, she’s awkward every time we stick her in front of people.”

Holly thought she was napping after their busy day. It shouldn’t sting to hear her personal aide talk about her. It was nothing she hadn’t said to Grace’s face. It was nothing Grace didn’t admit herself. It didn’t change the fact that Holly was her friend. Maybe her only one. Pathetic, Grace guessed, that her best friend happened to be on her father’s payroll.

“It’s even worse if cameras are present,” Holly added. A thunk followed the comment and Grace could picture her sitting on the edge of the bed and kicking off her knee-high boots.

She knew she shouldn’t take it so personally. Holly wasn’t being unkind and nothing she said was untrue. Grace sighed. It had been a long day. That was all. She was just being cranky and more sensitive than usual.

Breakfast with seniors at a local retirement community, a luncheon with a women’s literacy group, and an afternoon speaking at a local university where college kids snickered and whispered about her behind their hands. It all added up to a typical day. A typically miserable day, but nothing she couldn’t handle. Nothing she wasn’t accustomed to doing for her father. Nothing that should send her running like she was now.

No. That was entirely because of the call.

Her father had taken ten minutes out of his busy schedule to Skype with her and let her know what “contribution” he expected from her for his re-election campaign. She snorted. That’s what he called it, his face neutral and unassuming in the screen of her laptop. Like he wasn’t asking for everything from her. A contribution. As though she were one of his constituents writing him a donation check. He’d asked a lot from her over the years. She’d put off grad school for him because he asked. He knew how important it was to her, but he’d asked her to put her dreams and ambitions on hold. Fortunately, they deferred her acceptance, but if she did this for her father . . . what were the odds she would ever get what she wanted out of life? She’d never be free.

She couldn’t help remembering how she used to hide in her bedroom. In the narrow space between the wall and her bed, she would cover herself with stuffed animals and lay there buried beneath their soft weight, listening to the cadence of her breath as her parents entertained guests downstairs.

The clink of glasses, the hum of voices, and the burst of laughter had all sounded so far away. She’d hoped no one would find her. She hoped they would forget about her upstairs. Sometimes she got her wish. They forgot about her and she woke up buried beneath stuffed animals the next morning. Sometimes they remembered her existence and dragged her downstairs to play the piano. She would cling to a smile and hope she didn’t mess up too badly. That she pulled off the role of happy, perfect child. She’d never been a very good pianist. Or perfect daughter. Then and now.

She wanted to hide under those stuffed animals again. Only she wasn’t nine years old anymore. She was twenty-six and these days she didn’t own a stuffed animal. A deep sigh welled up from her tightening chest. Her father would never stop dragging her out to perform.

Grace froze as Holly suddenly stopped talking, afraid she was finished with her call and would step out into the sitting area. Holly would insist on accompanying her—as would her detail. Thankfully, her voice started back up again.

“Five more days, baby, and I’ll be home.” She was talking to one of her boyfriends, then. Holly had several. Too pretty for her own good—she looked like a young Heidi Klum. She loved good-looking men. And sex. Holly frequently regaled Grace with her sexcapades. She would listen raptly, hanging on every naughty word with vicarious delight. Grace didn’t get much action these days. Ironic, considering the bomb her father had just dropped on her. You’d think a woman on the verge of announcing an engagement got a little action.

Charles, her sort a boyfriend, was nice. Everyone thought so. If their chemistry didn’t rock the charts, that was a minor complaint. Relationships thrived on less. True, not Holly’s. But others. At least that’s what her father told her when she complained that she didn’t like Charles as anything other than a friend. Her mother said she should feel lucky to have a man like Charles. Her mother reminded her of that repeatedly. Harvard grad. Handsome. Thirty-four years old and already so successful. He was a catch. He was. Grace didn’t miss the fact that her mother never said she was a catch.