The Pawn (Endgame #1)(2)
He holds out his hand to me. “The woman of the hour.”
I fold into his side, tickled by the champagne in my bloodstream and the relief of being downstairs. Whatever happened in that office was tense. Dark. “I was just checking on Daddy.”
“Working,” Justin guesses.
“Unfortunately.”
“Well, I guess you’re stuck with me,” Justin says, winking at the couple he was talking to. I recognize them as a famous neurosurgeon and his wife, parents to a man running for the state senate seat.
I make my introductions to them. Of course this party isn’t only for my high school graduation. Like all the other parties in Tanglewood society, it’s about networking. For my father. For Justin, who has big plans to follow his father’s footsteps into politics.
“Salutatorian,” Justin’s saying. “You should have heard her speech about the way the things we do now are the myths of the future.”
The man smiles, somewhat indulgent. “She’ll be a great asset to you, son.”
I manage to keep a pleasant expression, even though I hope to be more than an asset. I want to be his partner. He knows that, doesn’t he? Justin has that public smile, the one that’s too bright and too white. The one that doesn’t mean anything.
By the time we make our excuses, my cheeks hurt from smiling.
Justin pulls me behind a screen, nuzzling my neck. “Maybe we can sneak up to your room.”
“Oh,” I say, a catch in my breath. “I think Daddy will be down soon…”
“He won’t find out,” he murmurs, his hands sliding over my dress, under it. We’re not visible to the party, but anyone could walk back here. My heart pounds. His hands are soft and grasping—and for some reason my mind flashes to the man at the top of the stairs, his firm grip on my arms.
“Justin, I—”
“Come on. You turned eighteen two weeks ago.”
And okay, I did use that as an excuse before. Because I didn’t feel ready. And it has nothing to do with how old I am or how much I love Justin. Maybe if my mother were still alive, if she could have told me the secrets of being a woman. The internet is a terrifying teacher.
I turn in his arms, pushing him to arms’ length. “I love you.”
He frowns. “Avery.”
“But it wasn’t just being seventeen. It’s everything. I want… I want to wait.”
His eyes narrow, and I’m sure he’s going to say no. He’s going to storm off. What if I ruined everything?
By degrees he seems to relax. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
He sighs. “I’m not happy about it, but I’m willing to wait. You’re worth waiting for.”
My throat feels tight. I know it’s a lot to ask for, but he’s the best boyfriend I can imagine. And Daddy loves him, which is a huge plus. This fall I’ll start school at Smith College, the same private all-girls college where Harper’s going. Everything is perfect.
That’s how it feels in this moment, like flying.
I have no idea that in less than a year I’ll fall from the sky.
Chapter One
Wind whips around my ankles, flapping the bottom of my black trench coat. Beads of moisture form on my eyelashes. In the short walk from the cab to the stoop, my skin has slicked with humidity left by the rain.
Carved vines and ivy leaves decorate the ornate wooden door.
I have some knowledge of antique pieces, but I can’t imagine the price tag on this one—especially exposed to the elements and the whims of vandals. I suppose even criminals know enough to leave the Den alone.
Officially the Den is a gentlemen’s club, the old-world kind with cigars and private invitations. Unofficially it’s a collection of the most powerful men in Tanglewood. Dangerous men. Criminals, even if they wear a suit while breaking the law.
A heavy brass knocker in the shape of a fierce lion warns away any visitors. I’m desperate enough to ignore that warning. My heart thuds in my chest and expands out, pulsing in my fingers, my toes. Blood rushes through my ears, drowning out the whoosh of traffic behind me.
I grasp the thick ring and knock—once, twice.
Part of me fears what will happen to me behind that door. A bigger part of me is afraid the door won’t open at all. I can’t see any cameras set into the concrete enclave, but they have to be watching. Will they recognize me? I’m not sure it would help if they did. Probably best that they see only a desperate girl, because that’s all I am now.
The softest scrape comes from the door. Then it opens.
I’m struck by his eyes, a deep amber color—like expensive brandy and almost translucent. My breath catches in my throat, lips frozen against words like please and help. Instinctively I know they won’t work; this isn’t a man given to mercy. The tailored cut of his shirt, its sleeves carelessly rolled up, tells me he’ll extract a price. One I can’t afford to pay.
There should have been a servant, I thought. A butler. Isn’t that what fancy gentlemen’s clubs have? Or maybe some kind of a security guard. Even our house had a housekeeper answer the door—at least, before. Before we fell from grace.
Before my world fell apart.
The man makes no move to speak, to invite me in or turn me away. Instead he stares at me with vague curiosity, with a trace of pity, the way one might watch an animal in the zoo. That might be how the whole world looks to these men, who have more money than God, more power than the president.