Deviation (Clone Chronicles #2)(64)

I mumble at him to shut up again and then stare at the room until my blush fades.

We watch the dancers for a while. Dresses and skirts in an array of colors swirl and spin until the entire dance floor looks like a moving tie-dyed painting. It’s pretty—if you don’t know what sort of evil and uncaring lies underneath the layers of fabric.

Beyond the dance floor, there is movement on the stage. The orchestra fills only one side of the raised platform. On the other side, several important-looking men have gathered in a circle, all with snifters in hand. Their expensive suits and matching shoes shine underneath the bright stage lights. I recognize one of them as Senator Whitcomb, Obadiah’s father. I’m fairly certain the others are all members of some cabinet or another. As I watch, Titus climbs the side stairs and joins them, patting Senator Whitcomb on the back as he smiles a predator’s greeting to them all.

The entire thing makes my skin crawl. “Who’s that man?” I ask, pointing to the man beside Obadiah’s father. He is handsome in that same polished way Titus has. His salt and pepper hair is combed back in a slick and charming sort of way. His expression is open and when he smiles, it’s a disarming sort of welcome. I can see it in the response of the other men. They gravitate toward him.

“Are you serious?” Obadiah asks. “That’s Jeremiah Douglas. How do you not know that by now?”

“Douglas?” I frown. “That’s Taylor’s dad.”

“Duh. Are you living under a rock? Oh, right, yes. Yes you are.”

He’s right, I should’ve known Taylor’s dad by now. But Titus has me so cocooned away that I don’t. I stare at the men on the stage with a strange, unsettled feeling in my gut. “Things are changing, Obadiah,” I say quietly.

“Of course they are. It’s the circle of life.” His joke falls flat when he sees my face. I don’t turn away from the group of men. It’s too riveting. I don’t know what they’re planning, but it feels important. This entire night feels important. A crossroads. A gathering storm.

Obadiah’s eyes are on me, searching. “What is it? What happened?”

“What did your dad tell you about tonight? About why all the reporters are here?” I ask.

“Nothing.” He shrugs. “It’s a Presidential campaign party. I just figured it was normal.”

“Is anything normal anymore?” I say, forcing my eyes away from the stage. His face is familiar and gentle and a reminder that he is unconditionally on my side.

“What is it, Ven? What happened?” he asks again.

The words die in my throat. I can’t explain without also hurting him. “It’s nothing,” I say finally. The bartender catches my eye. I nod once to signal for a second drink. Obadiah is clearly unconvinced but he lets it go. I exhale and when the next drink is placed in my hand, I set to work draining it.

It seems pain is the theme of all human interaction. For once in my life, I don’t want it.





Chapter Seventeen


By the third drink, Obadiah convinces me to dance. He’s asked me a hundred times to tell him what’s wrong but I don’t. I won’t. Not when it will cause only more pain. But I will dance. And continue the ruse. Until there’s an end.

We’ve just made it to the edges of the dance floor when the orchestra stops. Instruments in hand, they leave their seats and exit the stage.

“Showtime,” Obadiah mutters. I scan until I find where he’s looking. The huddle of men Titus was speaking to when we left are now dispersed. Two of them remain on the stage, facing the crowd. One of them holds a microphone and seems to be waiting for the room to quiet.

I scan the faces below the stage and find Titus among a small crowd standing near the stairs. His head is bent toward Taylor’s dad in some private conversation. Lines crease the edges of his mouth in a decided frown. His shoulders are set and his hands are fisted at his sides. I’ve never seen him show such outward aggression in public.

Obadiah’s hand slips under my arm, guiding me away. He leans close. “Let’s find somewhere more discreet to observe,” he whispers.

I let him lead me, unsteady on my own feet. At the back of the room, he holds out a chair at one of the empty dining tables. Both the table and chairs are draped in heavy white covers. I scoot in close, using the tablecloth as a blanket covering for my bared legs. I twist the lace on the hem of my dress nervously and wait.

The man with the microphone taps it twice and raises it to his mouth. “If I could have your attention, please? Thank you for your patience while we wait for some technical difficulties to be sorted with some members of the media.” He smiles a plastic politician smile.

Murmurs of hushed conversations circulate.

Anxiety builds, a tower of blocks being stacked in the center of my abdomen. I look at Obadiah. He smiles tightly back at me.

I scan the room for Linc but he’s nowhere to be found. Probably huddled behind some shrub or another. I can feel him here somewhere and that puts me slightly more at ease. Although, I have a feeling whatever’s coming next is something even he can’t shield me from.

I try to breathe normally and avert my gaze from any curious glances. A waiter approaches with a tray of filled champagne flutes. “A drink, miss?” he asks.

“Yes, thank you.” I take the offered glass and sip the fizzy liquid.