The Complete Private Collection: Private; Invitation Only; Untouchable; Confessions; Inner Circle; Legacy; Ambition; Revelation; Last Christmas; Paradise ... The Book of Spells; Ominous; Vengeance (38 page)

I took a deep breath, inhaling the new-leather-and-roses scent, and sat back, attempting to keep this gray cloud that had been following me around all night at bay. Trying to keep from giving it a name. I ran my hand over the chrome dashboard and tried to be excited. This was amazing, really. This car, the dress, the flowers. Being whisked off campus to some swank restaurant while the rest of the school was back in the cafeteria eating Friday night pot roast. I was lucky. I really was.

My eyes filled with tears.

Too bad I was with the wrong guy.

The gray cloud enveloped me. Thomas was its name. This romantic evening should have been planned by him. I should have been with him. But instead he was out there who knew where, and I was here on a date with another guy.

The driver’s-side door opened and Whittaker folded himself in behind the wheel. “I’m honored that you decided to come with me tonight, Reed,” he said.

I took a deep breath and made myself smile. This was a means to an end. That was all it was. And if all went well here tonight, I’d be seeing Thomas soon enough.

“I’m honored you asked me.”

On our approach to Boston I spotted the huge neon Citgo sign near the water and markers directing traffic to Fenway and Harvard. I stared out the windows at all the historic buildings, the domes and spires lit by the soft glow of strategically placed lights. On the water dozens of beautiful, pristine sailboats bobbed, tied up to docks, the water lapping at their bows. Tall apartment buildings hovered over them, affording what must have been amazing views of the harbor and killer sunrises each and every morning.

I had always wondered what it would be like to live near the water. Growing up in central Pennsylvania, I had never even been to the ocean. Now, seeing the Atlantic for the first time—even if it was just a tame inlet—I was hooked. It was all so peaceful and beautiful and serene.

“You look star struck,” Whittaker said to me as he turned the car and put the harbor in the rearview mirror.

“It’s just really nice,” I said. “Thanks for bringing me.”

Whittaker smiled. “Any time.”

We zipped along the water past huge hotels and the state-of-the-art
aquarium and I struggled to keep my mouth closed. I was actually in Boston. Home to Boston College and MIT, the Boston Bean and Boston cream pie, site of the infamous Tea Party and a million other historical events. Whittaker
could
really take me places.

The restaurant was tucked into a quaint neighborhood on the north side of the city, where brownstone buildings abounded and old-fashioned street lamps flickered over stone-covered streets. A tuxedoed valet took the keys to Whittaker’s car and he offered his arm again as he led me through the door. A crumbling cornerstone near the sidewalk read 1787.

Once we were inside, another valet slipped my coat from my arms and a third led us to a table in the back corner, close enough to a roaring fire that we could enjoy its warmth, but far enough away that we wouldn’t get overheated. The conversation in the room was hushed, accompanied by the sounds of tinkling china and silverware. As I sat in the cushioned chair, I tried not to stare at the diamonds that dripped from every female neck and wrist in the room. Never in my life had I been in a restaurant so elegant, surrounded by people for whom money was no object.
If my parents could see me now.

“Mr. Whittaker. A pleasure to see you,” a tall, mustached man greeted us. “Would you like to see the wine list?”

“That won’t be necessary, John,” Whit said. “We’ll have a bottle of the Barolo ’73 we had for my parents’ anniversary.”

I blinked. Wasn’t there still a legal drinking age in this country?

“A fine choice, sir. Beth will be right over with your menu.” He executed a slight bow and moved soundlessly away.

“No carding?” I asked.

Whittaker chuckled. “Reed, please.”

All righty, then. I crossed my legs under the table, bonking the underside with my knee and causing all the dishes to jump.

“Oops. Sorry,” I said.

“It’s okay,” Whittaker said in a quiet, soothing voice, the one that sent pleasant reverberations right through me. “Just relax.”

“Right. Relax.”

I rested my elbows on the table, then quickly yanked them away. Was the elderly woman at the next table glaring at me, or was that just the natural state of her face? Under the white tablecloth, I fiddled with the chunky gold bracelet Kiran had lent me. Luckily, Whittaker didn’t seem to notice my continued fidgeting. He leaned back and smiled as a slim man in a black vest poured ice water into our glasses. For the first time, I noticed there were three stems of various sizes behind my plate. Apparently we were to do a lot of drinking. That led me to the ornate silverware, of which there was far too much. Two spoons, three forks, two knives. What could they possibly be used for?

“Would madam like a bit of bread?”

Suddenly another man was hovering over me, proffering a basket full of rolls. They smelled incredible and I could feel their warmth on my face.

“Uh . . . sure,” I said, reaching for a brown bun.

The man cleared his throat and I froze. “If madam would like to select one, I would be happy to serve her,” he said.

“Oh.” My face flushed and I glanced at the old woman. Now I was
sure
she was glaring.

“I’ll have the brown one, please,” I said, utterly defeated.

“The pumpernickel? A fine choice,” he said with a tight smile. Then he produced a pair of silver tongs from behind his back, plucked the roll from the basket, and placed it on my bread plate. No fair hiding the tongs. If I had seen them, I might have known.

“For you, sir?” he said, turning to Whittaker.

Once Whit had made his selection, the bread guy slid over to the wall, where he stood next to the water guy, just waiting to be summoned at any moment. I couldn’t believe these were actual jobs. What did these men put on their résumés? Expert Starch Distributor? Professional Thirst Quencher?

As soon as the bread guy was free and clear, a pretty blonde stepped up and handed Whittaker a leather-bound menu.

“Welcome to Triviatta,” she said. “My name is Beth. Please feel free to ask any questions.”

“Thank you, Beth,” Whittaker said, looking over the menu.

She turned and started off.

“Uh, Beth?” I said, stopping her in her tracks. “I have a question.”

Several people turned to stare. Perhaps I had spoken too loudly.

“Yes, miss?” she asked, utterly confused.

“Can I have a menu?” I asked in a whisper. Both she and Whittaker just stared. The bread guy laughed and the water guy
whacked the bread guy’s leg. My face burned. “Oh. Sorry. Can I have a menu, please?”

Beth looked at Whittaker for direction. He smiled indulgently and nodded.

“One moment,” Beth said.

She smiled tightly, eyeing me as if I was a dog off the street, begging for a free meal. When she finally walked off again, I leaned in toward Whittaker.

“Did I do something wrong?”

“Oh, no,” Whittaker said. “I like that you’re so . . . independent.”

“Because I want my own menu?” I asked, my shoulder muscles coiling slightly.

“It’s just, this place is old school,” Whittaker told me. “Usually the man orders for the woman.”

“Well, that’s archaic.”

“No. It’s tradition,” Whittaker corrected.

I felt like a five-year-old. Instantly, resentment took over. I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t
have
to be here. He had some gall, talking down to me that way. Beth returned with my menu and I opened it without thanking her. I scanned the list of meals quickly and ruled most of them out because they either 1) contained seafood, to which I was allergic, or 2) were unpronounceable. I closed the menu and placed it on the table.

“Decided already?” Whittaker said, lifting his eyebrows.

“Yes.” My foot bounced up and down under the table.

“What would you like?” he asked.

“You really need to know?” I snapped.

He blinked. “If I’m going to order for us, I do.”

“I can order for myself, thanks,” I said.

Whittaker let out an impatient sigh that curled my toes. He slowly lowered his menu and looked at me almost sternly over the flickering candles.

“Reed, at least let me order for you,” he said. “That’s the way it’s done here.”

I stared at him. What kind of guy was he? This was the way he wanted to spend his eighteenth birthday? At a restaurant so old school my grandfather would have felt out of place? I couldn’t believe that this was his idea of a good time.

“Whittaker, can I ask you a question?” I said, leaning forward.

“Of course,” he said.

“Why are we here? Why aren’t you out partying with Dash and Gage and those guys?” I said. “I’m sure they could have figured out something debaucherous for you to do tonight. I mean, isn’t that what friends do on their friends’ birthdays?”

Whittaker flinched ever so slightly and looked back down at his menu. He cleared his throat and made a big show of scanning the options. “Dash and Gage have . . . other things going on tonight,” he said. “And besides, I told you, you’re the only person I want to spend my birthday with.”

In that moment it all became clear. It was a lie. All of it. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to hang out with Dash and Gage and Josh, but that they hadn’t shown any interest in hanging out with
him.
For
all their bluster over how much they loved Whit, it was just that—bluster. They found him amusing, but they weren’t really his friends. If they were, he
would
have been with them tonight.

I knew what that was like. I had spent plenty of birthdays with no party, no friends, no one around but my brother and my father, who had to be there, my mother an ever-ominous presence. There was nothing worse, in my experience, than a miserable birthday.

With a deep breath, I made a decision. Old-fashioned or not, condescending or not, Whittaker was basically a good guy. And he deserved a good birthday. As of now, it was my job to make that happen.

“I’ll have the filet mignon, medium,” I told him.

Whittaker smiled and sat up a bit straighter. “Good choice. Appetizers? Dessert?”

“It’s your birthday,” I said. “Your night, your choice.”

“Yes! Another winner!” I cheered, raising my fists in the air as Whittaker pulled his car through the security gate at Easton. It was pitch-dark outside and the security guard waved us through without even looking up from his mini television. For the first time all evening I realized that I was reluctant for the night to end. Once I had relaxed and decided to treat the whole thing as a night out with a friend who just wanted a good birthday, I had actually started to have a good time.

“How much?” Whittaker asked gleefully.

“Two dollars and fifty cents,” I said, holding up the scratch-off card. “Told you this was a good investment.”

The entire car was littered with scratch-off lottery tickets. On the floor at my feet were dozens of useless cards, while stacked on my lap were the few winners. Five dollars here, twenty dollars there—it was all adding up.

“You may even make your money back,” I told Whittaker, picking up the last card. He’d dropped a hundred dollars at the
convenience store on the highway. The guy behind the counter had looked at us like we were nuts, but had patiently counted off one hundred of the tiny game cards.

“Lottery tickets. I never would have even thought of that,” Whittaker said, downshifting as we climbed the winding hill.

“Really? This is the first thing everyone at home does on their eighteenth,” I said. Of course, I guessed people like Whittaker never played the lottery. I should have been surprised that he even knew the lottery existed. I scratched off the last square. The symbol there didn’t match any of the others. “Nothing,” I said, tossing it on the floor.

“So, what’s the final tally?” he asked.

I reached up and turned on the overhead light so I could see better. Quickly I flipped through our winning cards and did the math in my head. “One hundred two dollars and fifty cents,” I announced. “You made a profit.”

“Wow. Good for me,” he said.

“You just have to take them to a lottery dealer to cash them in,” I said, straightening the pile in my lap.

“You keep them,” he said.

“What? No,” I said. “These are your birthday tickets.”

“Yes, but it was your idea,” Whittaker said as he pulled the car into the circle that fronted Bradwell and the other underclassmen dorms. “I insist.”

An unpleasant warmth spread through my chest. A hundred dollars. That was a lot of money. To me. Clearly, to him it was
chump change. Throwing it out the window was no problem for him.

“Okay,” I said finally. “Thanks.”

He pulled the car to a stop at the curb and put it in park. Instantly the vibe in the car went from silly and celebratory to serious and loaded. This was it. The moment of truth. End of the date time. I had already decided hours earlier that if he tried to kiss me, I would let him. It was what he wanted, that much was obvious, and it would be a small price to pay for everything he had given me, everything he
could
give me. But now that the time had come I wondered if I could go through with it. The more time I spent with Whit, the fonder I was of him, but not in the way he wanted me to be.

He was more like a brother. The death knell when it came to romantic possibilities.

Whittaker cleared his throat. I turned to look at him. Okay. I could do this. It was just a kiss.

“Reed, I’ve been wondering,” Whittaker said, rubbing his flat palm on the leg of his pants.

If you can kiss me? Sure. Go ahead. Get it over with.

“Would you do me the honor of being my date for the Legacy tomorrow night?”

“What?”

Just like that. The Golden Ticket. Tossed in my lap. Right at a moment I was dreading. I was so happy I almost laughed. But instead, I bit my lip.

“The Legacy. Everyone’s going,” Whittaker said, mistaking my surprise for actual confusion. “I’d like you to be my date.”