The Fixer
Page 16

“No,” the president’s wife replied, her voice never losing its warmth. “Theo Marquette’s death is a tragedy.” She studied me for a moment, then continued, “And, quite frankly, it’s an opportunity, tragic though it may be.” She set her tea down. “And speaking of,” she said, turning her attention back to Ivy, “I’m guessing that’s why William paid you a visit?” Georgia gave a small, close-lipped smile. “He has thoughts on the nomination and wants your whisper in this administration’s ear.”
William. It took me a second to process the name. As in William Keyes.
“Georgia.” Ivy gave the older woman a quelling look and then darted a meaningful glance toward me. The First Lady held Ivy’s gaze for a moment, then inclined her head slightly.
“Tess,” Georgia said, “could you give us a moment?”
When the First Lady of the United States asks you to give her a moment, you give her a moment. I went to the bathroom. When I came back, she and Ivy had finished discussing whatever they were discussing.
Georgia stood. She reached over and laid a hand on Ivy’s shoulder. “I’ll let you know which way Peter is leaning on nominees,” she told her, giving Ivy’s shoulder a squeeze. “In the meantime, do keep your ear to the ground.” Then she smiled. “And when things settle down, you and Tess are coming over for dinner.”
CHAPTER 16
This was what my life had become: on Tuesday, the First Lady insisted I simply had to dine at the White House at some point in the near future; on Wednesday, I sat by myself at lunch. Vivvie was absent. I probably could have leveraged my fledgling reputation to obtain a seat at someone else’s table, but I was used to eating lunch alone.
Solitude didn’t bother me nearly as much as the idea of cementing my status as a person to know at Hardwicke.
So I ate outside. By myself. I did the same thing the next day, when Vivvie still didn’t show up for school. And the day after that. After three days of self-segregation—and a half-dozen declined requests for “fixing”—the message was finally starting to sink in with the rest of the student body. I wasn’t a miracle worker. I wasn’t looking to make friends.
I just wanted to be left alone.
On the third day of eating lunch by myself, I got company. And not the good kind.
“If it isn’t my favorite little psychopath.” The boy whose phone I’d confiscated my first day at Hardwicke slid into the seat across from mine. A quick survey of my surroundings told me that his friends weren’t far off. In the past few days, more and more students had moved to eating lunch outside. There were three or four small groups and one larger one.
A few students cast glances our way, but Emilia Rhodes was the only one whose gaze lingered.
“I can’t help but notice you’re looking a little lonely these days.” The boy across from me smiled. It wasn’t a friendly smile. “Your fifteen minutes of high school fame over already?”
He was like a predator, going for the antelope that had been cut off from the rest of the herd. I’d threatened him, embarrassed him. He’d steered clear until it became obvious that I wasn’t going to grab at a place near the top of the Hardwicke hierarchy.
Now he’d apparently decided I was fair game.
“If you need a friend . . .” He leered at me, his eyes raking over my body in a way designed to make me feel exposed. “I can be a very good friend.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” I said. If he was looking for a reaction other than skepticism about his prowess as a “friend,” he wasn’t going to get one.
“You think you’re really something, don’t you?” He was tall and athletic, with perfect teeth and perfect hair. I wasn’t sure what bothered him more—the idea of being rejected, or the fact that in a staring contest between the two of us, we both knew he’d be the one to look away first. “Your sister’s nothing but a political ambulance chaser,” he spat out. “The flavor of the month. To people like my father, she’s the hired help.”
He wanted me wondering who his father was.
Want away, Boy Wonder, I thought. I wasn’t up on the Who’s Who? of DC, and I didn’t care to be.
“I could make things very difficult for you here.” He clearly meant that as a threat.
I snorted. “And I could have a nice chat with your father about the fact that out of all the girls at this school that you could choose to terrorize, you chose the vice president’s daughter.”
I had no idea who this guy’s father was. He might or might not have been the type of man who cared about the way his son treated girls. But judging from said son’s attitude about power—who had it, who didn’t—I was guessing Daddy Dearest might care quite a bit about the idea of his idiot son making enemies in high places.
For a split second, the idiot in question blanched. I stabbed my fork into my salad and started bringing the bite to my mouth. Without warning, the boy’s hand snaked out, grabbing my wrist. From a distance, the expression on his face would have looked perfectly friendly, but up close, I saw the glint in his eye.
“Fine day we’re having, isn’t it?” Asher Rhodes slipped into the seat next to mine, picked up my spoon, and stole a bite of my cupcake. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
The boy with the glint in his eye dropped my wrist. He laughed. “Just kidding around with Tess here.”
Asher snagged another bite of my cupcake. “Such a kidder, that Tess,” he said jovially. “A constant riot. Keeps me in stitches, she does.”
The boy blinked several times. “You two are . . .”
“Friends,” Asher declared. He tried for another bite of my cupcake. I blocked his hand with my fork, a little harder than necessary.
I didn’t need rescuing.
“We’re not friends,” I told Asher.
“Our bond goes far beyond friendship,” Asher agreed pleasantly. “Epics will be written. Bards will sing.” He turned back to the boy across from us. “Any interest in playing the role of the bard?”
Not surprisingly, the answer to that question was no. The boy made a hasty exit. He and his hangers-on retreated to a table near Emilia’s. She turned around and went back to holding court at her own table, head held high.