Appealed (13 page)

Every statistic I know flickers through my head, and I go taut with preemptive rage. “Was she . . . was she raped?”

“I shouldn't—”

My voice rises. “If she was raped, Vicki, I swear to God I'm gonna fucking
kill
someone.”

“She wasn't raped,” Vicki assures me quickly. “She had a boyfriend in college—her first ‘real' boyfriend if you know what I mean. A frat guy. They dated for a few months, and she thought they were in love. And then one day he told her that he'd started dating her because of a bet.”

“A bet?”

She nods. “A competition at the frat. Who could bag the most girls—extra points if she was a virgin.”

I rub my eyes. I don't know how women do it. I don't know how they even like any of us—a significant portion of the male population deserves to have their dicks cut off. And don't think I say that lightly.

“The sad thing is,” Vicki continues, “the bastard genuinely ended up having feelings for her. That's why he told her—he didn't want to base their relationship on a lie. But after Kennedy knew, she broke up with him. And now, no one gets in. Me, Brian, and her sister—we're the only ones she trusts.”

•  •  •

Later, at her front door, I thank Vicki for filling in the gaps of information. She's still unsure about me, reserving judgment, but I can live with that.

I say, “You're going to tell her I was here, aren't you?”

Vicki smiles. “In the spirit of full disclosure—I'm going to be on the phone with her before you get to your car.”

•  •  •

On the drive back to DC, one thought sticks in my head like the blade of a knife: I never said I was sorry. All the shit Kennedy and I talked about last night, all the things we got straightened out . . . but I never said I was sorry. And I should have.

Because I am. And she deserves to hear it.

I didn't defend her when it mattered. I didn't stick my neck out for her. I didn't shield her. I didn't even try.

And it's the biggest regret of my life.

I think about the things Vicki told me. The shit Kennedy dealt with and, on some level, still has to live with. Kind of like my leg: it is what it is, and it doesn't stand in my way. But it's something I have to deal with every day. Part of what makes me who I am. A part I'll never get back.

And I think there's a part of Kennedy—a piece of her childhood, her self-confidence—that's forever altered because of Saint Arthur's.

I need to tell her I'm sorry. It can't wait another day.

That's how I end up in the ballroom of one of DC's poshest, most look-how-much-money-I-have-because-I-can-stay-here hotels. It's a fund-raiser for David Prince, ten thousand bucks a plate. I had to call a few cousins who know a few people to get the last-minute ticket, but I got one.

Wearing my tuxedo—and looking pretty fucking James Bond, if I do say so myself—I weave through the tables, scanning the crowd, looking, looking. Prince stands at the front of the room, giving a speech. And I spot Kennedy in the back, near the bar. She's wearing a snug, strapless white gown that ends at her calves, accentuating sexy, strappy silver high heels. Her hair is down, a shiny curtain of gold.

She's talking to someone, smiling, just on the verge of laughing. And she literally takes my breath away.

As I walk toward her, she sees me approach. And she doesn't look anywhere else. When I reach her, the other person has stepped away, so it's just her and me, standing a few inches apart.

“What are you doing here?”

“I had to see you.”

“I don't think—”

“I'm sorry, Kennedy.”

Whatever she was going to say is lost in a breath. And there's a softening in her features, the slight curve of her mouth, the relaxing of her jaw that tells me she's relieved. That even if she didn't realize it, she's been waiting for this. Wanting the words.

“I should have stuck up for you. And I will always be sorry that I didn't. I was selfish and stupid, and you deserved better.”

She looks away, like it's all too much. But when her eyes turn back to me, there's a peace in them that I haven't seen for a very long time.

“Thank you.”

And it's only then that I notice what's different about her. Why every cell in my body is content to just stand here and watch her.

It's her eyes.

The turquoise contact lenses are gone—her gaze washes over me in pure, breath-stealing brandy-colored beauty.

And even though she didn't know I'd be here tonight—I want to believe it's for me. Some kind of sign. Because those eyes are mine—the girl behind them, once, was mine.

And maybe she's willing to be mine again.

While I happily drown in the eyes I haven't glimpsed in so long, all the other eyes in the audience are focused on Prince. Microphone in hand, he works the room, his white teeth gleaming beneath the lights.

“And I can think of no other announcement more precious to me than to proclaim that the beautiful Kennedy Randolph is going to be my wife.”

My head snaps up. “What did he just say?”

Kennedy's head snapped even faster. “
What
did he just say?”

The room explodes into thunderous applause.

I lean in so she can hear me above the noise. “You're
engage
d
?”

Her head tilts. “No?”

“Sure about that?”

She doesn't sound very sure, and it seems like the kind of thing she should have the inside track on.

“David flew out to speak with my father last week. He said they had to discuss something important,” Kennedy explains, her eyes squinting like she's trying to decode ancient hieroglyphics in her head.

“But he didn't actually ask you?”

“No. I guess he skipped that part.”

The crowd comes at us like a tsunami, and Kennedy's swallowed up in a sea of well-wishers and carried away toward the front of the room.

I scowl so hard my face hurts.

The ever-elegant Mrs. Randolph appears beside me, in the spot her daughter just vacated, watching the hubbub with a smile.

“It seems congratulations are in order,” I tell her.

“It appears so.”

My gaze never wavers from Kennedy as she's ushered forward. And there's a pulling sensation in my chest, like my lungs have been snagged by a hook and they're being yanked out of my rib cage.

The feeling turns my voice scratchy. “Does she love him?”

Mrs. Randolph thinks for a moment, then she answers smoothly, “David is a fine young man. I believe he'll be president one day. He's an excellent match for my daughter.”

“That's not what I asked.”

She sighs. “Claire and I have always been close; we understand each other. But Kennedy . . . I fear she will forever be an enigma to me. What do you think, Brent? Is that the look of a young woman in love?”

Kennedy's standing next to Prince now. Black microphones are thrust at her, and bright lights illuminate her pale face and wide eyes.

In love? No.

Scared out of her mind? Absolutely.

She looks like a mouse caught in a trap, ready to chew its own leg off to escape.

I was a shitty friend to Kennedy in boarding school, I see that now. But you know something?

This isn't fucking boarding school.

I march forward, pushing and elbowing my way through the crowd. “Pardon me. Excuse me. Coming through.”

Finally, I reach the unhappy couple. I nod to Prince. “How's it going, Dave?”

He looks a little confused. “Uh . . . fine, thanks.”

“Good.”

Then I scoop Kennedy up into my arms—and I run.

The element of surprise is on our side, several moments pass before anyone behind us thinks to react.

“What are you doing?” Kennedy squeaks.

“Saving you.”

For a horrible second, I think maybe she didn't want to be saved. Until her arms tighten around my neck and her body presses closer. “Hurry. They're coming.”

I pick up the pace and smile. “Relax. I've got you.”

W
e burst out the side doors onto the sidewalk and haul ass down the block. Without breaking stride, I fish out my phone. “Harrison, meet me in the back of the building. Code
Fast and Furious
.”

Kennedy leans back to look at my face. “
Fast and Furious
?”

I shrug. “He's twenty-two; they all love those movies. I don't pretend to understand it.”

Moments later, my Rolls comes screeching around the corner and stops at my feet. Shouting voices follow us as Harrison jumps out and opens the door. I toss Kennedy inside before diving in behind her. My trusty manservant floors it, as I'm sure he has done in his nitrous-oxide-booster-filled dreams, and we make our escape.

Kennedy faces me on the bench seat, breathing hard and flustered. “Oh my god! Oh my fucking god, Brent!”

I hold up my hand.

“If any situation calls for alcohol, it's this one.” I press a button on the teak center console between the seats across from us, revealing the mirrored minibar with a crystal decanter. I pour two glasses of scotch, then hand her one.

And she chugs it like a frat boy during pledge week.

Impressive.

Kennedy exhales harshly, then opens her mouth to speak.

“Not yet.” I refill her glass.

Which she summarily drains, flinching as the eighty-year-old liquor scorches down her throat. “Wooh.”

I sip from my own glass and point at her. “Now go.”

She exhales again. “Did that really just happen?”

“I think it did.”

“David and I aren't even serious! We've been seeing each other for two months and we've lived in different states for half that time. He brought up possibly moving in together once, which was crazy enough—but never marriage. Who
does
that? Who announces to a room full of people—and
television cameras
—that I'm going to be his wife, without even discussing it with me?”

It's possible Davie-boy thought he was being romantic, but she won't be hearing that from me.

I shake my head. “What a prick.”

“Right?”

I refill her glass again.

And she sips.

“Plus, I'm pretty sure he's screwing around. With an intern!”

I snort. “Who does this clown think he is—Bill Clinton? Next thing you know, he'll be playing the saxophone and not inhaling.”

“Exactly!” Then she stares at her hands and her voice goes softer. “The worst part is, it didn't bother me. Not even a little. That means something, right?”

“Shit, yeah. It means you should've kicked that asshole to the curb a long time ago.”

As she finishes off drink number three, I can tell she's starting to get a little fuzzy around the edges. Just the slightest thickening of her voice. “But still—I can't believe I did that. When a man proposes, he deserves not to have you run away, doesn't he?”

I keep nursing my own drink. “Technically you were carried away, but, tomato/tomahto.”

“My parents . . .” She smacks her palm to her forehead. “My mother loves David. She's going to be so disappointed in me.”

“My father's been disappointed in me for years—it's not as bad as you think.” I finish off my drink.

Time to move on to happier topics. “We should go out and blow off some steam. You've earned it. Call Vicki and Brian—we'll pick them up.”

Kennedy gets Vicki on the phone and gives her the Cliffs-Notes version of our epic escape. From this end, it sounds like Vicki wasn't a huge fan of Prince either. And when Kennedy asks her if they want to come out with us, I hear Vicki's voice from across the car.

“Brian! Call your mother!”

And it looks like we're a quartet.

•  •  •

We end up at a college bar not far from Brian and Vicki's house. It doesn't look like any of the press followed us. After a few rounds, Brian Gunderson tries his hand at karaoke. He sings “I Can't Feel My Face When I'm with You” and his wife claps and dances the whole time.

A couple of rounds later, Kennedy goes for it. She sings “Fight Song,” and while her voice isn't anything she should quit her day job over, her smoking little body wrapped in that white dress, swiveling and gyrating, gets her a standing ovation from every frat boy in the place—and there's a lot of them.

An hour before closing, I'm enjoying a good buzz and my three companions are totally hammered. Vicki begs Kennedy to do another song, but when she tries to climb on the stage, she ends up on her ass, laughing like a nutcase.

A college kid moves to help her, but I'm already there. I chase him away with a dark look, then I tell her, “Okaaay. Time to go, peanut.”

“Go? But I like it here! It's fun.”

I sweep her into my arms. Even at dead weight, she feels like nothing. “It's all fun and games until someone gets a concussion.”

•  •  •

Brian climbs out of the car in front of their house. He rests his forearm on the roof and offers me his other hand. “Dude, we should do this again sometime—I'm so happy you're not the asshole you were in high school anymore.”

I guess it's a compliment. At least that's how I choose to see it.

“Thanks, man. That means a lot.”

Vicki gives Kennedy a bear hug in the backseat.

“I love you, Vicki!” Kennedy slurs.

“I love you, Ken-ken!” Vicki returns.

Then Vicki pokes my shoulder. “And you! You take good care of my Kenny! Don't make me hafta kick (
poke
) yer (
poke
) ass (
double poke
)!”

I give her a nod. “The ass-kicking days are behind us now.”

“Good! Then there's somethin' you should know.” Vicki's expression sobers, and she gestures me closer before ruining the effect by whispering loudly, “Kennedy hasn't had an orgamsum . . . orgamsam . . . Kennedy hasn't come in a loooong time. Like, years. At least, not with a guy.”