Long May She Reign (28 page)

“You legal, miss?” he asked, and laughed.

She managed a small smile, took a fresh cup of beer, and limped away. Her knee was starting to hurt. A lot. Which was as good a reason as any to drink too much. Everyone else certainly seemed to be.

It was getting more and more painful to stand, and she wished there was somewhere she could sit down. Somewhere private. Which kind of defeated the purpose of going to a party, but—if only people wouldn't
stare
at her all the time. Watch every move she made.

Most of the suite rooms seemed to be filled with people playing Beirut or dancing or making out, although one room looked as though it might be empty. But when she got closer, she saw three guys and a girl over by the desk, passing around a joint. So much for the smoking ban inside buildings. Maybe only
cigarette
smoke counted.

“Oh.” She stopped, flushing. “Excuse me.”

They all exchanged glances, then one of the guys held the joint out.

“Want some?” he asked.

She glanced, reflexively, over her shoulder to make sure none of her agents had come in to check on her. “I, uh—” She hesitated. Even if she
wanted
to, she really couldn't. “Thanks. I'd better not.”

“They can't arrest people or anything, can they?” one of the other guys asked.

She didn't
think
so. It wasn't as if they were officers of the court or anything. Were they? Besides, presumably, they had more important things on their minds. So, she shook her head.

“Sure you don't want a toke?” the girl asked.

Meg nodded, and went back out to the main room. Christ, it was tiresome to have to avoid everything that might be fun, purely because of potential headlines. She really was going to leave, but then she saw Tammy, who waved her over.

Since it was better than fleeing alone into the night, Meg went.

“Hey, hi, Meg!” Tammy said. Overly enthusiastic, but harmless enough, considering that this was the same girl who had come into the bathroom once and gasped, “
You
use Crest, too?”

“She's just, you know, like regular, almost,” she heard Tammy saying as she walked over.

Oh, great. But she pretended to be interested in being introduced, even though she forgot their names—two girls and a guy—almost immediately.

“She studies a whole lot,” Tammy said to her friends, then looked at Meg for confirmation, “don't you?”

Was that rhetorical? No. “Heaps and heaps,” Meg said, and drank some beer.

At which point, the conversation—if it could be legitimately described that way—pretty much died. She was going to tell them she was kidding, but—well, did anyone really care? Doubtful.

“So, uh, what're you majoring in?” one of the girls asked.

What
was
she majoring in? Meg shrugged. “I don't know yet.”

Another little silence.

“She went to Buckingham Palace,” Tammy said. “She met the Royal Family and everything.”

The other three looked at Meg, but didn't say anything.

“They were very nervous,” Meg said. “At first.”

Tammy and her friends smiled uneasily.

She could tell they were trying not to look at her hand, and resisted the urge to hold the splint behind her back. “Interestingly, though,” she said, feeling—perhaps—a little drunk, and therefore, less cautious, “my mother has taken to wearing tiaras constantly, ever since.”

Now they all laughed, uneasily.

Meg swallowed some more beer. It was almost gone.
Damn
. “We told her the scepter was a little much.”

The boy, and ones of the girls, laughed outright.

“What were you all talking about?” Meg asked. “Before I interrupted.”

“Oh, just, you know, movies,” Tammy said, and paused. “You've met like, lots of movie stars, right?”

She knew Tammy meant well, but Jesus. Meg shook her head. “Not really.”

“Well, like who?” Tammy asked.

Going back to her room—and even flinging herself onto her bed and crying herself to sleep—would have been a much better choice. Live and learn. “Really, no one,” Meg said, finished her beer, then held up the empty cup. “Excuse me for a minute.”

The same guy was still working the keg, and he winked at her. “Back already?”

What was he, her father? “Just couldn't get enough of your smiling face,” she said.

He refilled her cup, his hand lingering a little too long when he gave it back. “So, stick around.”

Accepting an invitation from a very large jock—who was downing beer after beer from a huge stein, and probably had been for hours—was not necessarily a wise idea.

“Next trip, maybe,” she said.

The people who had been smoking pot were back out in the main room, and she headed for the bedroom they had been in, hoping to find it empty. To her great relief, it was, and she sat down on top of the desk, easing her leg up onto a nearby chair. Her good hand was trembling almost as much as her bad one, and she took a healthy gulp of beer. The alcohol seemed to be making her more sad than anything else, and tears were starting to seem like a viable activity.

“You think you own the place or what?” a voice asked from the door.

Frisbee Boy. Naturally. Meg ignored him, drinking her beer.

“So,” he said, and wandered the rest of the way into the room.

Be still her fluttering heart.

“Guess you think you're too important to talk to me,” he said, without rancor. “That you're pretty hot stuff.”

What an asshole. She looked up. “I think you've got that market pretty well covered yourself.”

He grinned. “Just might.”

She returned her attention to her beer.

Apparently not one to take a hint, the guy came closer. He had thick blond hair, with more than one rather sexy cowlick, and was wearing a faded UCLA sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up, old Levi's with rips across the knees, and high-top cross-trainers.

Okay, he was cute. He was a god, even. Just not a god she would choose to worship.

“So,” he said, again.

“I was kind of looking for some privacy,” she said.

He shrugged. “That sounds good. Us, having some privacy.”

Oh, please. She shook her head, and looked in the other direction.

He laughed, and sat down on the bed. Sprawled, actually. Too god-damned attractive for his own good. “Tough lady, hunh?”

Did the guy ever quit? She sighed.

“Just pretend I'm not here,” he said.

Good idea. If she ignored him long enough, maybe he would go away, because she was too tired to get up. She didn't talk; he didn't talk. She drank her beer; he drank his beer.

“My brother blew his knee out,” he said.

Automatically, she touched her brace.

“Playing football,” he said.

She sipped her beer. “How is he now?”

The guy shrugged. “Pretty good. He limps sometimes.”

Sometimes. “Does he still play football?” Meg asked. Did he
ski
?

“Well—” the guy avoided looking at her— “he's in law school now, so—well.”

Sounded like a definite no.

“He wasn't all that good, anyway,” the guy said. “I mean, it wasn't like he was going to go pro or anything, he just played for fun.”

Meg nodded. “Still probably hurt, though.”

“Well, yeah.” He stood up, and she did sort of like the way he moved. Languid, athletic. Okay—cool. He was cool. Very, very cool. “Don't think we introduced ourselves.” He put his hand out. His right hand. “I'm Jack Taylor.”

Well, his name
would
be something like Jack, wouldn't it. Appropriately rugged and—phallic. “Meg Powers,” she said, not bothering to put her beer down, or respond to the outstretched hand.

“Oh my God.” His eyes widened. “Any relation?”

Jerk. But, she couldn't help smiling. “None whatsoever,” she said.

“Whew.” He leaned against the desk, right next to her. “It would've made me real nervous.”

“I'm sure,” she said. He was very close to her.
Too
close.

“Aren't you in one of my classes?” he asked.

Two could play at that. “I don't know,” she said. “I never noticed.”

He nodded. “I must be thinking of someone else. Could've sworn that was you, always waving and smiling at me.”

What an active fantasy life he must have.

He reached out to touch her shoulder. “I'm ready for another beer. How about you?”

Saying yes was probably going to mean more than one thing. “Okay,” she said, and finished what was left in her cup. “Sure.”

17

WHEN THE GUY
at the keg saw them walking over together, he looked disappointed—and not exactly friendly. So Meg decided to keep her distance, watching from across the room as they exchanged what appeared to be hostile words, and then the guy handed two beers to Jack somewhat ungraciously.

“What was that about?” she asked, when Jack damn near
strutted
back to her.

He shrugged. “Guy's a little wasted, that's all.”

Their hands touched as he gave her her cup, Meg surprised to find herself repressing a shiver.

Well, okay, she wasn't surprised.

“Kind of crowded in here,” he said.

Kind of
obvious.
“I guess,” she said, and drank some beer. The first few had tasted pretty foul; this one was just fine.

“Well, you know,” he said, “I live down in Armstrong, and—”

“Leaving so soon?” she asked.

He grinned. A fairly cute grin. She'd always liked a sort of wolfish look. She, herself, had raffish down pretty well. “Thought you might find it a little stuffy in here,” he said.

In some quarters, Williams itself had a reputation for being a little stuffy. A Republican training ground. At least ten of whom seemed to be in her political science class. “No,” she said, “but it's nice of you to think of me.”

“I'm like that,” he said. “Thoughtful.”

Oh, yeah. Without a doubt. Actually, what he was, was very sexy. Although it had been almost a year since she—well, no time like the present.

“This is just way too crowded for me,” he said. “I'm going to go into the other room.”

Meg nodded. “I guess I'll see you around, then.”

“Well, it's your call,” he said. “I can either kiss you here, or we can go someplace else.”

There was something to be said for being direct. “Here's okay,” Meg said, and was amused to see him look startled.

He recovered himself, and bent towards her.

“Then again, privacy's okay, too,” she said.

He grinned, and with his hand on her waist, they went back to the room where they had been before. Once they were in there, Meg started to feel as though this was a very big, drunken mistake—but, he was already kissing her, even though they were both still holding their drinks, and—damned if she wasn't kissing back.
Hard
.

Upon which, it occurred to her that this was something she had always enjoyed. Had really missed.

He was backing her up now, and despite the brace, her knee started to give out.

“Watch it,” she said, much more snappishly than she'd intended.

“Oh.” He stopped. “Right. Sorry.”

Remembering that she also had a completely useless hand—to the degree that the most she could manage was to rest her splint ineffectually on his shoulder—she began to feel extremely self-conscious, and much less aroused.

Just as she decided to step away from him and sip her beer, he took the cup from her, sloshing some of the liquid onto her shirt in the process—which amused, and annoyed, her in approximately equal proportions.

“Aw, hell, I'm sorry,” he said, and tried to brush the beer off the silk, although his hand wasn't anywhere near the spot where it had actually spilled.

Oh, yeah. A true Lothario. She started to pull free—write the whole thing off as a momentary, ill-advised, alcohol-fueled loss of common sense on both their parts—but, he was lifting her up onto the desk, and moving in to kiss her some more. It was actually a good choice, since she could rest her bad leg on the chair, and as things progressed, she found herself instinctively using her other leg to pull him even closer.

A reaction which seemed to please him very much, and the whole situation began escalating so quickly that, drunk—and intensely excited—or not, she tried to lean away from him. “Jack,” she said, “I really don't—”

He didn't seemed to hear her—or, if he did, he either wasn't paying attention, or wasn't terribly interested in her opinion.

“Uh, look,” she said, aware that she was having trouble getting her breath for all of the wrong reasons now. Specifically—fear. “Let's cool it, okay? I think things are getting, uh—”

“No, come on, this is good, Meg, this is really good,” he mumbled against her mouth, one hand up underneath her bra, the other trying to work its way inside her jeans. “Just let yourself go with it.”

She should have known better than to expect him to be content with simple making out, and it was her own damn fault for drinking so much, and for not breaking this off as soon as he had pulled off his sweatshirt and started unbuttoning her shirt. “Jack,” she said. “I don't want to—”

“God, you're so hot,” he said, kissing her even more deeply as he climbed up onto the desk and tried to move her down onto her back. “I can't believe how hot you are.”

If she wanted, she could reach into her pocket for her panic button, or raise her voice a little, and her agents would come running in—but, to hell with
that
.

She pushed him away, violently, with her good hand. “I said, back off already!”

He stared at her. “What? We just got started.”