Page 7 of Privilege
Rich has been commandeered, pulled aside by the old water polo mafia. I expected him to lose himself in catch-up and banter with his old friends who definitely kept him sane in school, but he hasn't taken his eyes off Cara. He watches her like a hawk, his face bleak. Every now and then he glances my way, eyes hard.
Something on your mind, brother?
I run a hand through my hair and scan the sunhats and loafers for my dad, but he’s conspicuously absent. Probably using the relatively novel distraction of newly returned summer children to slip away with his mistress. I wonder which one of my step-mother’s friends he’s fucking this season.
Evelyn is more than making up for it. My step-mother is everywhere at once, a hand on a shoulder, a whisper in someone’s ear, smouldering eye contact over the rim of her wine glass. She was born for this, a shark in wasp’s clothing. Whollyindependent, uninterested in anything but social status, constantly mining for more power.
She’s cold. Calculating. Perfect for my dad. And absolutely nothing like Rich. At least, not how Rich used to be. At the moment, his glacial gaze could even outfrost his mom.
Some of the old boarding school girls are giving Cara the side eye and whispering behind their white garden party gloves. It’s always irked me, the fake-gloves and fake-croquet games on the fake-lawn. Rich stomached the Hampton crowd alright, was the darling of the annual White Party, was never offended enough by their superficiality to be upset by the goldfish bowl of conversation. I can’t help but wonder how he’s tolerating it now, after a year in school with people who have a personality beyond the gossip column. What does he think of them, now that he’s had a chance with a real woman?
If you’ve fucked one Hampton girl you’ve fucked them all. Boring, back-arching, pornographic kitten-noise–making-machines. Always more concerned about how they look than how they feel, as if they’re in the middle of a photoshoot for a Times Square billboard instead of in themiddle of an orgasm. I prefer to fuck the staff; nobody squirts like a maid with a mop handle.
I wonder if Rich has ever made Cara squirt.
I knock back my Negroni and a uniformed server with a severe, slicked back ponytail appears without a word. She holds out a fresh one and I gulp it down in one go, handing her back the empty glass before she has a chance to come on to me. On a good day, toying with them is pure entertainment. On a bad one, I’d even fuck her afterwards. But today? InternationalDick van der Beer returnsday? The only person I’m really interested in is Johnny Walker.
The girl is hovering so I opt for the trusty ‘you don't exist’ rejection method, which—depending on her level of daddy issues—will either have her scowling at me for the rest of the evening, or appearing naked in my room at midnight like an X-rated Cinderella.
Buzz in full-force, mystellardecision-making skills ferment in my liver as I wander over to Cara. There’s a spotlight on her, this girl in the white dress standing alone in the middle of the party.The most beautiful girl here.No fucking question.
I clear my throat. She tenses but says nothing. Skyler and Starla and the rest of theCranbrooke Prep girls whose names I always used to mix up get a good staring-down from me, until they finally busy themselves with croquet again, muttering under their breath.
This isn’t helping. Not really. I’ve probably started the best gossip of the summer:Rich’s new girlfriend is boning Dane, too.She’s got enough to contend with, she doesn’t need the dogs frothing at the mouth for their piece of flesh.
Rich, you fucking idiot, why are you leaving her to the wolves over here?
I wonder what Evelyn will think of her, when she eventually graces us with her presence. She’s been pointedly ignoring Cara, hasn’t so much as blinked in her direction which is a very intentional choice for a woman who can be ten places at once without batting an eyelash. I’d imagine she’s angry that Rich hasn’t done some kind of formal introduction. Or maybe she’s already written her off as common trash.
I snort, because to Evelyn, there’s only one answer to a question about the worthiness of a girl whose last name isn’t Vanderbilt.
“So,” I say to Cara.
“Don’t.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Don’t what.”
“Don’t talk to me like you want to be my friend.”
“I don’t want to be your friend.”
“Then why are you talking to me?”
“I'm hoping to charm you into bed.”
“Don’t talk to me likethat,either.”
Her tone is firm, sure of herself, distinctly lacking in ‘bitch’which is weirdly more impactful. My dick twitches again and I sigh.This is going to be a fun summer.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Clearly we’ve started out on the wrong foot.”
“Wedidn’t do anything.Youstarted out on the wrong foot.”
“By buying you a dress? You look stunning you know, in case my little brother failed to mention.”
She turns to face me straight on and looks up at me, expression irritatingly neutral. “By trying to make my boyfriend uncomfortable.”
I blink. She didn’t say,by trying to make me uncomfortable.She saidby trying to make my boyfriend uncomfortable.I narrow my eyes, her choice of words and tone punching with purpose. She might look like the farmer’s daughter, but I have underestimated this girl; she may survive the Hamptonites yet.
