Page 14 of Deadly Little Scandals
“But this summer, we decided to shake things up a bit and bring the competition to you a little early. Handy, isn’t it, that Regal Lake brings together society from three states and twice that many metropolitan areas? You have fourteen weeks to impress us. This may be my first summer at Regal, but it’s already clear that it offers a variety of avenues for making an impression.” She raised the martini glass in her hand. “Here’s to the first.”
“The Candidates are many,” another hooded girl called out, and then all of them raised their voices in unison. “The Chosen are few.”
hree things became apparent over the next hour. The first was that none of the White Gloves were really drinking—nothing more than the occasional sip. The second was that the murmurs I’d overheard about Campbell weren’t an isolated incident. And the third was that there was no doubt among the Candidates that this was a competition—and no reluctance whatsoever to oh-so-sweetly compete.
I wondered how many of the girls in this room would deep-six lifelong friends, just to make animpression.
“You’re friends with Campbell Ames, right?” A White Glove appeared beside me. Lily and Sadie-Grace were mingling on the other side of the room. I’d lost sight of Campbell. “She’s causing quite the stir tonight. I knew she would.” The White Glove sounded pleased with herself.
“You the type of person who likes causing stirs?” I asked.
“I have a certain appreciation for chaos.” The girl shed her hood, revealing a head of dark blond hair underneath. “I know Victoria said no names, but I’m Hope.”
“I’m—”
“Sawyer Taft.” Hope finished for me. “Former auto mechanic, prodigal granddaughter of Lillian Taft, and the fifth-most-interesting Candidate here.”
During my Debutante year,interestinghad been used mostly as an insult dressed up in compliment clothing. I didn’t sense any of that from Hope.
“Do I want to know how you know that I used to be a mechanic?” I asked.
Hope smiled. “In your shoes, I’d be far more curious about the four Candidates who make your backstory seem tame.”
I couldn’t help thinking that she didn’t know the full story.
Another White Glove appeared beside Hope. “Causing trouble?” she murmured. Unlike Hope’s, her hood was still in place.
Hope neither confirmed nor denied the accusation. “Nessa, Sawyer. Sawyer, Nessa.”
“No names,” Nessa reminded Hope.
“White Gloves don’t take orders,” Hope replied lightly. “Not even when the person issuing them is one of our own—and that includes the illustrious Victoria Gutierrez.”
It took me a moment to process the name, and then I felt like a bomb had been detonated in the room. I couldn’t hear anything but a ringing in my ears and the name that Hope had just very pointedly dropped.Gutierrez. Victoria Gutierrez.
I scanned the room for the White Glove who’d said that we didn’t need to know their names—the dark-haired girl who’d told me to pick my poison. Unfortunately, in this lighting, with most of the White Gloves’ hoods still up, she wasn’t easy to spot.
What are the chances that Victoria Gutierrez is related to the Victor Gutierrez who made a move against Davis Ames? What are the chances she’s related to Ana?
I tried to catch Campbell’s attention but couldn’t. A nearby White Glove turned.Not Victoria.Counting Hope and Nessa, that was three down. A fourth was facing me on the far side of the room.Not her.Turning, I saw a hooded girl exiting back into the bar. Glancing through the party, I was able to rule out two more based on height and build. That gave it even odds that the one who’d just left was Victoria Gutierrez.
I decided to take my chances. Once I made it to the main bar, my target wasn’t hard to spot. A scarlet robe didn’t exactly blend. I followed the hooded girl through the crowd. Despite the music—courtesy of the pianoandthe loudspeakers—very few people were dancing, unless you counted swaying and drinking to one of the dueling beats.
Victoria—if thatwasVictoria—sauntered up to the bar. It was in the middle of the room, elevated and roped off with red velvet ropes.
I tried to follow, but a bouncer stopped me before I could.
“I’m going to need to see some ID.” He was small and compact, with a humorless gaze and biceps he probably spent most of the day flexing.
“I’d be happy to show you my driver’s license,” I replied, “just as soon as you circumvent the fight that’s about to break out between Inebriated Frat Boy…” I nodded to our left. “His friend, Drunken Heir to the Family Fortune…”
The bouncer turned to look.
“And the guy they just bumped into for the third time, who we’ll just call Are You Boys Looking for an Ass Whupping?”
The bouncer turned back to me, folded his arms over his chest, and humorlessly demanded my ID a second time.
“Are you boys looking for an ass whupping?” someone demanded—loudly—from our left.
