Grayson glares at his outstretched hand. “I know you from somewhere.”
My breath catches. Moore was backing away, but pauses, looking to Caleb.
Grayson knows Caleb because they were both at Grayson’s house when I passed my initiation test. I danced with Caleb to make Grayson jealous.
“I went to a party at your place once,” says Caleb, clearly prepared for this. “Some friends of mine know your sister.”
“Oh yeah.” Grayson turns toward me, deliberately angling Caleb out of the conversation. “This is bullshit.”
“Have fun,” says Moore, and walks away.
Caleb gives an awkward wave, then makes his way around a whispering Alice and Beth to Geri, who’s pretending like Grayson’s presence here hasn’t upset her in the slightest.
I know better, though. She may have tried to con him before me, but she was the one who walked away feeling used.
“That guy’s a dick,” Grayson says, nodding toward Moore.
I remind myself that I’m supposed to be the supportive friend, but sarcasm wins.
“Because he rolled you out of bed? Poor baby.”
The rest of the class pretends not to stare at us as they fumble through the waltz.
“I’m not doing PE.”
“It’s dancing,” I tell him. “It’s fun.”
Grayson’s glare narrows on Henry, who’s taking a turn around the floor with Charlotte. After a complicated spin that ends in a dip, they both fall over.
“I’m not drunk enough for this,” says Grayson.
“Typically the man leads, Geri,” calls Belk.
“Tired of your antifeminist agenda, Mr. Belk,” Geri answers. Grayson’s gaze shoots her way, but she’s already spinning away, her back to us.
Jealousy whispers through me as I see Caleb’s hand on Geri’s waist, and her fingers curling around the back of his neck. He’s smiling like he’s having a good time, but I know he’s only pretending. He and Geri aren’t friends. She was close with his ex, Margot, before she was booted, and has been nothing but cold to Caleb since.
“Come on,” I say to Grayson. “Think of it as an easy A.”
“I’m not a student.”
“Maybe not, but I am, and you want me to get a good grade, right?”
I take a step closer and grab his hand. To my relief, he doesn’t bolt away. Placing it on my waist, I show him how we’re supposed to stand, but the weight of his grip is heavy and unfamiliar on my side as I siphon in a tight breath.
“See? Not so hard,” I say.
Sam, now back with Charlotte, bumps into us.
Grayson’s hands drop as he spins toward them. “Watch it.”
“Sorry, man,” says Sam as they waltz away.
I hurriedly return Grayson to the proper stance.
“Look at that guy,” he says, lifting his chin toward Caleb. “He’s a train wreck.”
Maybe. But he’s my train wreck, so Grayson better watch his mouth.
“He’s trying,” I say.
Grayson’s cold stare, still directed at Caleb, makes me nervous. It’s as if Caleb has wronged him and Grayson’s looking for an excuse to fight.
“You could try, too, you know,” I say.
He finally looks at me and gives, just enough.
“This is ridiculous,” he mutters.
Grabbing my waist, he straightens my arms, and then pulls me across the floor in a perfect rotating box step, just like on the instructional video. With him leading, my feet are forced to follow, and his strong frame holds me up even when I start to get dizzy.
Holy crap. Grayson can dance.
The music stops, and I try to catch my breath as we slowly pull apart.
“There,” he says. “Happy?”
I grab the wall, my head still spinning. “Where’d you learn to do that?”
Everyone is watching us. Henry claps, and then they all join in. My skin heats as I search for Caleb and find he’s now the one staring warily at Grayson.
Grayson’s gaze bounces across the room like a cornered animal’s.
“My mom made us take lessons ever since I was six.”
His tone has changed, and I follow his line of sight to Geri, who’s checking her phone in her bag at the other side of the room. He squints a little, then spins away, his mouth pulled tight.
“I know that girl,” he says.
Alarms blare between my temples. Geri will have prepared for what to do when she’s inevitably recognized, but I’m unsure how Grayson will react.
“Oh yeah?” I say.
He scowls. “We used to … hang out.”
“Right,” I say slowly, because with an explanation like that we both know it was a little more than “hanging out.” I glance toward Caleb, hoping Grayson doesn’t find it suspicious that he knows three people in a school composed of twenty students.
Might be better to poison that idea before it takes root.
“At least you know people here already,” I tell him, as shouts for an encore performance rise around us. “When I came, I didn’t know anyone. I guess you rich kids all run in the same circles.”
He huffs, enough to tell me he buys this answer. Still, he seems offended by the smiling faces and applause of the others. His jaw sets, and his hands ball into fists. With a shake of his head, he strides toward the exit.
I race after him.
“What’s going on?” I ask. “You were great back there.”
He keeps walking, shoving through the glass doors.
“Grayson.” I jog to keep up. “Everyone wants to meet you.”
“I’m sure.”
“They do. They’re nice. You’ll like them. Just give them a chance.”
He stops, and his glare is searing. “I’m not here to make friends.”
With that, he stalks away, and doesn’t look back.
* * *
AT THREE O’CLOCK, Moore drives me to Uptown. On the way, I get a new ID that says Jaime Hernandez and a reminder that my phone both records conversations and takes pictures.
Thanks, Dad.
I pull at the hem of my sweater, hoping that I’m dressed nicely enough in these fitted charcoal pants and tall black boots I borrowed from Charlotte’s closet. It’s not exactly the low-cut T-shirt Mom wears to the Gridiron Sports Bar, but neither is the clientele. According to The Loft’s website, club members pay a yearly fee that could buy me any one of the cars in the garage at Vale Hall.
These people have money, and power, and the sooner I find what Dr. O needs on Jimmy Balder, the better, because I’m making exactly zero headway with Grayson.
“The office workers usually come up for drinks around six,” Moore says as he pulls the SUV up against the curb. The Loft is in the business district, several blocks away from the lake and the shops on the Riverwalk. It sits on the roof of a gleaming silver office building with tinted windows and doormen that look suspiciously like Secret Service. “You’ll be looking for a guy named Mark Stitz. He’s Sterling’s intern supervisor—came straight out of his own college internship a little less than a year ago. He would have worked with Balder.”
I’m already looking up pictures on Mark’s social media feeds. Mostly ridiculous selfies of him in suits, white-blond hair gelled back in an attempt to look sexy. Judging by how perfectly staged these shots look, I’m guessing he’s not as confident as he’s trying to appear.