“Carlos Flores’s daughter?” It’s clear in his voice, his interest is piqued.
“That’s her.”
“The girl who screwed Asher in that sex tape?”
I give him a side glance and inhale before I hit him. I hate that fucking tape. “I wouldn’t try to tap that, Dad. She’s all grown up now.”
His eyes never leave hers, and I’d like to drop-kick him to the floor. “I can see how grown up she’s become.”
Rather than respond, I turn my back on him and stalk off for another drink. Asher and Ryker both lean against the bar, listening to Ford’s speech—each taking turns making fun of him.
“Still no Lincoln?” I ask.
“Nope.” Asher tosses back whatever was in his glass and slides it back to the bartender. “Another, please.”
Ryker and I share a look. “That a good idea?” he says.
Asher scoffs and rolls his eyes. His pupils are already the size of silver dollars.
“So that’s her, right? The girl I banged back in high school for twenty points?” Asher asks with a nod to the stage.
I run my hand through my hair. We were such a bunch of punks.
There’s a reason the six of us were referred to as the Classholes. Because we were rich assholes with nothing better to do but make up a list of shit to do for points. One of them being to fuck the good girls.
Our classmates idolized us. Although it was our own little system with the points, rumors were spread and some of the good girls would ask how many points they were worth. We ruled Forest View Academy no matter what we did. Pathetic, really.
“Looks like her,” Ryker says.
“It’s her.” My voice is cold and detached.
“She got better with age. Maybe I’ll see if I can hit that again.” Asher takes the drink from the bartender, pulls a twenty out of the inside pocket of his suit jacket and tosses it onto the bar.
“You can’t even get it up right now,” I say.
“Pfft. Don’t you worry about me. I can get it up for someone as fine as her.” He downs a healthy sip of his drink and sets it back down on the bar.
“You should get off that shit,” Ryker says.
Asher’s usual easy-going demeanor morphs into agitation. “You two need to lighten up. What’s the point of having more money and power than God if you can’t enjoy yourself?”
I turn to step away when my sister approaches.
“Damn, baby Stone is looking good these days,” Asher says with zero thought to self-preservation, his eyes are zeroed in on her cleavage like a pilot to a fog covered runway.
“Jesus.” Ryker shakes his head at Asher.
“Hey, guys.” She gives each of us a quick hug, and my gaze is like a heat-seeking missile to make sure that neither of my friend’s hands stray anywhere they shouldn’t during the exchange.
“I didn’t know you were going to be here, Harper. Do you want a drink?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No, I’m good for now. Ford invited me.” She gestures to the stage just as raucous applause breaks out.
I’m assuming Ford just officially announced his candidacy. The four of us join in, clapping.
“I can’t believe he’s going to run for mayor,” she says, looking back from the stage to us again.
Ford takes a few pictures with his parents and then they exit the stage, Isla and the other man following them.
“He was practically born to do it,” Ryker says.
“Yeah, but I never really thought he was happy being Colorado’s political prince,” Harper says.
I shrug. “He’s made his peace with his place in this world. Just like the rest of us.”
No one contradicts me. Instead, the four of us down the drinks in our hands and watch as Ford takes one for the team.
4
Chapter Four
Isla
So far so good.
A few people have looked at me with more than veiled interest as Ford’s press secretary for the campaign, but no one has outright brought up why I left town so abruptly.
The only person who was outwardly aggressive with me was Garrin, which took me by surprise. I didn’t expect a hug and tears of joy at my return, but we’d been lab partners our senior year, and I had naively thought we’d formed a friendship. At one point, I’d foolishly thought he was flirting with me and I’d developed feelings for him. Until my dream cloud had popped, sending me plummeting back down to reality when he asked Tara Westover to prom.
So, I can’t imagine what his problem with me returning to town is. Then again, he wasn’t called cruel for no reason. Maybe I was just lucky not to be on the receiving end of his hostility in high school.
“Care to dance?”
I whip around at the sound of the deep voice behind me. Garrin is the only one there. His stone face and dark eyes devoid of emotion don’t immediately give away that he’s the one requesting to dance with me.
Taking a hesitant glance at the dance floor, I look back at him just to double-check he’s the one asking me to dance. Maybe he’s decided he should apologize. So I smile and say, “Sure.”
His hand slides into mine, and I swear his thumb runs along the inside of my wrist right before he leads me out to the dance floor. The heat from his hand runs up my arm until it coalesces as a warm feeling in my chest. The last word I’d use to describe the adult version of Garrin is warm. More like cold and unfeeling.
He walks me to the other side of the dance floor but not too close to the edge. Gripping one hand in his, placing his other low on my back, he pulls my body closer to him. The inches between us make me wonder how his body would feel flush to mine.
He leads me expertly across the dance floor, a result of his good breeding. He’s probably known how to dance like this since he was old enough to walk. His masterfulness on the dance floor loosens me up, and I relax in his arms. The scent of his expensive cologne acts like a pheromone and desires I’d long thought were dormant come alive.
“Why are you back here?” I tense under his rough tone. So much for the apology I’d thought might be coming.
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” I glance around to make sure no one is paying us any attention. Every time we get within five feet of a couple, Garrin whirls us around in the other direction. He seems hell-bent on keeping us separated from everyone else.
“Everything that happens in this city is my fucking business. Now tell me why you’re here.”
Even if my father didn’t want to keep his illness private, I wouldn’t pour my heart out to this cold version of Garrin. He’s nothing like the sweet boy who had to run out of the classroom on dissection day in high school.
“I thought Ford made it clear to you that I’m his press secretary for the campaign.” He twirls me around until we’re on the edge of the dance floor, isolated in our own little corner.
“Maybe, but I’d bet my bank account that’s not the real reason you’re back.” He pulls his head back a couple inches and spears me with a caustic look.
“Why I am or am not here isn’t your concern.” His hand twitches on my back.