American Queen

“And so he sent you.”

“He sent me.”

I look down at my hand, still held tightly by Embry’s. How did I end up tangled with these two men? The two most powerful men in the free world?

This is real life, Greer. Say no. Say no to Embry, and for God’s sake, say no to the President.

I breathe in.

Fire and leather. Blood and kisses.

I breathe out.

“I’ll see him. Tell him I’ll see him.”

I don’t miss the pain that flares in Embry’s eyes, pain that he quickly hides.

“Consider it done,” he says.

4

Ten Years Ago

“You have to hold still,” Abilene fussed at me. “I keep messing this one up.”

I sighed and forced my body to stay still, even though I was so excited I could barely breathe. In just a few minutes, a hired car would pull in front of the London hotel Grandpa Leo had put us up in and take us to a large party in Chelsea, a party with adults and champagne. There would be diplomats and businessmen and maybe even a celebrity or two—a world away from the stale beer and crackling speakers of the hill parties back at school.

It was my sixteenth birthday, and as a special treat, he’d allowed us to tag along with him to the party. Or rather, he’d invited me and only reluctantly allowed Abilene to tag along—he could hardly invite one granddaughter and not the other, but we both knew (even if we didn’t say it aloud) that bringing Abilene to something like this carried a significant risk of embarrassment. She’d nearly been thrown out of Cadbury multiple times for a host of crimes—drinking on the premises, breaking curfew, a nasty incident that led to another lacrosse player with a black eye—and every time, Grandpa Leo had quietly paid the right money and pulled the right strings to keep her installed there.

The last thing he wanted was for her to disgrace him at a party full of his friends, but I promised him that I’d keep her on her best behavior. I promised him that I’d keep her from drinking too much, from talking too much, from flirting too much, just as long as he’d let her go, because she would be so hurt if I was able to come along and she wasn’t.

And Grandpa Leo, who used to terrorize senators and petroleum executives, who helped shape the strongest environmental legislation on record and publicly excoriated his enemies on a daily basis, relented to my pleading with a gruff smile and let Abilene come along.

And that’s why Abilene and I had spent our evening in an expensive hotel getting ready, why I was currently trying not to squirm in a chair as Abilene carefully pinned my final curl in place.

When she finished and I stood up to give myself a final once-over before strapping on my high heels and going downstairs, she made a noise behind me.

Worried, I spun around to the mirror. “What is it? Is my bra showing?” I tried to turn this way and that, positive that Abilene had seen something potentially disastrous.

“No. It’s…it’s fine.” Her voice sounded choked. “Let’s go. Grandpa’s waiting.”

I shrugged and sat down to pull on the strappy heels that matched the blush pink gown Grandpa had bought me earlier that week. The tulle and organza dress had a narrow waist and form-fitting bodice, a delicate sash in back, and a skirt that erupted from sedate layers into luxurious drapes and loops. With a matching tulle flower set into my hair and metallic pink heels, I felt like a princess, even though I knew I wouldn’t look like one compared to Abilene.

Tonight, she wore a tight dress of electric blue, with a keyhole in the center of the bodice displaying a swath of creamy-pale skin, and her glossy red hair was down in loose waves. She looked years older than she was, mature and sophisticated, and I stifled the usual pang of weary resignation that came along with seeing Abilene dressed up.

I was used to being in her shadow, after all, the companion to her Doctor, the Spock to her Kirk, and so it shouldn’t bother me tonight. Even if it was my birthday. Even if I was in the most beautiful dress I’d ever worn. But after looking at her, so polished and alluring, it was impossible to look at my reflection and see anything other than the faint cleft in my chin, the ridiculous beauty mark that refused to be covered up, the flatness of my eyes even after the most strategic uses of mascara and eyeliner.

So I did one final check to make sure my strapless bra wasn’t showing, that I hadn’t accidentally smeared pink lipstick across my face or sat on Abilene’s half-eaten Galaxy bar, and then opened the door. Abilene pushed past me without a word and refused to speak to me on the ride down to the lobby.

The mirrored doors opened, and she strode out of the lift, her heels clicking on the marble floor. “Are you angry with me?” I asked.

I racked my brain trying to think of anything I could have done to make her mad and came up with nothing. But sometimes that didn’t matter with Abilene. For all the times she hugged me out of nowhere, made sure I was invited to a party, or defended me to her friends, there were other times when she’d plunge suddenly into a dark, sullen mood, when her stare would burn like acid and her words char my skin like fire. I’d learned not to negotiate with these moods or try to appease them, even though they seemed to happen more and more frequently. There was no point—you couldn’t argue with a storm cloud, you could only wait for it to blow past.

“I’m not angry with you,” she said, still walking fast. I could make out the stout shape of Grandpa Leo through the front doors and, overlaid on top of him, our reflections: Abilene all scarlet and sapphire, and me shell-pink and gold.