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Plaything? My whole body broke out in a cold sweat. Sweet fucking Christ, why was that so hot?
“Y-yes, sir,” I whispered.
Those two magic words seemed to seal the deal. The man nodded once, turned, and disappeared into the crowd.
I shuddered out a breath and pushed up my mask in an attempt to provide my lungs with oxygen. Thirty minutes, he’d said? My phone showed it was 11:04 p.m., less than an hour until the champagne corks popped, and suddenly, I was very okay with my plans for ringing in the New Year.
I opened my phone, adjusted the settings, pulled my mask back down, and posted a quick, unedited selfie—wild grin, skewed bow tie, and all. Remember, NYE sets the tone for the year! I captioned as my body tingled with anxious anticipation. So be BOLD! *heart-hands emoji*
I’d barely hit Post when a cloud of Chanel No. 5 swirled around me, and before I could adequately brace myself, Patricia Wellbridge appeared before me like the ghost of New Year’s Past, fanning herself with her mask.
“Reagan, my darling! I sent you to fetch drinks for Lindy and me hours ago.” My mother’s face froze in a wide-eyed expression that might have conveyed disapproval had the Botox allowed it. “I’m absolutely parched.”
I squeezed my eyes shut for an instant, but when I opened them, she was very much still there, in full jeweled-and-feathered regalia, blocking my escape. Damn it.
“Mother.” I slid my hands into my pockets and tried very hard to shrug like a dutiful son… and not like a man who had a perfect stranger’s room key burning a hole in his pocket. “So sorry. I was waylaid by a reporter who wanted to know Dad’s views on Maine’s strategic petroleum reserves,” I lied. “The hazards of attending a press gala, right?”
“The reporter asked you?” she demanded, making a tsk-ing noise. “Was it that vulture who did the hit piece on your father last summer? Mr. Acton?”
I managed not to roll my eyes. The previous summer, my father had flubbed an interview badly, and the reporter had capitalized on the opportunity, but that was his job… and I would have said that even if I hadn’t shared an unwise onetime hookup with the reporter in question—a tidbit that did not make it into the article, thank you—before I committed to being a more mature, professional me.
Thankfully, I was saved from having to reply when my mother promptly launched into a whispered tirade about vulture journalists. The rant might have seemed highly ironic at a gala to raise money in support of the free press… unless you understood that we weren’t actually here in support of the cause but in support of my father’s political ambitions and my mother’s burning desire to marry me off to a “nice young lady” like Lindy, who had impeccable social connections.
After letting Mother rant for a few precious moments of my thirty-minute countdown, I interrupted. “There’s no need to get worked up. I’m twenty-eight years old, and I’ve been doing this for years. I can handle a few questions from reporters.”
My mother’s face contorted into something like a pained smile, and the reek of doubt coming off her was stronger than her Chanel. “Remember the time they asked you about the changes to the state’s school curriculum and you said you supported them?”
“I was seventeen,” I countered, cheeks hot beneath my mask. “And I do support sex education, including LGBTQ topics.”
“But your father hadn’t committed one way or the other, Reagan, and they weren’t really asking about your views. When you’re in public, you’re a reflection of us. Your father and me.”
I set my jaw.
“And then there was the time you were inebriated,” she sighed, “and allowed yourself to be filmed singing and dancing to that vile song in public?—”
“It was karaoke. For charity. Years ago. And it wasn’t vile?—”
My mother dismissed my protests with a wave, as she did with most unpleasant things, and patted my chest affectionately. “Your father has professional campaign staffers and lets them schedule interviews for a reason, dear. I know you’d hate to harm your father’s campaign, even by accident. It’s best for everyone if you just relax and smile. Jonathan learned that quite early on,” she reminded me.
“Right.” I managed not to sound bitter—barely—at this mention of my beloved, golden boy older brother, JT, a man I would have absolutely hated… if he hadn’t been so damn decent and generous and annoyingly lovable.
Mother nodded serenely at a nearby woman in an elaborately decorated red mask. “Now, then. Have you taken a picture of yourself looking handsome for your internet friends?”
“Yes, Mother.” It didn’t matter how many paid sponsorships I’d gotten or how many social media accounts I managed, my mother insisted on seeing my one million internet friends as a sort of hobby. I pulled away from her fussing hands.
“Now, darling, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about your schedule for the next few months. You know I don’t begrudge you a chance to sow your wild oats in the big city, but the governor’s race is heating up back home. I know you’re having fun at this little job of yours, but perhaps once Thatcher’s back from his holiday beach trip, I’ll speak to him about giving you some time off?—”
“Do not speak to Thatcher,” I said, so fiercely that she blinked. “Under no circumstances.”
“But he’s a friend of your father’s?—”
“I haven’t forgotten.” More bitterness leaked out. “And I know that’s most of the reason he offered me this position. But he’s not my direct boss. I don’t even see him very much.” Or at all. Ever. “And I’m not going to ask for special treatment. Besides, I offered to be part of Dad’s campaign staff and was turned down. I’m concentrating on my career.”
“Oh, Reagan.” The look she gave me was a perfect mixture of parental fondness and crushing parental doubt. “It’s not that we don’t want you to be part of the campaign. Of course we do?—”
“In front of the camera, as long as I keep my mouth shut. Behind the scenes, stuffing envelopes as an unpaid volunteer.”
“You make it sound so… menial.” Mother shook her head. “It’s a position that gives you lots of flexibility, remember? And if you’d like to jet off to Corfu with some lucky young woman or perhaps spend some time on the West Coast like you did a few years ago, we’re happy to treat you to those things?—”
