That kind of change to my life, my routine, would be the worst thing on the planet. Not just disruptive, but humiliating. And what if the lawyer fees or the divorce settlement or my mom’s alimony messed with my allowance? What if I had to give up my car?
The whole drive back to campus, I was in a rage.
So here I was, brooding during the remainder of my lunch period, gripping my book so hard my fingers had gone numb.
My life as I knew it was over.
Mainly, I was furious at my father. Obviously. How hard was it to keep your dick in your pants when you were that old? But my mom was to blame, too. The way she nagged and shopped her way through the money in their checking account every month and generally made herself a royal pain to be around, it was no wonder Dad had been driven to seek out other women. My mother prided herself on being the ideal society wife—going to the right events, always looking perfectly put together no matter what, making sure she was seen with and by the right people—but behind closed doors, it was a whole other story.
I hated to think about it in detail, but it was clear she fucked up whatever her wifely duties to my father were supposed to be. When a man was getting what he needed from his marriage, he had no reason to wander, be it for emotional or physical reasons.
Regardless of the state of their relationship, though, I didn’t want them to get a divorce. Why should I have to suffer just because they’d made poor choices? They said the vows, ‘til death do they part, and as far as I was concerned that meant they should stay married. For my sake, at least. They could separate after I left for college. It was only a few more years.
Gripping my Mountain Dew can had left me with a fist full of crumpled aluminum. As I walked over to the recycling can, I debated just leaving campus. Playing hooky for the rest of the day. Maybe I’d hit up one of the dive bars on Lincoln Ave that wouldn’t look too hard at my fake ID.
Then I saw Mara Zoric walking across the quad.
Konstantin Zoric’s daughter.
He was the person who was really to blame for all of this. My father would have never gotten involved with a revolving door of barely legal sex workers if it wasn’t for that scumbaggy piece of shit and his so-called “modeling agency,” which was clearly just a front for prostitutes. And meanwhile I’d have to see Mara at school every day, watching her sashay around without a care in the world, as though her father hadn’t singlehandedly just ruined my life and the lives of countless others.
It didn’t help that she was prettier than I’d realized, which somehow made it all worse. That long black hair, the heart-shaped face, the kind of tits you just can’t hide. She was usually the wallflower type, but I could see her laughing with someone at the other end of the quad.
My vision went red.
Suddenly, all I wanted was for her to feel as bad as I did right now. Like her whole world was falling apart, and couldn’t ever be put back together. I wondered if she knew what her father really did. What paid for her nice house, her private school tuition, the black town car that dropped her off every day. I mean, the girl wasn’t stupid. She probably knew everything.
I had a Sharpie in my backpack.
Ducking back into the building, I stalked to the main hallway, to the row of lockers that faced the front entrance doors of the school. Those lockers were the first thing you saw when you walked in every morning, flanked on both sides by gleaming trophy cases, the Wayland-Blaine crest hanging on a banner above.
I glanced down the hall to make sure it was empty. Everyone was either at lunch or in their afternoon classes. I knew it didn’t matter which locker I wrote on.
In big, black, capital letters, I wrote Mara’s name. Her full name: MARA ZORIC. Then underneath it, IS A WHORE.
The janitor would clean it up soon enough, but that didn’t matter. All that mattered was that everyone in school would see it first. The rumor mill would do the rest.
Sharpie in hand, I turned toward the gym. My revenge was far from complete. Next stop: the boys’ locker room.
Ford
Chapter 1
Against all odds, See Yourself’s fundraising event at the Four Seasons was turning out to be a huge success.
The Grand Ballroom was packed, the mood sophisticated without being stuffy. Emzee was going to raise a ton for her charity and I couldn’t be happier for her. Despite the snafus we had encountered during the planning process, the last-minute catering and sound system issues that cropped up earlier today, and the fact that my ex Claudia had barely managed to do her job, the event had gone off without a hitch thus far.
Yet somehow, nothing was turning out the way I thought it would. Not with the event, of course—surveying the tables, all I saw were happy faces and raised flutes of champagne, which meant people were going to be writing some pretty big checks before they left—but there was definitely something going on with Emzee. I’d barely seen my wife since we arrived. In fact, it almost felt like she was avoiding me.
This should have been our triumphant debut, but whenever I managed to catch a glimpse of her mingling with the guests, I could tell that her smile was forced. Was it just her anxiety? I knew crowds made her uncomfortable, but at the same time, shouldn’t some of the stress that had been dogging her leading up to this night be gone now? Her big event was finally happening, and happening well. If there was a time to celebrate her accomplishments, this was it. But every time I started toward her, she’d disappear back into the fray.
“Ah, young Ford Malone, there you are!”
I turned to find Nathan Watson—a real estate developer and old friend of my father—standing behind me with a plate of canapés. He pulled me into a half hug with his free arm.
“Good to see you, Mr. Watson,” I coughed out as he slapped me heartily on the back.
“Pleasure’s all mine,” he said, brandishing his plate. “Quail egg on toast?”
