Page 10 of One Bad Knight
I couldn’t help the smile curving my lips. “You think?” That earned me another nudge.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know you’re talented.” Viet rolled her eyes though she still grinned. “Your portraits are powerful, and this gallery show is going to explode your name as an artist!”
My feelings instantly went to war. To be able to paint for a living would be my dream, but being there for my family was more important. There was a certain image I needed to maintain for their sake.
In a gentler voice, Viet added, “And I bet you’d for sure go mega famous if you pulled out whatever you have in that closet over there.”
I followed her gaze to the locked closet at the back corner of the studio. Only Sam, the studio owner, and I had a key. When I first started painting here, I made a deal with Sam to rent the storage space.
While having the code to the front door meant any of us residents could paint or sculpt when the mood struck us, I was there more than anyone. Countless times I found myself painting alone at 2:00 a.m., unable to sleep until I put the image down that burned its way into my brain onto canvas. It was those paintings I locked away into my private closet collection.
“Not gonna happen,” I said, nudging Viet back.
She stomped a foot in frustration. “You are such a tease. You should let your best girl see them at least.”
I worked to cover up my smile.
“Are we still going out tonight?” I asked, changing the subject.
Viet’s face brightened. “Absolutely! I've got this new little black number that I'm going to pour myself into and then dance my butt off in.”
“Perfect,” I said. “Though I think your butt is what brings all the boys to the yard.” Then I pinched her plus-sized rear, earning a squeal and a swat. She winked at me, knowing all too well how true that was.
Her smile faltered. “Are you going to invite Jimi?”
I’d been casually dating Jimi for the last two months. Our families were old friends, and he was also deeply entrenched in the political lifestyle. But between my painting schedule and his polo games and golfing, we usually only saw each other at fundraiser dinners, or rallies to support my uncle. But this week, there was a party every single night, and I knew he’d be at all of them.
Viet had carefully emptied her expression, but I knew she wasn’t a big fan of Jimi or his ‘goon squad’ as she called them. Alan and Ross almost always seemed attached to his hip.
I shrugged my shoulder. “It’s casual, and he’s probably got something going already.”
“Can I ask?” she said in a conspiratorial whisper. “When you guys make out or do the deed, does he ever stop flashing that perfect, pasted-on smile?”
I snorted. “Yes, believe it or not, he’s not always camera-ready, Viet.”
Jimi was classically handsome to be sure, often mistaken for a Kennedy. And I really appreciated having a buddy for the seemingly endless events. He could small talk for hours without breaking a sweat. Which meant I could stand silently by his side and let him do all the heavy lifting with people I had almost nothing in common with.
But romantically, Jimi’s appeal had waned after a few make-out sessions. I didn’t mention to Viet that he tended to moan like he was eating the most scrumptious meal when we kissed. He made me feel like a bowl of excellent soup.
Viet lifted her arms and swayed her hips as if she were in the club already. “Our usual place?”
“Is there any other place that will let me stash my motorcycle gear behind the bar *and* give us free drinks?”
Viet shook her head with a giggle. “They aren’t free when you tip the way you do.”
I blew a raspberry at her and pushed her away so I could finish up. Tonight, I’d drink and dance away any thoughts of Harvard Law, my birthday, or the anniversary of my dad’s death.
* * *
The lights strobedin shades of blue, and my skin felt electric from the crisp citrus of the gin and tonic I downed when we’d first gotten here. The music pulsated up into my body and I felt free.
Here, no one could tell me what to do. No one knew who I was, and no one would frown at the cheap beer I drank, or the way I danced. I reveled in the simplicity of wearing a revealing halter dress without the censure of my family or our acquaintances. The midnight blue fabric sparkled and plunged at the neckline almost to my belly button, while the hem rode a dangerous line at the bottom of my thighs. Here, I wasn’t Katherine, niece of Senator John Hart. Here I was just Kat.
A guy wearing a designer tee with a smile that shone even in the darkness of the club approached me. I wasn’t sure I wanted to dance with anyone other than myself, but he followed all the rules. Making deliberate eye contact, he shot me a sultry smile. He was cute enough, so I held eye contact, giving the nonverbal cue that he could approach me. Soon, he sidled up next to me. Our rhythm was off, but he made up for it by occasionally spinning me, making me laugh.
Something in my chest unclenched. This was freedom. I didn’t have to think about being perfect here, and I savored these precious few days I had left. There was no question I’d get into Harvard. In New England, I’d be under such intense pressure and scrutiny, there would be no days or nights like this. Especially when my uncle’s inevitable re-election win came about. All the right people would mob around me, like the first time he’d been elected.
Through the strobing lights, a pair of eyes caught my attention at the edge of the dance floor.