Page 5 of Privilege

Chapter Four

Dane

I wish Rich hadn’t come home.

I’ve been keeping tabs on him, worried he and Jamie would end up back together somehow. Unlikely, given how things ended, but she’s almost as conniving as Rich’s mom.

When she hadn’t turned up on his Instagram by second semester I started to relax.

And then I noticed the blonde chick starting to appear in some of his photos.

Her messy hair and makeup-free freckles were a serious swing from Rich’s standard assembly line of brunettes with filler-enhanced pouts and two-inch-long claws.

But meeting her? Social media hadn’t done her justice.

Spread out on his bed like that, with her tan waist exposed, she had me momentarily questioning whether I’d ever liked any hair colour but blonde.

As soon as I found out Rich was bringing her home for the summer, I knew my stupid brother wouldn’t think about dress code.

It was pretty clear from their pictures that she lived in jean shorts and campus hoodies.

The closest I’d seen to Blackstone Appropriate Attire was a story he’d posted at 3 a.m. of her standing in front of the fridge in his apartment, head thrown back in a laugh, wearing nothing but his dress shirt.

It had been taken down not even twenty minutes later, when I went back for a second— okay fourth— look at it. Pretty sure I single-handedly altered YouPorn’s algorithm to farmer’s daughter for at least a month after that.

Now she’s standing in the middle of a garden party surrounded by Manhattan’s elite.

She looks a little nervous, mildly uncomfortable, and absolutely fucking stunning.

It’s annoyingly distracting. This really isn’t how I wanted to kick off my return to New York—brotherly tension and an off-limits girl who’s got my dick so hard my zipper is imprinted in my fucking foreskin.

I have work to do. I can’t afford distractions.

All the old familiar faces are strewn about the garden, clumped like weeds across our sprawling estate lawn. It’s like a cocktail party for the members of Spectre .

Rich has been commandeered, pulled aside by the old water polo mafia.

I expected him to lose himself in catch-up and banter with his old friends who definitely kept him sane in school, but he hasn't taken his eyes off Cara.

He watches her like a hawk, his face bleak.

Every now and then he glances my way, eyes hard.

Something on your mind, brother?

I run a hand through my hair and scan the sunhats and loafers for my dad, but he’s conspicuously absent. Probably using the relatively novel distraction of newly returned summer children to slip away with his mistress. I wonder which one of my step-mother’s friends he’s fucking this season.

Evelyn is more than making up for it. My step-mother is everywhere at once, a hand on a shoulder, a whisper in someone’s ear, smouldering eye contact over the rim of her wine glass.

She was born for this, a shark in wasp’s clothing.

Wholly independent, uninterested in anything but social status, constantly mining for more power.

She’s cold. Calculating. Perfect for my dad. And absolutely nothing like Rich. At least, not how Rich used to be. At the moment, his glacial gaze could even outfrost his mom.

Some of the old boarding school girls are giving Cara the side eye and whispering behind their white garden party gloves.

It’s always irked me, the fake-gloves and fake-croquet games on the fake-lawn.

Rich stomached the Hampton crowd alright, was the darling of the annual White Party, was never offended enough by their superficiality to be upset by the goldfish bowl of conversation.

I can’t help but wonder how he’s tolerating it now, after a year in school with people who have a personality beyond the gossip column.

What does he think of them, now that he’s had a chance with a real woman?

If you’ve fucked one Hampton girl you’ve fucked them all.

Boring, back-arching, pornographic kitten-noise–making-machines.

Always more concerned about how they look than how they feel, as if they’re in the middle of a photoshoot for a Times Square billboard instead of in the middle of an orgasm.

I prefer to fuck the staff; nobody squirts like a maid with a mop handle.

I wonder if Rich has ever made Cara squirt.

I knock back my Negroni and a uniformed server with a severe, slicked back ponytail appears without a word.

She holds out a fresh one and I gulp it down in one go, handing her back the empty glass before she has a chance to come on to me.

On a good day, toying with them is pure entertainment.

On a bad one, I’d even fuck her afterwards.

But today? International Dick van der Beer returns day?

The only person I’m really interested in is Johnny Walker.

The girl is hovering so I opt for the trusty ‘you don't exist’ rejection method, which—depending on her level of daddy issues—will either have her scowling at me for the rest of the evening, or appearing naked in my room at midnight like an X-rated Cinderella.

Buzz in full-force, my stellar decision-making skills ferment in my liver as I wander over to Cara. There’s a spotlight on her, this girl in the white dress standing alone in the middle of the party. The most beautiful girl here. No fucking question.

I clear my throat. She tenses but says nothing. Skyler and Starla and the rest of the Cranbrooke Prep girls whose names I always used to mix up get a good staring-down from me, until they finally busy themselves with croquet again, muttering under their breath.

This isn’t helping. Not really. I’ve probably started the best gossip of the summer: Rich’s new girlfriend is boning Dane, too. She’s got enough to contend with, she doesn’t need the dogs frothing at the mouth for their piece of flesh.

Rich, you fucking idiot, why are you leaving her to the wolves over here?

I wonder what Evelyn will think of her, when she eventually graces us with her presence.

She’s been pointedly ignoring Cara, hasn’t so much as blinked in her direction which is a very intentional choice for a woman who can be ten places at once without batting an eyelash.

I’d imagine she’s angry that Rich hasn’t done some kind of formal introduction.

Or maybe she’s already written her off as common trash.

I snort, because to Evelyn, there’s only one answer to a question about the worthiness of a girl whose last name isn’t Vanderbilt.

“So,” I say to Cara.

“Don’t. ”

I arch an eyebrow. “Don’t what.”

“Don’t talk to me like you want to be my friend.”

“I don’t want to be your friend.”

“Then why are you talking to me?”

“I'm hoping to charm you into bed.”

“Don’t talk to me like that, either.”

Her tone is firm, sure of herself, distinctly lacking in ‘bitch’ which is weirdly more impactful. My dick twitches again and I sigh. This is going to be a fun summer.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Clearly we’ve started out on the wrong foot.”

“ We didn’t do anything. You started out on the wrong foot.”

“By buying you a dress? You look stunning you know, in case my little brother failed to mention.”

She turns to face me straight on and looks up at me, expression irritatingly neutral. “By trying to make my boyfriend uncomfortable.”

I blink. She didn’t say, by trying to make me uncomfortable.

She said by trying to make my boyfriend uncomfortable.

I narrow my eyes, her choice of words and tone punching with purpose.

She might look like the farmer’s daughter, but I have underestimated this girl; she may survive the Hamptonites yet .

“Possessive little thing, aren't you?”

She shrugs. “Not really. I just don’t like assholes.”

“No girls like anal.”

“You’re doing it wrong, then.”

I nearly swallow my tongue.

She lifts her drink at someone, like she’s pointing. “That’s the Queen Bee, I assume?”

Her voice is a little sharper, this time, but I can barely hear her over the buzzing in my ears: You’re doing it wrong then . Jesus. I follow where she’s pointing and frown. Ah yes, Jamie.

“Good eye,” I mutter.

“His ex?”

I exhale. “The one and not-only.” And she’s got her paws on Rich’s chest.

Jamie’s always been his kryptonite, has always known exactly what to say, what buttons to push. He’s no good on-the-spot, and she tugs his strings like a marionette.

I sigh again, because even though Cara appears to have a good head on her shoulders and the unique ability to conduct herself with decorum, my sweet brother Dick is clueless and going to fuck up the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

Dane to the rescue. As always .

I sling my arm around Cara’s shoulders, pull her in close, and rub her upper arm with my thumb.

She turns her head sharply, glares up at me and tries to step out of my embrace but I grip her tighter.

I can feel the shift in Rich’s attention—I’ve always known when Rich’s eyes are on me—so I sink my fingers into her skin and grin when Rich shoves Jamie out of the way.

There ya go, brother… Better late than never.

“What do you think you’re doing!” she hisses.

“Taking care of things,” I say.

She pauses, eyebrows drawing down, striking blue eyes boring into mine while she considers my words.

My stomach flip-flops. Her gaze is too sharp, too shrewd, and I don't fucking like it. But I’m spared the indignity of looking away first because Rich steps between us, eases her gently backward, and then gets right up in my face.

“It’s been an hour, man. One fucking hour and you’re already moving in on my girlfriend?”

We’re chest to chest and his face is liquid fire. He's spitting fucking mad, the kind of mad that has marinaded for a long, long time.

Go ahead and hate me, Rich. It’s better for everyone this way .

The air blisters with tension. I am suddenly achingly aware of the pressure of his chest on mine and my heart thumps so hard in my ribcage it bumps up against the bones.

Rich looks older, somehow. Like he grew up.

And I missed it.

His face softens a little, but then someone gently grips my arm and I jump. Rich and I both look down, where Cara has put one hand on each of us, her eyes wide, glancing back and forth between us like she’s trying to figure something out.

Good luck with that, Cara.

I step back as Rich slides his arm around her waist, drops his mouth to her bare shoulder and kisses her without looking away from me.

It’s a clear warning, a territorial display very out of character for my notoriously neutral brother. I smirk and salute him, spin on my heel, and head back towards the bar. My work here is done. I’d forgotten what a thankless job it is looking after him.

The unmistakable glacial gaze of my step-mother hits me like a cold wind. Nobody can shrink your balls like Evelyn van der Beer. But it’s too late—the damage is done and the rumours will fly, but really? They’d fly either way. May as well give them something juicy.

The slicked back ponytail girl appears in my path holding another Negroni, and I try to picture her without the tinted eyebrows and fake eyelashes. It’s hard. She kind of reminds me of the actors in that Shakespeare play they do in Central Park. The one with all the fairies where everyone fucks.

I finish the drink in one gulp and put the empty glass firmly on the bar.

“Right then,” I say.

She smiles like a hyena, all teeth, when I take her by the hand and yank her towards the house. The only one sleeping in my bed tonight is still Johnny Walker. But nobody’s evening ever got worse with a ponytail wrapped around their wrist.