Хлоя Нейл: Friday Night Bites

“Look, I know acting isn’t exactly my background, but I’m pretty sure I can fake being pretentious.” I did have one hell of a teacher. “But I actually have a better idea.”

Ethan arched his eyebrows. “We’re all ears, Sentinel.”

“Robert,” I said. “He’s our cover story.”

Despite our ongoing estrangement, or maybe because of it, my father had approached me a few weeks ago, on the evening of my twenty-eighth birthday no less, to ask that I help my brother Robert, who was poised to take over Merit Properties, make inroads with the city’s supernaturally endowed population. I’d declined for a number of reasons, the speed with which Ethan would punish what he imagined to be my pro-human treachery first among them. My dislike for my father, though, ran a real close second.

I’d corrected my father’s assumptions about what I “owed” my family in strong enough terms that he would wonder why I was coming back. But if he thought I was willing to help Robert make connections with sups, my guess was that he’d bypass wondering and move right into gloating.

“That’s not bad,” Ethan said. “And when you secure an audience with your father, which you can work on this evening, you’ll be delivering him one hell of a connection.”

It was my turn to lift sardonic brows. “And that would be?”

“Me, of course.”

Yeah. That was exactly the pretension I was referring to earlier.

Luc looked at me. “You’ll want to call the family as soon as you have a chance. Let them know you want to return to the fold. Ask them if there’s anything on the social calendar that looks interesting.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

“Well, now that we’ve arranged a strategy,” Ethan said, slapping his knees and rising from his seat, “you’re dismissed. Luc, make the arrangements we discussed.”

The arrangements they’d discussed ? As in, past tense?

“Wait a minute,” I said, lifting a finger as Ethan walked back to his desk. “How much of this little plan had you two already decided on before I walked in?”

He offered Luc a thoughtful look. “What, Lucas, all of it?”

“Pretty much,” Luc said, nodding.

“Never underestimate the power of staff buy-in,” Ethan said, glowing with Gordon Gecko-worthy smugness. I humphed.

Luc, the traitor, grabbed a celery stick from our spread, then rose from the couch, patting my shoulder as he walked past, a gesture that was equal parts camaraderie and condescension. “But thanks for coming to the party, Sentinel. We appreciate you sparing us some of your time.”

Ethan’s chair squeaking, he situated himself behind his desk, then ran hands through his hair and squinted at his computer monitor.

“If we’re done,” I said, “I’m going back upstairs.”

Luc settled into the chair in front of Ethan’s desk while Ethan attended to his e-mail, or whatever business electronically preoccupied him. He poised his fingers above the keyboard, and like a pianist’s, they flew across the keys. “Do that, Sentinel. Do that.”

Luc munched the end of his celery stick, then waved the stalk of it at me. “Have a great evening, Sunshine.”

I left them to their gloating.

CHAPTER 5

TALKIN’ ’BOUT FREEDOM

I’d never been much for chatting on the phone. I’d been obsessed with books and ballet growing up and wasn’t the kind of teenager who spent an evening at home, cordless pressed to my ear. That meant I’d never really gotten used to it. Sure, I occasionally called my older brother and sister, Robert and Charlotte, to check in, and when I was still in school, I called Mallory to arrange lunch dates in the Loop, but chatting up Joshua and Meredith Merit was a bird of an altogether different feather. Of course, it was nearly midnight, so there was at least a chance that my parents were asleep, prepping for another day in the upper echelon of Chicago society.

That debate—were they asleep, or weren’t they—was why I spent the first hour after returning to my room with a granola bar and book in hand. It was only when I didn’t think I could put it off any longer that I sat cross-legged on my bed, staring at the phone in my hand, cursing the loyalty oaths I’d sworn to one Ethan Sullivan.

I took a breath, steeled myself, dialed my parents’ number, and was pleasantly surprised to get a crisp and carefully scripted answering machine message.

“You have reached the residence of Mr. and Mrs. Joshua Merit,” my mother said. “I’m afraid we’re unable to take your call at this time. Please leave a message following the tone.”

There was a digital beep. I closed my eyes and faked the nonchalant self-confidence that Ethan, Luc, and I had discussed. “Hello, it’s Merit. I wanted to talk to you both. In short, now that things have . . . changed, now that I’ve changed, I think it’s a good idea that I rebuild some relationships.” I cringed, and continued. “That I start spending time with the right kinds of people—”

I was interrupted by a clicking sound—the sound of a phone receiver being picked up. I silently cursed. I’d been so close.

“Well, darling,” my mother said, apparently awake regardless of the time, “your call couldn’t be more timely. The Breckenridges are hosting an event Friday night—cocktails for the Harvest Coalition—in Loring Park.” The Breckenridge estate was located in Loring Park, a suburb in the Illinois countryside. “I won’t be there,” she continued. “I have an auxiliary meeting. But your father will. And, of course, the Breckenridges. You should come, say hello to the Breck boys.”

The Harvest Coalition was a Chicago food bank. And while the cause was obviously laudable, I wasn’t thrilled about being in the same house with my father. On the other hand, my first gala out the door and I was headed right into the Breckenridges’ backyard. Or maybe more accurately, right into the Breckenridge henhouse, a vampire in tow. God forgive me.

“That sounds great, Mom.”

“Wonderful. Black tie, cocktails at eight o’clock,” she said, repeating the stats of the rich and famous. “I’ll have Pennebaker”—that was my parents’ fusty butler—“call the Breckenridges and messenger over an invitation. You’re still living with that Carmichael girl, I take it?”

If only. “Actually, Mom, I moved into Cadogan House today. With the rest of the vampires,” I added, in case that wasn’t obvious.

“Well,” my mother said, intrigue in her voice. “Isn’t that quite the development? I’ll be sure to pass that along to your father.” I had no doubt she would, my father being a dealer of information—and the connections that this specific information would signal.

“Thank you, Mom.”

“Of course, dear.”

That’s when I had a brainstorm. I might not have my grandfather’s secret source, but I had a Meredith Merit. “Mom, one thing before you go. I hear Jamie’s working now. Maybe at a newspaper?”

“Newspaper, newspaper,” she absently repeated. “No, I don’t recall anything about a newspaper. Everyone knows Nick is the journalist in the Breck family, anyway. Unless you’ve heard something different?” Her voice had dropped an octave; she’d moved directly into gossip mode and was waiting for me to pass along some juicy detail. But my job was to investigate, not fan the flames.

“Nope,” I said. “Just thought I remembered hearing something.”

“Oh, well. God willing, he’ll find a place of his own at some point. Something to keep him occupied.”

She paused, then asked, a little too loudly, “What, dear?” Silence again, then, “Darling, your father’s calling me. I’ll arrange for an invitation. You enjoy your Cadogan House.”