Лорен Кейт - The Betrayal of Natalie Hargrove

Mike pulled into a spot near the chapel and turned off the car. We got out and opened the door to the backseat.

“Heave ho,” Mike said, and we lifted J.B. up again and carried him to the lawn.

“Let’s park him where they set up the nativity scene around Christmas,” I said. “He’ll look just like a little baby Jesus.”

“No,” J.B. whined, still sounding really loopy. “Mom, I can’t go to church dressed like this. I look like Grandma with a hangover.”

By then, Mike was laughing so hard he could hardly carry his end of the load, but I held onto J.B.’s fishnet-covered ankles and was struck by a brilliant beyond brilliant idea.

He was half-comatose and still totally consumed by the thought of his reputation being on the line because of his slutty costume choice.

Now whose fault was that?

I looked at the lipstick, and the feather boa, and the one patent-leather high heel he still had on. And suddenly, I saw them all in a whole new light. Sunlight. It rose pretty early Sunday mornings in the Bible Belt. And everyone who was anyone went to church — including certain Palmetto Court ballot counters. Tracy had said some of them were already questioning J.B.’s candidacy for Prince. And Baxter had said J.B. was asking to get punked showing up at the party dressed in drag.

“Mike,” I said slowly and quietly, “how funny would it be to leave him here?”

“Uh, not very,” Mike said, finally done laughing.

“Think about it.” I sank to the ground beside him and started running my fingers through his hair. “Perfect little Justin Balmer, exposed as a cross dresser?”

Mike looked unconvinced.

“Come on,” I coaxed. “We haven’t pulled one of our pranks in so long. He’ll probably wake up when the pastor gets here first thing in the morning, anyway. He’ll just have to hitch home in those clothes, that’s all.”

“But. .” Mike started to protest as I kissed along his jawline. “Well, he does live all the way out in West Palmetto,” he said.

“Exactly,” I said, feeling the momentum build behind my plan. “And do you really want to drive that far when you’ve been drinking?”

Mike shrugged and gave me the smallest twitch of a smile. I had him. I knew it.

“I guess it’d be sort of funny. As long as we leave him the water and make sure he has our numbers in his phone.”

“Totally,” I agreed. “We wouldn’t want to take it too far.” I looked over to make sure J.B. was still out. Check.

Back in the car, I grabbed the water bottle and reached into my bag for my lipstick. It wasn’t quite as flashy as the color J.B. had been wearing earlier, but I figured it was the least I could do to freshen up his face before we ditched him.

The car was humming. Mike turned around from the driver’s seat.

“Babe, I’m getting freaked out,” he said. “Hanging out alone, drunk, at church. It’s spooky. Hurry up, okay? I’ll pull the car around.”

“Sure.” I nodded, all sympathetic girlfriend. “Be right back.”

I was about to shut the door when something else caught my eye. It was a reel of the woven white rope that the Kings used to keep their boats tied up at the marina. Hmm, I didn’t see why it couldn’t be used to tie up other things. Even though Mike had agreed to this because he thought J.B. would wake up and run away before the first church bells rang, it might be funnier to give the kid just a little bit of a handicap. Everybody knew: What goes around comes around, and it was long past J.B.’s turn to feel powerless. I slipped the rope in my pocket and jogged back to the lawn.

He was still sprawled where we’d left him, his head resting on the base of a Palmetto. I always thought the crèche looked so ridiculous in this little grove of palm trees imported from south Florida. Now I was about to add another eyesore to the church grounds.

I looked back to make sure Mike really had pulled the car around. The taillights glowed from around the corner. Good. Odds were he would not be cool with the whole bondage thing. It was funny; if J.B. were awake, he might have been exactly the kind of guy who could get into being tied up. As I looped the rope around his wrists — which was kind of hard to do wearing these gloves — his eyes flicked open again.

A slight smirk spread across his face.

“What are you up to, girl?” he whispered.

I leaned in, so my lips were right up against his.

“No good,” I said, tightening the knot around the base of the tree. “Now be a good boy and go back to sleep.”

“Okay,” he nodded woozily, closing his eyes again.

I stifled a laugh. That might have been the first time J.B. ever obeyed me so blindly. I dashed another coat of lipstick on his mouth. What else did he need to complete his look? Another strand of beads? A well-placed condom? Before I knew it, I was rifling through his pockets for a pièce de résistance.

Jackpot.

My hand closed around an orange prescription bottle, which I wrestled from his jeans. Hmmm. . J.B.’s secret fun pills strewn strategically around his passed-out body on the grass? Okay, maybe that was going too far.

I weighed the pill bottle in my hand and glanced down at his face. His eyes looked so peaceful shut. But he wasn’t at peace at all; he was just so far gone that he wasn’t going to remember any of this in the morning.

The weird thing was, I realized, I wanted him to remember. I wanted him to feel the embarrassment of knowing I was behind all this. He may have started the feud, but I was going to have the last laugh. I slipped the pill bottle into the pocket of Mike’s tuxedo jacket.

“Maybe this will help jog your memory in the morning,” I said, patting the top of his head. “Sweet dreams.”

At the edge of sleep, I am waiting in my coronation tiara and floor-length backless ecru gown. I am standing at the threshold of the Scot’s Glen Golf and Country Club, waiting for the clop of horses’ hooves to round the corner and take me to my Prince.

The moment comes so quickly, so easily, I can hardly remember the announcement of our win. None of this bothers me. It’s going to be this moment in the carriage where everything begins.

When the horse-drawn buggy finally appears around the corner, it is even grander and glitzier than I imagined. The carriage itself is opulent, shaped like a giant silver Easter egg, and decorated with white roses and loops of twinkling lights. Even the jockey wears a white riding costume, and when he hops down from his perch, he bows at me and opens the carriage door.

Surprising myself, I begin to run. And in the dream, my white stiletto heels don’t sink into the green of the golf course. My ladies-in-waiting don’t disdain my public display of emotion. I run toward Mike, toward the celebration of our future. This carriage ride will be the one on which all future Palmetto Court carriage rides are based.

“M’lady.” The jockey beams at me, kissing my white-gloved hand.

“Thank you.” I smile demurely, nod my head, and let him hoist me up to my seat.

Poof.

A waft of smoke obscures my vision of the carriage’s interior. And then I hear a voice:

“Change of plans, Princess.”

Coughing, I wave my hands through the mist, and when the air inside the carriage clears, my jaw drops. Justin Balmer is sitting next to me where Mike is supposed to be.

Oh, it had been such a good dream until now. His black tux and emerald-green bowtie feel like they’re filling up the bulk of the carriage, making me choke and making him seem bigger than life.