The Initiation (Filthy Rich Americans 1)

“Royce.” I said it the same way I’d tell him to stop.

But he didn’t. He opened the door and disappeared into the hallway, never once looking back at me.

FOUR

One Year Later

I WAS STILL A VIRGIN on my twenty-first birthday.

It wasn’t done out of loyalty to Royce, I continually reassured myself. I hadn’t seen him since his graduation party a year ago and did my best not to think about him at all these days. It had been hard at first. I’d spent an unhealthy amount of time obsessing over our night in the library and wondering what the hell had happened. Had I done something wrong? Or had the whole thing just been one massive mindfuck?

It was going to be tough to get through today without thinking about him. He, along with his father, was due at the house within the hour.

I sat on the tile floor of Emily’s bathroom, gazing at my purple toenail polish. She was beside me, and I stroked a hand over her hair as she bent over the toilet and spit the lingering stomach acid from her mouth. I tore off a strip of toilet paper and passed it to her as she leaned back, and I stayed quiet as she wiped the corners of her mouth.

Her eyes were bloodshot. She’d thrown up so many times today, it’d burst blood vessels.

“Feeling better?” I asked.

“A little. God, please tell me it’s finally out of my system.” Her skin was ashen and waxy. “Shit,” she groaned, collapsed back against the wall and put a hand on her forehead. “What the hell am I going to do?”

“People get sick,” I offered. “Everyone understands that.”

Her red-rimmed eyes popped open and stared at me like I was nuts. “Macalister won’t.”

She was right, so I wasn’t going to argue with her. Humans got sick, but Macalister Hale wasn’t human, so he wouldn’t be able to relate. Our father had tried to cancel the luncheon, but his boss refused. There were important things that needed to be discussed. Plus, he told my father there was “plenty of time for Emily to get herself together” before they arrived.

Macalister probably thought it was just a hangover and not actual food poisoning as my father had explained.

“Maybe a shower will help,” I said, glancing at the screen of my phone. The meeting was unavoidable, and she needed to get her ass in gear if she was going to attempt to look presentable.

“Okay,” she said weakly. I helped her up off the floor and plodded over to the shower, turning on the water.

After she finished, there was a knock at the bathroom door, but it swung open without waiting for a response, and our mother floated in. Her dark chocolate colored hair didn’t show a speck of gray because she paid a great deal of money for it not to. She wore a red and navy striped dress with a pleated skirt, and although lunch wouldn’t be served for another hour, she was all polished and ready to give Martha Stewart a run for her money.

She watched Emily climb feebly out of the shower, and worry streaked across her face. “Did anyone else get sick?”

I shook my head. “Em is the only one who ordered the salmon.”

My mother scowled, creating a crease in her forehead. “Don’t call her that today, all right?”

My sister’s nickname had never been an issue before. Any other time, I’d have been irritated at the idea of changing my behavior to please someone else, but today I would go with it. “Okay.”

The Hale family held sway over everything, and my parents would have less stress over the President of the United States visiting. They were supposed to be friends, but every moment with the Hales was rigid and formal. A visit with Macalister was a job interview that never ended. Every answer and action you made was evaluated and catalogued in his brain, and one wrong move would be disastrous.

“I should call the restaurant and let them know,” my mother said. “A lot of times it doesn’t get reported and—”

She froze as she stared at her daughter’s bloodshot eyes. It was obvious the thoughts running through her mind. First was concern over how sick Emily was, but the second thought was given almost as much priority. She was worried what Macalister’s reaction would be.

“I think I’ve got some Visine,” I whispered.

My mother’s attention swung toward me and, as she blinked, it was like she was seeing me for the very first time. Her critical gaze took in my deep emerald hair, scoured downward over my tank top and shorts, and landed on my flip-flops.

“Marist, please. Get dressed. I’m getting nervous sweats just looking at you.”

Emily lurched toward the toilet again. There wasn’t much left to throw up, and my mother and I stood helplessly by as she dry-heaved. If there was a way I could have transferred the sickness to myself, I gladly would have done it. It was so hard to watch my sister feeling miserable.