Worse, he didn’t even explain why I’m suddenly being punished.
Screw him, I think as I land hard on the grass and roll to break my fall. I’m breathing hard even though sneaking out wasn’t that difficult, barely involved more than shimmying out my window, scaling the ivy lattice on the roof outside it, and then climbing a ladder get up this wall, my last hurdle. It’s probably just that this is the first time I’ve ever done something like this. It’s exhilarating.
Disobeyed my father.
He had it coming, I remind myself. I dust off the legs of my tight black jeans and adjust the crop top I put on especially for tonight. Lace has been texting me about this party for weeks, knowing that there was only a snowball’s chance in hell I’d ever show. But it’s not often that St. Augustine’s, the boys’ Catholic high school a few towns over, hosts big parties like this one. One of the guys’ parents is out of town, and he lives on some epic estate, probably almost as big as my father’s, so he invited everyone from his school and ours. Lace went to the last one he threw, five months ago, and she hasn’t stopped talking about it since.
When I texted her this afternoon to say I was in, I’m pretty sure she nearly had a stroke, she was so shocked. But it’s my birthday in 5 days; I’ll be 17, and it’s time I started acting like it. Hell, I’ve never even danced in the same room as a boy, let alone kissed one. I could stand to get a little life experience.
I take off down the road following the GPS on my phone. It’s not too far, just a 20 minute walk, though I’ve never walked the roads of our upstate New York town this late at night. Or alone.
I shiver a little, wrapping my arms around my exposed stomach and wishing I’d thought to bring a jacket. It’s late summer, almost fall, and chilly enough to raise goosebumps along my arms and chest and stomach. The crop top I’m wearing is brand new and cost a fortune. The only way I managed to sneak it into the shopping cart was by pretending it was a bra, not an actual shirt. The jeans are designer too, and hug my curves perfectly. Paired with my high heeled Manolo Blahniks, I’m looking sexy as hell tonight, I must admit.
Not that I’d know the first thing about how to actually be sexy, but still. I’ve got the internet, and Dad’s “inappropriate content” blockers can only filter out so much.
At least I’m not the only one pissed at him, I remind myself as I reach the outskirts of town and saunter onto the sidewalk. I’ve heard his meetings lately. Normally the impeccably dressed business men who appear on our front stoop, accompanied by body guards the size of small horses, seem to enjoy their time with my father. They all sip whiskey from the liquor cabinet Dad keeps locked and toast to their various enterprises. I don’t know a lot of details about what exactly those entail, but I’m not an idiot. There’s the front Dad puts on for the rest of the world, the real estate companies and the investments, and then there are the offshore accounts he talks about in whispers, the deals made in his study over those glasses of overpriced whiskey, while guards man the doors and even the maids aren’t allowed to go inside.
But lately, those meetings have taken a turn. I’ve heard shouting more than once, and just yesterday, a man I’d never seen before stormed out of the house, shouting over his shoulder that he’d see the Badiary name ruined if it was the last thing he did.
Guess I’m not the only one Dad is pissing off.
I turn right at the center of town, still lost in thought. That’s when instinct makes me look up, realizing the air has shifted around me.
There’s no one else on the street. I shiver. I’ve never seen the town this empty, though of course, I’ve never been out so late before. I check my phone again for the map I’ve been following. Dammit. Took a wrong turn. I double back to the main road, then count street corners again. Two blocks up, I turn right, and this time, I hear it.
Footsteps.
Almost in sync with mine but off by a hair. Just enough that I can tell.
I speed up, though that’s tricky in my heels. I make it to the next street light, then casually glance over my shoulder, feigning a nonchalance that I don’t feel.