The Fixer

“Keep telling yourself that,” I said. If he was looking for a reaction other than skepticism about his prowess as a “friend,” he wasn’t going to get one.

 

“You think you’re really something, don’t you?” He was tall and athletic, with perfect teeth and perfect hair. I wasn’t sure what bothered him more—the idea of being rejected, or the fact that in a staring contest between the two of us, we both knew he’d be the one to look away first. “Your sister’s nothing but a political ambulance chaser,” he spat out. “The flavor of the month. To people like my father, she’s the hired help.”

 

He wanted me wondering who his father was.

 

Want away, Boy Wonder, I thought. I wasn’t up on the Who’s Who? of DC, and I didn’t care to be.

 

“I could make things very difficult for you here.” He clearly meant that as a threat.

 

I snorted. “And I could have a nice chat with your father about the fact that out of all the girls at this school that you could choose to terrorize, you chose the vice president’s daughter.”

 

I had no idea who this guy’s father was. He might or might not have been the type of man who cared about the way his son treated girls. But judging from said son’s attitude about power—who had it, who didn’t—I was guessing Daddy Dearest might care quite a bit about the idea of his idiot son making enemies in high places.

 

For a split second, the idiot in question blanched. I stabbed my fork into my salad and started bringing the bite to my mouth. Without warning, the boy’s hand snaked out, grabbing my wrist. From a distance, the expression on his face would have looked perfectly friendly, but up close, I saw the glint in his eye.

 

“Fine day we’re having, isn’t it?” Asher Rhodes slipped into the seat next to mine, picked up my spoon, and stole a bite of my cupcake. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

 

The boy with the glint in his eye dropped my wrist. He laughed. “Just kidding around with Tess here.”

 

Asher snagged another bite of my cupcake. “Such a kidder, that Tess,” he said jovially. “A constant riot. Keeps me in stitches, she does.”

 

The boy blinked several times. “You two are . . .”

 

“Friends,” Asher declared. He tried for another bite of my cupcake. I blocked his hand with my fork, a little harder than necessary.

 

I didn’t need rescuing.

 

“We’re not friends,” I told Asher.

 

“Our bond goes far beyond friendship,” Asher agreed pleasantly. “Epics will be written. Bards will sing.” He turned back to the boy across from us. “Any interest in playing the role of the bard?”

 

Not surprisingly, the answer to that question was no. The boy made a hasty exit. He and his hangers-on retreated to a table near Emilia’s. She turned around and went back to holding court at her own table, head held high.

 

“John Thomas Wilcox,” Asher told me quietly. “His father’s the minority whip.”

 

I wasn’t sure what one was supposed to say in response to that, so I said nothing.

 

“I see you’re the strong and silent type,” Asher said sagely. “I never shut up, so we’re going to get along smashingly.”

 

“I was fine,” I told him. “You could have stayed with your friends.”

 

Despite his “best friend” being absent, Asher seemed to have had no shortage of companionship the past few days. He ate lunch at a different table every day, like a king spreading the wealth among his people.

 

“It wasn’t you I was worried about,” Asher returned easily. “There was murder in your eyes, and, let’s face it, John Thomas’s face is too pretty for the maiming I’m sure he so richly deserved.”

 

Emilia had tried to hire me to keep her brother out of trouble for a few days. I wondered if she’d figured out yet that I was the last person anyone should think was qualified for that job.

 

Trouble always had a way of finding me.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 17

 

Five minutes before the final bell cut us loose for the day, I got pulled into the headmaster’s office.

 

“Tess,” he said. “Can I call you Tess?”

 

“Knock yourself out.”

 

He folded his hands in front of him on the desk. “I’m afraid we’ve received some complaints.”

 

I waited for him to elaborate. He waited for me to say something. I was better at waiting than he was.

 

“Serious allegations have been made. Bullying. Blackmail. Theft.”

 

Again, the headmaster paused, and again, I said nothing. The only person who had reason to accuse me of theft was John Thomas Wilcox. The idea of him reporting me to the administration for anything was pretty rich. He must have been betting on the fact that I wouldn’t report him in return.

 

Unfortunately, that was a good bet. If Anna Hayden had wanted the administration involved in her situation, she would have gone to them herself.

 

“Now, you’re new here,” the headmaster continued. “And I believe in giving students the benefit of the doubt, but it would help us put this unfortunate business behind us if you would allow us to search your locker.”

 

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