Long May She Reign (30 page)

“You all right?” he asked.

How often had she been asked
that
in recent months? “Well, now, that's the real question, isn't it, Skip,” she said.

He looked worried. “You aren't sick or anything, are you? Because, you know, you aren't very big, and well, maybe you've been drinking too much.”

Maybe?
She grinned, and tried to get past him. “Excuse me, while I go get my car keys, okay?”

He pulled her back. “Unh-unh. No way. Even if you hadn't been drinking, the snow is—”

Jesus. “They don't let me drive, Skip,” she said, still grinning. A little. “I mean, come on. I don't get to do
anything
regular people do, I just—someone'll probably leak me getting drunk to the tabloids, know what I mean?” She reached up to pat his cheek. Or, anyway, his beard. “Relax.”

“I really like you,” he said, sounding very serious.

Had she inadvertently put on some kind of super-concentrated male-attraction scent tonight? This was just nuts. Pheromones run amok. She nodded politely. “Well, I like you, too, Skip.”

“I mean it,” he said. “A lot.”

Christ. He didn't even know her. If someone was going to say that sort of thing, she would infinitely prefer that it was, in some way, based in reality. “Simon,” she said, “I really don't want you to get the wrong—”

He kissed her, and like a very stupid and promiscuous drunk, she automatically returned it. Had she ever kissed anyone with a beard before? Then again, truth be known, she really hadn't kissed very many people, and they had all definitely been
boys
, as opposed to men. So, yeah, beards were new. It seemed fine. A little distracting, maybe. Slightly scratchy. But—fine. Just fine.

And, of course, she had
always
been a fan of tongues, and hands, and hips, and such. Except, why was she fooling around with someone in whom she had absolutely no romantic interest? Christ, she was as bad as Jack Taylor.

“Want to go to your room?” he whispered. “If you'd feel better, we could even just hold each other.”

Which, given what a considerate guy he seemed to be, he probably
meant
.

She felt like letting him keep going, to see what might happen—why not?—but then she heard someone coming up the stairs.

Susan. Covered with snow, home from the Greylock party, holding Meg's bulletproof jacket in one hand.

“Hi,” she said, and the inflection in her voice would probably have been hard to interpret even if Meg
hadn't
been drunk.

Noticing that her shirt was hanging open—when had that happened?—Meg flushed, moved Simon's hand off her chest, and held the two ends closed. “How was the party? I, uh, kind of lost track of you.”

“I noticed, yeah,” Susan said, and dropped Meg's jacket on the landing with a thud.

Curt. She sounded curt. Meg rubbed her forehead, aware for the first time that she had picked up a major headache somewhere along the line.

“It's getting pretty late,” Susan said, and gestured towards the common room. “So, if people start complaining, you guys are going to have to keep it down.”

Meg nodded.

“So, please do,” Susan said, and started back down to the second floor.

Once she was gone, Simon moved closer, his arms going around her waist. “Don't worry,” he said. “JAs have to act all strict, but it's not like they can get you in trouble. I mean, they're not your parents or anything.”

No, but they could make a person feel awfully stupid and thoughtless.

Simon reached up, tentatively, to brush some hair away from her eyes. “So, uh—”

“Let's go back in, and see what everyone else is doing,” Meg said, “okay?”

He looked crushed. “Is that what you want?”

She nodded. Emphatically.

18

THE PARTY BROKE
up at four or five in the morning, and Meg was asleep—alone—almost before she managed to collapse onto her bed, the ceiling swirling around above her. When she woke up, she felt so terrible—much worse than New Year's Day—that groaning would have required too much energy. Her head hurt, the room was still spinning a little, and her mouth was so dry that she could barely swallow—an extremely frightening sensation.

She tried to go back to sleep, but it didn't work, and finally, she decided to go out to the bathroom and get a large drink of water. Take some ibuprofen, maybe.

When she opened her door, she saw Susan standing just down the hallway, talking to Jesslyn, and almost ducked back into her room, before realizing that that would only make her seem more immature than she had already proven herself to be. And besides,
nobody
—not a JA, not her father, not the Leader of the Free World—could tell her what to do, or not to do, even if her choices were self-destructive.

“Well, maybe they wouldn't mind as much if you only bet in increments of five or ten dollars,” Susan was saying.

Jesslyn looked sulky. “If they have such terrible hands, they should just
fold
, instead of whining about it later.”

So, she must have taken too much money from people during the regular Friday night poker game in one of the basement common rooms. Again. Meg had wondered how she could get away with winning—and losing—so much money on the Internet every day, but Juliana had told her that Jesslyn's father owned half of Denver, and so, it was essentially just pocket change for her.

Which probably upset the guys in the dorm who she regularly hosed all the more.

Then, Jesslyn caught sight of Meg, and broke into her grimacing version of a huge smile. “Cripes, were
you
wasted last night.” She looked at Susan. “Did you
see
her? I mean, she was
fucked up
.”

“I got back pretty late,” Susan said, with a shrug.

A non-answer was certainly preferable to public criticism. Meg continued on to the bathroom, hearing them resume their poker conversation.

She was brushing her teeth, trying to get rid of the taste of stale beer, when Susan came into the bathroom, dressed in running tights, a couple of layers of fleece shirts, and her Nikes. Regardless of snow, sleet, ice, or rain, she seemed to run every day without fail.

“How you feeling?” she asked.

Unbelievably stinking lousy. “Positively super,” Meg said, and spit out toothpaste in what was probably a most unattractive manner.

Susan nodded, and leaned back against the other sink, folding her arms.

Meg brushed, and spit, and brushed some more, hoping to scare her off, but Susan just kept standing there.

Okay. Fine. She rinsed out, then filled her Red Sox mug and drank the whole thing in three long swallows. “I think I acted like a dumb, little freshman, away from home for the first time.”

Susan nodded again. “Sounds about right.”

But, it wasn't the first time she'd been away from home, was it? And she wasn't too thrilled about the way she had behaved
then
, either.

Susan kept leaning, silently, against the sink.

Meg refilled her mug, fighting intense irritation. So she'd gotten drunk, so what? Big deal. This was college. If she felt like being a jerk, it was nobody else's business. “Look, I know you're supposed to advise and counsel, and all of that,” she said, “but you don't have any real authority, right? I mean, I can screw up as much as I want.”

Susan nodded.

It was infuriating when people didn't fight back. “Good. Because I
plan
to,” Meg said. “Often.”

Susan pushed away from the sink, stretching her hamstrings. “Your prerogative.”

Damn right. She took two ibuprofen, then slammed her mug down so hard that it cracked. She looked down at the water seeping out of the bottom, wishing that she could throw it against the wall, over and over, until it shattered into a few thousand pieces.

“Just so you know, I didn't volunteer for this,” Susan said, stretching some more.

Meaning? Meg frowned at her.

“I got
assigned
,” Susan said.

To be the JA.
Her
JA. “Hey, any time you want out, all you have to do is ask,” Meg said. “Rumor has it, I've got pull.”

“Yeah,” Susan said. “So I hear.” She started for the door, then stopped. “I know you don't want to get into it, Meg, but for what it's worth, there's a difference between having fun, and being out of control, okay?”

Meg shrugged. “And I fully intend to explore that difference.”
Regularly.

Susan nodded, with very little expression on her face.

“Well,” Meg said, and limped past her, heading back to her room—and back to bed.

*   *   *

SHE FELT TOO
dizzy and wobbly to attempt going to the dining hall for lunch, but by dinnertime, she was starting to get hungry, so she made herself get up and put on some moderately presentable clothes.

At least six inches of snow had fallen since she had last been outside, and although most of the walkways had been shoveled, there was still plenty of ice, and it took her a very long time to make it down to Mission, even with her steel-tipped cane. Her agents were practically on top of her, apparently expecting to have to scoop her up from the ground at any second, but she pretended not to notice.

The dining hall was packed, and it was hard to find a place where she could sit by herself. She absolutely, in no way, felt like having a conversation. With anyone, about anything. Finally, she located a deserted spot by the windows and limped over with her tray. Except, of course, she had forgotten to get silverware, so she had to make another laborious trip up to the front. While she was there, to save time and effort, she poured herself a second cup of coffee, since caffeine might help restore her equilibrium. Kill whatever alcohol was still wreaking havoc in her system.

Her good hand was quivering so badly that she slopped most of the coffee over the edges of the cup, burning herself slightly. As she was reaching for some napkins to clean up the mess, she saw Jack Taylor walking by with a tray of his own. They stared at each other, and then she quickly looked down again.

He hesitated, and then came over to stand next to her. He looked pretty disheveled and hungover in his own right, and she decided that he wasn't nearly as handsome as she had thought. In fact, he seemed—seedy. Like he needed a shower. Maybe even
two
.

“Uh, look,” he said.

She kept mopping at the spilled coffee.

“I feel really terrible about what happened last night,” he said.

She shrugged, gathering up the damp pile of napkins.

He sighed. “Meg. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—”

Now, she looked at him. “To what? I don't have a problem with it. Did you maybe get the impression that I can't take care of myself or something?”

He grinned for a second. “No. In fact—” He stopped. “Anyway, I just—”

“All right!” some guy on his way to the soda machine said. “Check it out, new couple!”

Oh, swell. As ever, she just loved being fodder for gossip. Public property.

“Bugger off, Roger,” Jack said, scowling at him. “Who asked you?”

“Oooh,” the guy said cheerfully, and moved past them to get himself a Coke.

Jack sighed again, and she found herself ever so briefly reevaluating his attractiveness. Without the cocky grin, he seemed much more interesting. Complicated, rather than shallow. A little bit intriguing. Maybe even—compelling.

Maybe not.

He let out his breath. “Look, I was out of line, okay? What I said, I mean. I should have thought first.”

The rape crack. Meg nodded. “Yeah. You should have.”

He nodded, too.

Meg wadded up the last of the coffee-soaked napkins and tossed them into the nearest garbage can.

“Well—I'm sorry,” he said.

She shrugged, picking up her coffee and silverware, and heading for her table. “No problem.”

“Uh, see you around,” he said.

Not likely.

*   *   *

WHEN SHE GOT
back to her room, there was a message from her parents, which she returned. She lied, at length, about what a very wonderful time she was having at college. Neal, for one, seemed to buy it. Steven—much to her annoyance—didn't even come on to say hello, although maybe it didn't matter, since she would have lied to him, too.

After that, she called Beth.

“So, um, I got completely trashed last night, and had party make-outs with two different guys,” Meg said, a couple of minutes into the conversation, and then waited for—with luck—a very critical and disappointed response.

There was a pause on the other end of the line.

“Meg, you ignorant slut,” Beth said, sounding outraged.

Okay, that was funny. Meg laughed.

“Good for you,” Beth said, in her normal voice. “Was it fun?”

What? “Did you miss the part where I showed extremely poor judgment and my libido was a danger to myself and others?” Meg asked.

“No, I got that,” Beth said. “But, I ask again. Was it fun?”

Well— “Um, yeah,” Meg said. “It was.”

She felt better when she hung up, but the central fact remained. Apparently, she just wasn't a person who could drink safely. At least, not without losing every shred of self-control. So, she just wouldn't. Ever again.

Which was, in all likelihood, going to severely limit her social life, but that might be for the best, too.

No matter how depressing the thought was.

She didn't feel like leaving her room at all the next day, but one of her agents called to say there was a delivery for her. She was tempted to ask if they could bring it upstairs—but they weren't her servants.

Or her employees. Or, God knows, her
friends
.