This definitely takes me aback. I know the upper echelon in Ravenswood, including my dad, hires bodyguards for certain occasions—mainly traveling or public events—but I’ve never seen anyone with a full-time staff apart from politicians and big-name celebrities. “Do you have securitynow?”
Ravenswood’s reputation speaks for itself. No one would be dumb enough to go after a socialite or politician in this neck of the woods, at least nobody with any degree of self-preservation. The worst crime probably on record is a DUI, no doubt committed on the south side by an honest police officer.
That’s the other reason I suspect a certain caliber of the upper echelon doesn’t want that kind of security. Sure, you can make bodyguards sign NDAs, but that only offers you so much protection. Your security staff may not be able toleak information online about which married celebrity you’re sleeping with, but no type of NDA can stop them from reporting a crime they witnessed you committing.
Again, you would think with the money these people have, they would pay others to handle their dirty work, but some people’s egos and penchants for depraved behavior wins out every time. What else can you expect from a bunch of wealthy brats who have been handed everything to them their whole lives? You have an entire class of young adults with zero empathy and no work ethic, suffering from chronic boredom. The only boundaries left to push are the legal kinds.
To my absolute relief, Wes isn’t like Sienna or Trent, because he clarifies, “I have a CPO. He’s been with me all year, but he makes sure not to hover if it isn’t necessary, so you won’t notice him unless you’re looking.”
Wes is either a boy scout facing zero threats, or I’m painfully unobservant. Never once had I noticed anybody of the sort during the school year. Considering my diligence when having to navigate through a world with The Untouchables, it’s safe to say it’s the first. I prefer never to enter a room without properly assessing it first, not even the university’s library. I would have picked up on somebody shadowing Wes at some point, especially during our study sessions.
He looks down at the phone vibrating in his hand, an equally guilty and humorous smile on his face. “Speak of the devil. I suspect Bruce is apoplectic right about now.”
While Wes pulls up the text message he just received, I place the flower and vase on the table before peeking at my own phone to look up what the heck a CPO is.
“Close protection officer: a person hired to keep his/her clients safe from physical harm or unwanted attention.”
A.k.a. a bodyguard, which makes sense why it appears he isn’t particularly fond of Wes having gone inside a strange house.
“Well, how about we spare Bruce from bursting a blood vessel?” I suggest, ushering us back towards the foyer.
I want to say it doesn’t bother me knowing that someone will be essentially spying on us during our date, since it’s been happening this entire year, but the news still unsettles me. It doesn’t help when I spot the unfamiliar black sedan parked down the street as soon as I head outside. Only once we get to the restaurant do I realize Bruce won’t be the only stranger observing us tonight.
The driveto Colmár is pleasant, the easy banter between us soothing my nerves, but all I have to do is enter the restaurant to know I’m out of my depths. The décor is…cold, to put it nicely. Candice’s choice for my dress this evening was very intentional, as its obsidian shade matches the walls and tables perfectly. Silver accents make up anything that isn’t black, and the lighting is limited, since there are so few windows in the dining area. But there are a whole lot of mirrors. If it wasn’t for Wes knowing his way through the foyer and bar area, I likely would have run into at least one of the floor-to-ceiling displays. It honestly feels like being trapped in a house of mirrors.
I’m just happy to be seated—that is, until I start looking over the menu. The restaurant caters to a wide variety of world cuisines, and the smells coming from all around me are exquisite. The only problem: I’m lucky if I could pronounce even half of the dishes listed, let alone know what they actually are.
And it’s obvious I’m the only one suffering from this affliction. Either everybody here is a hardcore foodie or exceptionally well-traveled, because my fellow diners around me don’t miss a beat, their pronunciations flawless.
I keep scanning the menu, praying something familiar will jump out. Right about now, I’d seriously kill for a cheeseburger, and not just because it’ll spare me the embarrassment of figuring out what utensils to use. A billion forks and spoons are set out on the table, and for the life of me, I can’t remember which goes with what course. I learned once upon a time at the country club, but my memory is a little rusty. After what happened during senior year, my exile from Ravenswood’s upper crust made sure I haven’t eaten anywhere so “classy” that simple dinner and salad forks wouldn’t do.
At least the easy banter with Wes hasn’t changed, one of the perks having already known one another. Few things are worse on a first date than when it feels like you’re in a job interview. It’s the only upside I can find right now, since I’m also noticing the people around us. The longer we sit here, the more and more eyes drift our way.
Part of me wishes I’m just being overdramatic, that maybe I’m imagining things, but Wes confirms my suspicions when he rolls his eyes at the two women sitting ten feet from us. They’ve clearly been drinking, their whispers not nearly as quiet as they think. I don’t hear everything they say, but the mention of Wes’s last name tells me enough. To only add to the awkwardness, one of them tries taking a picture with her phone. Before the flash goes off, someone steps in front of their table, ruining the shot.The guy must be at least six-four, armed with the muscles that make him look like an ‘80s action star. He’s in simple black dress clothes, not looking particularly out of place, save for the glimpse of tattoos peeking out at the bottom of his left sleeve. Whatever he says to the women is enough to leave them quiet and make the one lower her phone.
The small smile and low wave Wes offers him tells me this is the illustrious Bruce.
This also must be a common occurrence for him, because Wes shrugs off the odd behavior and continues our conversation without missing a beat…
…until he looks over my head. Whatever—or ratherwhoever—he sees leaves his smile collapsing, replaced by an expression with widening eyes that show off a little too much white.
He looks mortified.
Oh god. Who is it?
An ex-girlfriend?
Acurrentgirlfriend?
Could he have been dating someone this entire time, and I just never knew? Was it a long-distance thing, and she showed up here to surprise him?
Am I the Other Woman?
A million horrifying scenarios run through my mind in the whopping zero-point-five seconds that pass before a woman in her forties comes to stand beside me.
“Wesley.” She’s pretty, with medium-length brown hair and striking blue eyes. Although she’s smiling, there’s something forced about it, her features a little too tight.
“Mum. Dad.” He shifts his gaze briefly to my other side, and I realize there’s someone else standing just outside of my field of vision. “What are you two doing here?”
