"You know, I’m not really into modeling. Music’s cool, but I don’t know if I want to make it a job. I think I’d rather travel. See what’s out there."
Then, to my surprise, something changes on his face. The fakeness drops for a second. He furrows his brows and peers into his glass. Then he mutters, so quietly I barely hear it, "I love being a dad. I’d love to have more kids, live in the country…"
Wow, that’s surprising. So under his glossy model persona there’s more?
Then, like on cue, Jared straightens up, swallows another sip, and glances nervously toward Mark as if he’s afraid he might’ve heard him.
Clearing his throat, he adds, "Travel blogs are super trendy. Go for it, if you like the idea."
He finishes his drink and does everything he can to avoid my eyes, like he already regrets letting it slip.
But I have a kind of revelation. Are we all playing a part? Are we all someone else underneath? Or is it just me and Jared?
The wind shifts. His hair flutters. As he pushes it back, I catch another bruise, this time on the outer part of his other elbow. Matching the first.
Huh.
"Everything all right?" I ask, keeping my voice casual. "You’ve got bruises on both elbows."
His smile stiffens just a bit. "Oh, that? I slipped on the stairs. Banged both sides."
Lie. The bruises aren’t where they’d normally be if you caught yourself in a fall. They’re off-center. Like someone grabbed Jared, hard.
"Secrets, secrets," I murmur, more to myself than to him. Jared pretends not to hear, but I catch the flicker in his eye.
Then he turns his head toward the entrance. "Oh, look who Dante dragged in," he says, voice curdling with disdain. "Anzo Ferro and his entourage out of a horror show."
I follow his gaze, and feel my pulse skip.
Anzo walks in like he owns the air. Heads turn, conversations stall, a ripple goes through the room. He’s one of the biggest donors behind the Beta Empowerment movement.
Dante Moll, the guy who organized this whole thing, immediately throws himself into a handshake. Probably wishes he could kiss the man’s feet.
Jared lets out a sharp exhale. I catch the flash of reluctance in his eyes just as they shift to Anzo. I don’t think he’s a fan. But before anything more can show on his face, Mark’s eyes flick away from Martin and lock straight onto Anzo too.
"We’re going to say hello," Mark says, voice low and firm. He grabs Jared’s elbow, and they both head straight toward Anzo.
My gaze drops to Mark’s hand. The way his fingers clamp around Jared’s elbow, it matches the bruises I saw earlier.
Well, well. Like I said, under all the gloss, there’s stink.
Should I be judging how Jared’s life is going? Who am I to do that? Am I making better decisions? I like to think mine are at least more strategic, but maybe that’s just ego talking. Time will tell.
I watch Mark Ferguson bowing deeply as he greets Anzo. Of course. Having someone like that on your side, someone with that kind of money? I can imagine what a power move that is for an up-and-coming politician.
I sigh. Martin snatches a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. I want to do the same, but I’m eighteen. He’s twenty-one. Not worth the risk of getting weird looks or snide comments under my posts.
Martin’s watching the group by the entrance now too, eyes fixed on Anzo. Then he growls under his breath.
"Don’t tell me you dragged me to this party just so you could stare at Anzo fucking Ferro."
I lie like it’s nothing. "Didn’t even know he’d be here. I don’t keep up with the social calendar for mafia families."
Martin doesn’t buy it.
"Liar. Disgusting little liar," he hisses.
"Whatever. Don’t fucking care." I shrug.
