The Saints of the Cross (11 page)

“Evie, I presume,” says Christian, taking my hand and kissing it in that long-gone, nineteenth-century, gentlemanly way that some find lame, but I find charming. Camilla must’ve forgotten to mention his sexy-as-hell British accent. I glance down from his face to his hands and notice the tribal tattoos snaking up both lean arms, momentarily hidden under the tight sleeves of his Ramones tee, and ending in black flames at the base of his neck. The tats give his rather effeminate face a decidedly harder edge. This guy is all rock-star divinity, for sure. I’m positive that my stare is awash with the awe of a star-struck teenager, so I force my gaze to Jude, who’s standing at Christian’s side and giving me a knowing smirk. I drop my eyes to the floor, immediately overcome with the blush inducing heat of embarrassment.

“Oh, knock it off, Christian,” Camilla snorts, smacking him on the shoulder, and Christian scoops her up into his arms.

“Do you mind if I steal her away for a while, Evie?” Christian asks with a conspiratorial wink. “Jude will show you around and keep you company.”

Without waiting for a reply, Christian carries Camilla off toward a dark doorway on the opposite side of the room.

“Don’t worry, Evie, it’ll only take a few minutes; it always does,” Camilla calls over Christian’s shoulder, squealing as he punishes her for the insult with a playful bite to the neck. They disappear into the darkness as I stand, hot-faced and blinking, at Jude, who rolls his eyes and sighs in exasperation.

“I’m Jude, by the way.” He extends a hand out to me. “Sorry, those two are obnoxious. Obnoxiously in love, I guess. Come on, I’ll show you around.”

He leads me across the room to where the group of tattooed, funky-glasses-and-all-black-wearing hipsters sit on the floor surrounding a table, snorting lines of some white powder that I assume is cocaine. They’re casually discussing their favorite unknown bands as if doing drugs is the most common thing in the world. Jude interrupts them and introduces me with my first name only, informing them that I’m new in town. The only greetings I receive are cool, dismissive head nods from a couple of the guys.

Jude says to me as we walk away, “Those are Christian’s friends, and they’re pretty much all douche bags, so . . .” What he wants to say is “so don’t take their ignoring you personally.” But he’s too nice to say so.

He continues the tour of the house, stopping occasionally to introduce me to wandering partiers we happen upon—classmates at the Cross, Christian’s friends, and their McLean neighbors. They are all sipping alcohol, or dragging on joints, or popping varied-colored pills, or doing some combination of the three. I’m starting to realize that when the rich party, the drugs are a little more hard-core than the typical high-schooler’s fare.

Our final stop is the crowded back terrace, where a DJ is busy spinning the latest top-forty hits, infusing them with funky beats as a sea of bodies gyrates to the booming bass. A tall, lanky blonde, with a snarl on her lips, marches up to us, and I take a large step backward for safety’s sake.

“Jude! I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

“I was showing the new girl around,” Jude says, motioning to me. “Evie, this is Laurel, my girlfriend. Laurel—Evie, said new girl.”

“Hi,” I say, timidly offering her my hand. She ignores it and instead gives me an exaggerated once over.

“Gucci Ready-to-Wear?” she asks, hands on hips, daggers shooting from her cold, gray eyes. I nod and, for some reason, I feel lame. She rolls her eyes as if to verify that, indeed, I am. “Come on, Jude, I’ve got someone I want you to meet.”

Jude gives me an apologetic shrug as she drags him back toward the house—so much for Jude keeping me company.

I wander over to a chest-high stone wall separating the terrace from the rose garden and prop myself against it, placing my chin in my palm. I watch as the party-goers dance to the DJ’s music, whooping and hollering in approval as he plays different songs they apparently like.

A feeling of sadness begins to creep up in me. I do not belong at this party, let alone in DC. I belong back in Spain with Javier, with Coralea, with the people and culture I’ve grown to love and respect. I do not want to be living in this shallow, soulless place. I realize that perhaps I no longer value the same things that American kids my age do, such as partying, fashion, and whose family has the most money. None of that matters to me in the least anymore. I don’t think it ever did, actually. Having traveled widely with my family, I’ve witnessed too much suffering in the world to ever believe that any of those things are important, regardless of how much the media here tries to make me believe otherwise. I’ve seen extreme poverty, firsthand. I’ve seen what not having enough food or clean water can do to small children. These experiences have given me a perspective on life that not many people my age have, or care to have. Yet, here I am in the very belly of the demon, participating like the sheep I apparently am. What would my socially conscious mother think of me becoming part of this crowd?

“Why so serious?” someone suddenly says to me.

Huh? I spin around, and I am at eye level with his hulking shoulders. I look up into curious eyes so light brown in color that they appear golden. His classically sculptured face is framed with dark, cascading curls, and the hint of a smile plays on his lips.

“Excuse me?” I stammer, a bit stunned, both by the question and his handsome face.

“Why so serious?” he repeats, but this time the smile escapes his lips and lights up his eyes. “I’ve been watching you for about ten minutes from down there,” he points toward the dance floor, “and you’ve been standing here the entire time with a huge frown on your face. So I thought I’d come up and make sure you’re okay, because you’re all alone.”

“Thanks, but I’m fine,” I lie. I’m not going to tell a complete stranger my worries, especially this particular stranger. The way he’s staring at me so intensely with those strangely colored eyes makes me feel more than a little uncomfortable. But then I realize I’m staring right back at him.

“Are you wearing colored contacts?” I murmur, distracted, and grimace when I realize I’ve spoken the words out loud. Sometimes my mouth has absolutely no filter, and I could kick myself for it. He laughs, as if sensing my discomfort.

“No, they’re a trait passed down on my Italian side.” He gives me a kind smile and extends his hand. “I’m Alexander Bartolomeo.”

“Camilla’s Xander?” I take his hand and give it a weak shake. I can’t take my eyes off his face; I really wasn’t expecting him to be so good-looking—or so darn charming, for that matter.
Thanks for the warning, Camilla!

“Yeah, I was hoping I would get to you before she could fill your head full of lies about me,” he laughs; but the look on his face makes me think he’s not joking.

“Well, everything she’s told me has been good, so don’t worry,” I assure him with a smile. “I’m Evangeline Sweeney. Everyone calls me Evie.”

“Evie Sweeney,” he repeats slowly, nodding in approval. “Someone was a poet, huh?”

“Yeah, my mother.” I look at the dance floor in an attempt to escape his relentless, intriguing eyes. I change the subject, nodding toward the dancers. “Great party.”

“I guess so, if you’re into that sort of thing,” Xander says, moving next to me. He leans down and folds his massive arms over the wall.

“You’re not?”

“Nah. I just come to be Camilla’s DD. Every year she makes me come, but every year she ends up spending the night here with Christian. I have absolutely no idea why she makes me come to these stupid parties. She knows it’s not my scene.”

“Why don’t you just say no, then, if these parties make you so miserable?” Again I grimace, because I didn’t intend for that question to sound so biting.

“You
have
met her, haven’t you?” he asks, looking at me with a surprised expression. I nod, with a look that says
so what?
He continues, “Then you must realize that Camilla never hears the word no.
Never
. She has a way of charming anyone into doing anything she wants. She’s like a modern-day Siren or something.”

I consider that comparison for a moment and remember how she charmed the collective pants off my family members, so I know what he’s saying is probably true.

“She and Christian are quite the pair, both too charming for their own good,” Xander concludes harshly.

While Camilla’s charms aren’t entirely lost on me, Christian’s most certainly are not. “Do you think they sit around and swap secrets on how to charm the pants off everyone? Maybe they even keep a book of charm secrets,” I muse, laughing.

“Like,
Charming for Dummies
?” We both crack up at the thought of those two having secret discussions on how to take over the world, using nothing more than their unprecedented charm and charisma.

“What’s so funny, you two?” asks Camilla, appearing suddenly behind Xander. We were so wrapped up in our conversation, and each other, that we didn’t notice her approaching. Her dress is a wrinkled mess, and she’s barefoot, but she has an unmistakable glow about her. I have to admit, I’m a little bit jealous. Okay, maybe a
lot
jealous. Christian saunters up behind her, wraps his arms around her waist, and buries his nose into her hair. She turns her head and kisses him on the lips. Do I ever feel like a voyeur right now. But I can’t help noticing how amazing these two look together, with her dark, exotic beauty and his golden, blue-eyed good looks. I glance over at Xander whose face turning a bright shade of red. He notices me staring at him and averts his eyes to the dance floor.
Well, that was weird . . . and uncomfortable.

“Oh nothing,” Xander finally answers, interrupting their kiss.

Camilla looks to me, then to Xander’s red face, then back to me. “Hmm, I’m glad you two found each other in this crowd. Saves me the time and trouble of introducing you.”

“Well, hello there, Alexander,” says Christian, as if he hadn’t noticed Xander standing there the entire time. He lets loose of Camilla and lights up a menthol cigarette. The smell immediately nauseates me. “Can I get you a beer?” Christian cajoles Xander.

“You know I don’t drink, Christian,” Xander says.

“Oh right. What
was
I thinking?” Christian smirks. As his eyes narrow at Xander, my skin prickles as panic shoots through me. But then Christian’s face relaxes, and he turns his attention to me. “Well, have a good time, Evie. It was so very nice to meet you.”

He gives me an obvious once-over with those incredible, blue eyes—a devilish grin tilting his mouth—then turns and walks off toward a group of people standing by the DJ table.

Camilla glares at Xander. If looks could kill, Xander would be on the ground, dead, and Camilla would be under arrest. She exhales a deep breath. “I’m going to let the two of you get to know each other better. Evie, I’ll meet back up with you later. Okay?”

I glance at Xander, who looks as if it is all he can do to keep his mouth shut.

“Sure,” I shrug.

“Thanks.” She gives Xander a side-long glare and says, “I’ll deal with you later, mister,” and then runs off in Christian’s direction.

“What was that?”

“That was Christian being a dick,” Xander answers, shaking his head in angered annoyance.

“He seems okay to me,” I shrug, trying to diffuse the situation. Actually, I was worried that Christian was going to slug Xander, although it would’ve been an idiotic move on his part. Xander outweighs him by at least twenty pounds and is about five inches taller. One jaw-connecting punch from Xander would probably put Christian down for the count.

“Really? Because I’m pretty sure he just checked you out right in front of his girlfriend.”

“What?
Nooo
,” I answer, but I know he’s right, and I feel a twinge of guilt for having enjoyed Christian’s attention.

“Don’t let the Prince Charming act fool you. He’s the stereotypical rock-band guy. It only makes it worse that he’s pretty. Girls seem to get stupid around the pretty boys,” he says, his voice dripping with contempt. I feel a little bit guilty—and silly—when I think about my initial reaction to Christian; how I’d been so mesmerized by that perfect face. However, I don’t understand why Xander keeps referring to Christian as a pretty boy, when Xander is just as good-looking, only in a more rugged way.

“I’ve seen him out with other girls on more than one occasion,” Xander whispers, looking in the direction we last saw Camilla as if he’s afraid she might overhear that bit of information.

“What?” I exclaim. “Have you told Camilla?”

“No, and please don’t tell her. I don’t want to be the one to break her heart. She’s a pretty tough chick, which you’ll find out in time. But when it comes to Christian, she’s a completely different person—so fragile. It kills me to think what it would do to her to know that he plays around.”

I see the worry and sadness in his eyes, and the idea dawns on me that perhaps Xander is in love with Camilla.

“You really care about her, don’t you?” I give him a gentle pat on the shoulder. Looking into Xander’s conflicted face, I feel something stir in me, and I am taken aback momentarily, because it’s not something I’ve ever experienced before. I feel an overwhelming desire to protect him and I don’t know where it’s coming from. I swallow hard to calm the anxiety that the sensation causes in me.

“Yeah. I’ve known her since we were babies. Our moms are best friends, and they practically raised us together,” says Xander, staring off into the distance to some faraway place, some long-ago time.

“I can understand why you’d love her,” I say, dreamily contemplating the romanticism of being in love with someone you’ve known your entire life.

“I do love her, but not in a romantic sense” he explains. “She’s like the sister I never had. Seriously, there are pictures of us as toddlers naked in a bathtub together.” Xander wrinkles his face into a grimace, then laughs. “I threaten to dig them up and post them on the Internet whenever she starts getting too bossy with me.”

“Oh, that is just
wrong
,” I giggle. “I’d be mortified.” My mind’s eye produces an image of a panic-stricken Camilla viewing the scandalous pictures on a social-networking site, and it’s just too funny.

“Yeah, but it
is
excellent ammunition against her,” he laughs, and I nod heartily in agreement.

The night air has grown cool and damp since I first came onto the patio with Jude. I shiver against the night breeze and wish I’d brought a cardigan to wear over the sleeveless dress. Xander removes his leather jacket and drapes it over my shoulders.

“There you go,” he says, while making a big production of straightening the jacket’s collar. “It actually looks nice with that dress.”

“Thanks.” I smile up at him. The jacket is still warm from his body heat, and I pull it tight around me. The combination of his woodsy cologne and the leather smells wonderful.

“Would you like to sit down?” Xander asks as he motions toward an area of tables topped with votive candles.

“I’d love to, actually. My feet are killing me,” I sigh, pointing down to the ridiculous stiletto pumps that I allowed Camilla to buy for me at Gucci.

We talk for what seems like forever, sipping Diet Coke and people-watching. Occasionally, Xander points out people and gives me the 411 on them—their names, what they do, who they date, whether or not I’d find them interesting. According to Xander, ninety-five percent of students at Holy Cross are boring elitists. The other five percent are merely tolerable buffoons. In what I’ve discovered is his endearing, self-deprecating humor, he includes himself in the latter category. He tells me that if I want to meet interesting people, I’ll just have to go out to the clubs sometime with him and Camilla. He tells me that Christian’s band is neo-punk, and I’d meet all sorts of strange characters at their shows. As if on cue, Laurel and Jude walk up, hand in hand.