The Saints of the Cross (13 page)

Xander places his hand on my back and motions toward a table at the front of the club, just to the right of the stage. I can barely hear what he’s saying, because Systemic Purgatory has started another hard-driving song; but I do make out the name Jude. That’s when I realize that I’m staring at the back of Jude Redfield’s curly, blond head, which is intermittently reflecting shades of the red, blue, and green lights blinking from the stage. Xander takes my hand, and we weave through the crowd, dodging lit cigarettes and undulating bodies. We join Jude and a group of five other boys at their table in a dark, smoky corner. Xander attempts to introduce me, but the band is too loud. I nod my head at each one (as if I’ve actually heard their names) and take a seat next to Jude. Xander sits to my left and scoots his chair in closer to mine. Jude’s friends look like they belong to a hipster biker gang, each wearing some version of the black leather jacket, vintage concert t-shirt, jeans, and black combat boots. Tattoos poke out from under pushed-up sleeves and unzipped jackets. A few of the guys have similar tattoos to Christian’s—the black lapping flames around the base of their necks. My hand goes down to my hip, where my own tattoo hides; but I alone know it’s there, and I alone know what it represents.

After a few minutes of dancing and having every male in the place mesmerized, Camilla sashays over to the table, gives Jude a peck on the lips, and plants herself in his lap. As she whispers something in his ear, her right hand disappears under his open jacket and their eyes lock. Their faces are just inches apart, and he’s gazing at her with intense eyes. But then he grins from ear to ear, shakes his head, and tells her in a husky voice that she’s
bloody twisted
. Before she rises and moves to an empty chair across the table, she tells him she’s glad he left his bitch of a girlfriend at home.

“Actually, I tried to get her to come, Camilla, but she’d have nothing of it. She’s too much of a good girl to come here.” He scowls at Camilla and lights up a cigarette.

“Oh please. The word
good
has no place in a statement describing Laurel-freaking-Danton, for Christ’s sake! She’s too much of a prude ass to come here, Jude. Don’t kid yourself,” Camilla snaps back at him as if she’s taken his comment as a personal attack on her own virtue.

“Maybe that’s what I like about her. Did you ever think of that?”

“If you want a ‘good’ girl,” Camilla signs air quotations with this phrase, “then date Evie. She’s not a complete bitch. Actually, she’s not a bitch at all.”

I give her a look that I hope says
shut up or I’ll kill you
, but I don’t think it does, because she completely ignores me and continues the conversation as if I’m not even in the same zip code, let alone sitting right across the table.

“But you’ll have to fight Xander for her.” She thumbs toward Xander, who’s intently watching Systemic Purgatory as if he can’t hear her big mouth. But the blush taking over his cheeks tells me otherwise. “He’s kinda crazy about her.”

“I’m not fighting Xander for anything,” Jude laughs, but his eyes are serious. He takes a swig of his Heineken and coughs into his fist. “Because I’m pretty bloody sure he’d beat my arse.”

I’m sitting here in my chair, frozen like a slab of granite, because I’m absolutely mortified by the conversation going on about me as if I’m not even in the same room. I start to open my mouth to verbalize the shut-up-or-die sentiment, but Camilla hops up out of her seat as if she’s sat on a thumb tack and had a delayed reaction.

“Oh shit! I forgot! I have to make a quick call.” She rushes toward the side door, dialing her phone and plowing into annoyed people as she goes. I’m starting to believe that
annoying
is her defining personality trait.

Xander gives me a look that says
I’ll take care of this,
and then gets up and follows her out. I’m guessing he did hear the whole humiliating conversation. Jude looks at me with a curious expression, and I notice the music has stopped.

“Want a drink?” he asks, as his friends rise from their seats and head toward the bar.

“Diet Coke, please,” I say with a smile. He laughs and tells me he’ll be right back. I watch him saunter up to the bar as if he’s done it a thousand times, and as if he’s old enough to be there. That’s when I feel a hand on my left thigh. I jump about a foot off the chair and whip around to my left. Christian’s face is just inches from mine. He’s wearing that now-familiar, devilish smile and eyes that are tearing me up from one end to the other.

He leans closer and whispers into my ear, “Well, hello there, Evie.” His nose is brushing against my curls, and his breath is hot and wet on my ear. He smells of leather, sweat, and something completely animalistic—and irresistible. A shudder shoots through me, not necessarily for reasons that are unpleasant, and I force my body to be still against it. The last thing I need is for him to think I might be enjoying this attention. Although, there’s a slight possibility that I am; I’m just a little conflicted about it right now. “So glad you could come tonight,” he says.

I notice the slightest bit of emphasis on a particular word, as he moves his hand up my thigh. I yank my chair away from him, and his hand falls off my leg. He purses his lips, and then gives me another wicked grin.

“Playing hard to get, eh? I dig it. Women are constantly throwing themselves at me: teenagers, cougars—hell, even horny old grandmothers. But I rather like the excitement of the chase. Well played, Evie.” He traces an imaginary pattern down my arm with his index finger, but suddenly it’s gone, because there’s a body between us. It’s Xander.

“I think it’s time for you to go back to work, Christian,” he snarls, but I can’t see Xander’s face. All I can see is the outline of his broad back through his shirt and the layers of golden-brown waves falling to the nape of his neck. “Wouldn’t want Camilla to walk back in just now, would you?”

“Al-ex-zander. Ever the knight in shining armor coming to the rescue of the damsel in distress. Oh, Evie would be in distress all right, if she were ever to go home with me. But I’m quite positive she’d enjoy it. Just ask Camilla,” he says and leans over to wink at me from around Xander’s massive frame.

Xander crouches down over Christian, dwarfing him. In a dangerously low, controlled voice, Xander says, “I said get lost, Redfield. You’d better go.” Xander moves aside, showing him the way with a sweep of his arm.

Christian looks up, and I follow his gaze across the room to the door where Camilla stands, looking like a dark angel in a white-and-silver, strapless mini dress. She’s deep in conversation with a handsome African American man, her head thrown back in laughter. I glance back at Christian and Xander. They’re both staring at her with admiring eyes and slacked jaws, and who could blame them? She belongs on the cover of a Victoria’s Secret catalogue, not slumming it here with us in this dank, sorry-excuse-for-a-club in DC.

Christian must’ve caught Xander’s stare because he says to me, “You know the reason he hates me so much, don’t you? It’s because he wants her all for himself.” Then he gets up and heads back to the stage, leaving Xander red-faced and slumped in his chair.

“Is that true?” I ask him. For some bizarre reason, I’m feeling the familiar sting of jealousy.

“I promise you, it’s not true,” he says, looking me square in the eyes. “She is a beautiful girl, no doubt about that, but we’re just friends. It’s all we’ve ever been, and it’s all we ever will be. End of story.”

“Okay,” I say, but I have the distinct feeling there’s more to the story than what Xander—or Camilla, for that matter—want me to know. But why should I care? I’ve got a handsome man of my own waiting for me back in Spain: Javier! I manage to dig the cell phone out from my pocket, certain that I’ve missed hearing or feeling it ring, but I’m wrong. There are no missed calls. I sink down in my chair just a bit and make a big production of checking the phone’s clock. It’s eleven o’clock, time for me to go home. I look at Xander, and our eyes meet. He seems to read my mind, because he rises and extends his hand to me. I take it just as Jude and his friends return to the table. He places my can of Diet Coke down in front of me.

“Oh thanks for the drink,” I say, “but I just realized that I’ve got to get going or I’ll miss curfew. I’m sorry.”

“No worries,” Jude shrugs. He leans in and kisses me on the cheek. Xander’s hand tightens around mine, and I look up into his face. He’s glaring at Jude with a mixture of wariness and irritation. “Whoa there, big guy, I’m just saying goodbye,” Jude says, flipping his palms up defensively. Xander shakes his head and laughs, his expression easing and his body relaxing.

“Should we tell Camilla that we’re leaving?” I ask, and our gazes flick in the direction we last saw her. She’s now sitting on a bar stool surrounded by at least six guys, all attentively listening to some story she’s animatedly telling—so much for defending her territory. Xander shakes his head, but his face is strangely void of emotion, as if he’s trying to hide any tell-tale sign of what he’s thinking—or feeling.

“Nah, she’ll be fine,” he says, then turns to Jude. “Watch out for her, will you? Don’t let her get too wasted. You know what can happen.”

“All right,” Jude sighs and throws his hands up. Pointing at Xander, he says, “But you owe me, big-time.”

“No, I’m pretty sure you still owe me for that time in Ibiza,” Xander retorts.

“No, mate, you owed me for that time in London. Remember?” Jude says. “London cancels out Ibiza.”

“Oh Jesus! I totally forgot about that,” Xander exclaims, slapping his palm to his forehead.

“Thought so,” Jude says, triumphant.

“I don’t know what you two are talking about,” I say, “but can we please go before I get grounded for the rest of my life?” I’m losing my patience, not because I might lose my freedom if I don’t get home ASAP, but because I feel so out of the loop.

“Sorry,” they chime in unison. I wave goodbye to everyone at the table, and Xander leads me through the crowd by the hand.

Just before we walk out the door, I pause to look over my shoulder at the stage. There’s Christian, wearing a smirk and waving at us. He says into the microphone, “This one’s for Evie,” and starts playing Slash’s guitar solo at the beginning of “Sweet Child O’ Mine.” The crowd goes wild, and I catch Xander flipping Christian the finger as we exit the club. But I say nothing, and neither does he.

On the way home, I profusely apologize to Xander for making him leave the show early as I obsessively check my phone for missed calls or text messages from Javier—still nothing.

“Listen, Evie,” Xander says, “I want to apologize for what happened back there with Christian. He has absolutely no boundaries.”

“It’s okay,” I say with a shrug. But his description of Christian has got me wondering. “What do you mean, he has no boundaries?”

“I mean that he doesn’t care who he hits on, or takes to bed, for that matter. That’s why Camilla doesn’t have any female friends. They’ve never said no to him.”

“Oh,” I say, and I feel a crumb of sympathy for Camilla—until I remember her own behavior in the club. “I’m not justifying Christian’s actions, but I think the road goes both ways with those two. I mean, Camilla was a little more than just friendly with Jude. She was overly friendly with all the guys, really.”

“She’s just friends with Jude. I think she likes to flirt with other guys to make Christian jealous, or maybe to give him a taste of his own medicine.” Xander’s voice is a little on edge, and I feel as though I’ve hit a nerve with him. “But who knows, Camilla loves being the center of attention—as if you couldn’t tell—and she doesn’t always command Christian’s undivided attention. So I think she tries to find it elsewhere, especially when she’s feeling particularly vulnerable. Actually, Jude
would
be a lot better boyfriend for her than that jackass Christian.”

I’m wondering where all Xander’s hostility is really coming from. Do most teenage guys really care that much about their friends’ love life? Granted, Xander and Camilla have known each other since infancy, but it’s more than a little weird to me.

“Do me a favor and don’t say anything to Camilla about what happened tonight.” Xander looks at me with an expression that’s a cross between pleading and demanding. “I don’t know if I can deal with her having a meltdown right now.”

“Yeah, sure. I don’t want to cause any problems for anyone. Besides, it really wasn’t a big deal at all. I figured it was just Christian being Christian.”

“Thanks, Evie,” Xander says, and I finally get a smile from him. “But he really needs to learn some manners.”

“True.” I shrug. “Speaking of manners, what was that little gesture about when we left?” He looks at me with a confused expression. “You know, the universal sign for
I love you—not
?”

“Oh,” Xander says, shaking his head. “That.”

“Yeah,
that
. What was
that
about?”

“I don’t think I should say anything.” Xander says, tightening his grip on the steering wheel of the Land Rover with both hands.

“You don’t have to,” I say, and look out the car window. “What were you guys talking about with all the who-owes-who stuff?”

Xander hesitates as if he’s contemplating what to say next. “Well, we usually go on some type of summer get-away together. By we, I mean all of us: Jude, Christian, Camilla, whoever Jude’s dating, basically the whole group. And invariably, some crazy crap goes down that requires favors to be made. Honestly, the favors usually involve pulling strings to get people out of jail. And by people, I mean Camilla and Christian. Those two on a trip together is a total buzz-kill.”

“Why?”

“Because they fight like crazy.”

“Really? Seems like they get along great to me.”

“That’s because they’re not together for long periods of time here. On trips, they’re stuck together in the same hotel room, airplane, train—you get the idea. They are both insanely jealous of each other, so if they aren’t fighting each other, they’re usually fighting complete strangers on the other’s behalf. It’s really annoying. As a matter of fact, next trip, I think we’re leaving them at home.” Xander laughs, but his eyes don’t. I’m having a hard time understanding why he even hangs out with them, if they’re such a pain in his ass, other than the obvious fact that he seems to be constantly on body-guard duty for Camilla.

“We’re lucky we know people in government in a few countries, or they’d have a record a mile long. They’d probably still be in jail in London if it weren’t for Jude calling their uncle, who’s in the parliament, to get them out of that mess. They trashed an entire pub. I called in a favor to my cousin to get them out of trouble in Ibiza. Of course, we enjoy diplomatic immunity here in the States.”

“You do?” I am amazed by this, but then I remember that their parents are diplomats and ambassadors from England, Colombia, and Italy. “So that’s why you got to walk into Club Trinity with no questions asked.”

“Well, that and Camilla knows the bouncers.”

“Of course she does,” I say, trying to keep my voice even.

“Anyway, we’re definitely going on one last trip next summer before college. I guess it’ll be our last hurrah,” Xander says, turning to me. “Maybe you could go with us. We’re either going to Greece or the Costa del Sol in—”

“Spain.” I finish his sentence with a sigh. I close my eyes against the tightening in my chest and take a deep breath, which lessens the pain—for now. “Yeah, maybe I’ll go.”