Ruthless

The old mansion-turned-church rose up before her, a huge structure of stonework, turrets, and antique stained glass. The saints etched into the windows seemed to glare at Hanna in judgment. Something scuttled around the corner, and Hanna froze.

“Psst.”

Hanna jumped and spun around. Liam stood in shadows under an old, blown-out lamppost. Hanna could make out the shy smile on his face. A huge part of her wanted to run to him, but instead she stood where she was, giving him an uncertain look.

“You came.” Liam sounded surprised.

“I’m not staying long,” Hanna answered quickly.

Liam’s feet made squishy noises in the mud as he walked closer. He took her hands, but she quickly pulled away. “This isn’t right,” she said.

“Then why does it feel right?”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “My dad would kill me if he knew I was with you. Wouldn’t your dad kill you, too? This isn’t some kind of setup, is it?”

“Of course not.” Liam touched her chin. “My dad has no idea I’m here. Really, I should ask you if this is a setup. I told you a huge secret, before I knew who you were.”

“I’m not going to tell anyone about that,” Hanna muttered. “That’s your business, not mine. And my father doesn’t play dirty.” Like yours does, she almost added, but didn’t.

Liam looked relieved. “Thank you. And, Hanna, who cares about a political campaign?”

Hanna twisted her mouth. All of a sudden, she didn’t know how she felt about anything.

“I couldn’t go another day without seeing you.” Liam ran his fingers through her hair. “I’ve never felt such a strong connection with anyone else before. I don’t care whose daughter you are. I wouldn’t trade this for anything.”

Hanna’s heart melted, and when Liam began to kiss her, she no longer felt the drizzle on her cheeks. Slowly, her body sank into him, and she breathed into his neck, his soft, shampoo-smelling hair.

“Let’s run away together,” Liam whispered in Hanna’s ear. “Not to Miami. Somewhere farther. Where have you always wanted to go?”

“Umm . . . Paris?” Hanna whispered.

“Paris is awesome.” Liam slipped his hands under Hanna’s shirt. She jumped a little at his cold palms on the small of her back. “I could rent us an apartment on the Left Bank. We wouldn’t have to deal with any of this election bullshit. We could disappear.”

“Let’s do it,” Hanna decided, swept up in the moment.

Liam drew away, reached into his jacket pocket, and took out his cell phone. He pressed a button and then held the phone to his ear. Hanna frowned. “Who are you calling?”

“My travel agent.” The cell phone’s screen glowed green. “I can get us on a flight tomorrow, I bet.”

Hanna giggled, flattered. “I wasn’t actually serious.”

Liam pressed END. “Well, you say the word, Hanna, and we’ll go.”

“I want to know absolutely everything about you first,” Hanna said. “Like . . . what are you majoring in?”

“English lit,” Liam answered.

“Really? Not political science?”

Liam scrunched up his face in disgust. “I have no interest in politics.”

“And how is it that you have a travel agent on call?”

“He’s an old family friend,” Liam said.

Hanna wondered if the Wilkinson family had lots of old family friends—probably on the political payroll. “So you’ve been to Paris before?”

“Once, with my parents and brothers, when I was nine. We did the tourist crap, but I just wanted to sit at a café and watch people.”

Hanna leaned against the damp stone wall, not caring if it made wet prints on her butt. “I went to Spain once with my parents. All they did was fight, so I stuffed my face and felt miserable.” Liam chuckled, and Hanna lowered her head, mortified. Why had she blurted all that out? “I shouldn’t have told you that.”

“Hey, it’s okay.” Liam stroked her arm. “My parents fought like crazy, too. But now they just . . . don’t speak.” He got a faraway look on his face, and Hanna knew he was thinking about the trouble his parents were in. She touched his arm gently, not sure how to comfort him.

Suddenly, the doors to the church banged open. Liam grabbed Hanna’s hand and pulled her into the shadows. A bunch of teenagers sauntered out, followed by a familiar ash-blond woman in a knockoff Burberry jacket, but Hanna couldn’t quite place her.

“I’m so sorry,” Liam said in Hanna’s ear. “I wanted to meet you here because I didn’t think anyone would be around tonight.”

More people streamed out of the church. Then, Hanna saw a head of chestnut hair and flinched. It was Kate, arm-in-arm with Sean Ackard. Sean walked stiffly, like he was a little afraid of Kate’s touch. He held a flyer in his hand that said V CLUB across the top in big capital letters.

That was why ugly Knockoff Burberry Jacket was familiar— it was Candace, the head of the Virginity Club meeting Hanna had crashed long ago in hopes of getting back together with Sean. They must have moved the support group from the Rosewood YMCA, where it had been held last year, to here. So Sean was still a devout virgin! Hanna was dying to ask Kate how she’d liked her first V Club meeting. Had they sworn off touching? Had Sean bought her a no-sex promise ring yet? A mirthful laugh slipped from her lips.

Kate froze and Sean came to a halt next to her. She looked around. “Is someone there?”

Hanna clamped her mouth shut. Liam stood very still beside her.

“It was probably a raccoon,” Sean said finally, guiding her to the parking lot.

“Did you know her?” Liam whispered once they were out of earshot.

“She’s my stepsister,” Hanna said. “If she saw me with you, I’d be dead.”

Liam stiffened. “I’d be dead, too. My dad would probably stop paying my tuition at Hyde. Take away my car. Kick me out of the house.”

“That makes two of us.” She leaned her head on Liam’s shoulder. “We’d be homeless together.”

“I can think of much worse punishments,” Liam said.

Hanna ducked her head. “You probably say that to all the girls.”

“No, I don’t.” He looked so sincere that Hanna leaned in and kissed him forcefully on the mouth. He kissed her back, and then moved to her cheeks, her eyes, her forehead. His hands caressed her waist. Who cared if she’d only met him a few days ago? Who cared if this was wrong? Who cared if their families hated each other? Liam was right: This kind of connection shouldn’t be ignored. It was like one of those rare comets—it only came around once every thousand years.

Two hours and a million kisses later, Hanna climbed back into her car and sank against the seat. She felt blissed-out and exhausted. It was only then that she noticed the little blinking green light on the top of her cell phone. She pulled it from the pocket of her bag and touched the screen. ONE NEW TEXT, it said.

She glanced up, gazing around the parking lot. The streetlights cast golden, uninterrupted circles of light on the pavement. The wind rattled the handicapped parking signs and blew an empty gum wrapper into the grass. No one was here. With shaking hands, she touched the screen to read the message.

Hannakins: I know you guys are living out your own private Romeo and Juliet love story, but remember: Both of them die in Act V. —A

Chapter 18

ALL GREAT ACTRESSES HALLUCINATE!

“Double, double, toil and trouble,” Naomi, Riley, and Kate screeched as they circled a cauldron on the Rosewood Day stage on Monday afternoon. “Fire burn and cauldron bubble.”

The three girls beckoned Beau-as-Macbeth toward them, shaking their boobs and making kissy-faces, which definitely wasn’t called for in the script. All of them had changed out of their Rosewood Day uniforms into skinny jeans, low-cut tunics, and Halloween-esque witches’ hats.

One row in front of Spencer, Jasmine Bryer, a brunette sophomore who was playing Lady Macduff, nudged Scott Chin, her on-stage husband. “They look like hookers, not witches.”

“You’re just pissed because they blew you off when you asked to sit with them at Steam yesterday,” Scott said knowingly, snapping his gum.

Spencer sunk down lower in her seat and picked absently at a tiny hole in her knee socks. The auditorium smelled like old shoes, the salami hoagies the crew advisor always brought in for an after-school snack, and patchouli oil. There was a commotion on the stage, and when Spencer looked up, Kate, Naomi, and Riley were daintily stepping off the risers, their witch hats in their hands. “Oh, everyone?” Naomi called out. “We want to remind you about the cast party after the performance on Friday. It’s going to be at Otto. We hope you all can come.” She looked directly at Beau as she said this.

Spencer rolled her eyes. Only Naomi, Riley, and Kate would hold the cast party at Otto, a fancy bistro down the street. Usually, the cast fetes were held in the auditorium or the gym. Two years ago, they’d thrown it in the cafeteria.

“We also suggest you all dress nicely, as the Philadelphia Sentinel is going to be there,” Riley added nasally, now glowering at the other actors, who usually looked as though they were going to a Renaissance Faire—even when they weren’t rehearsing Shakespeare. “Hopefully, they’ll interview all of us.”

Pierre snorted. “We’d better work our asses off, then.” He spied Spencer in the back row. “Speaking of which, Mr. M? Lady M? Are you ready?”

Spencer jumped up. “Definitely.” Beau rose, too.

Naomi and Riley gazed longingly at Beau as he sauntered up the aisle. “Good luck,” Naomi said, fluttering her eyelashes. Beau shot her a dismissive smile.

Then the girls turned to Spencer and snickered. “There’s something really off about her, don’t you think?” Naomi whispered loud enough for Spencer to hear, her buttery blond hair falling into her face. “Maybe someone’s lost her dramatic touch.”

“Personally, I think the girl who played her on Pretty Little Killer was a much better actress than she is,” Kate said. The others tittered.

Spencer stepped onto the stage, ignoring them. Pierre narrowed his eyes at Spencer. “We’re going to rehearse the scene where you tell Mr. M to kill the king. I hope you’ve got it a bit more together today.”

“Absolutely,” Spencer chirped, pushing a lock of blond hair over her shoulder. At Beau’s house yesterday, they’d rehearsed dozens of scenes, and she felt prepared and connected. She kept repeating a mantra in her head: I’m going to nail this, and Princeton is going to want me. She exchanged a glance with Beau, who had walked onto the stage as well. He shot her a kind, encouraging smile, and she smiled back.

“Okay.” Pierre prowled around the stage. “Let’s take it from the top, then.”

He gestured to Beau, who began the monologue about how Macbeth wasn’t sure whether he should commit murder. When it was Spencer’s cue to enter, she repeated the mantra in her head again. I’m going to nail this, Princeton is going to want me.