30. Princess for President
Princess for President
"Oh my God," Marlow chortles, nearly choking on her cup of tea. "Will you stop?"
"It's fucking itchy!" Beau groans, tugging at the collar of the turtleneck Momma bought him. "I feel like fire ants are crawling all over my damn skin."
"Shh!" I hush him, glancing around the restaurant, dozens of pageant queens and their families enjoying high tea. "Don't cuss in here, okay? I heard from New York that sometimes they have spies loitering around these functions whose top priority is to sniff out corrupted contestants."
Beau glowers at me. "Why do you care, Sav? Thought you said these types of things were stupid, huh?"
"They are." I roll my eyes. "But since I'm here and made it to the finale, I might as well win, right?"
"Fucking rights!” Marlow exclaims, immediately covering her mouth. "Shit! I'm so sorry!" She sheepishly looks around. "I don't think anyone heard. You're safe."
"At least for now." I sigh, scanning the restaurant for Momma and Daddy. "Where did they go? This is supposed to be a family luncheon, and they up and leave us."
"Dad's probably schmoozing somewhere," Beau notes, shoving a large chunk of scone into his mouth.
"This place is like a cesspool for the wealthy and important.
" He snorts. "Still can't believe he's running for governor.
If his voters ever get wind of the type of shit I do in Hawkridge, they'll crucify him. "
"Which is why Momma bought you seventeen different types of turtlenecks," I say with a grin. "I'm sure his campaign manager will whip up a nice, juicy story about where you've been all these years. If anything, your sudden return will win him a butt ton of brownie points."
"Wait, what?" Marlow adjusts the pearl button on her silk blouse and frowns. "Are your parents really gonna make us join the campaign trail? I thought your mom was kidding." She looks frantically at Beau. "Tell me she's kidding!"
"We'll go to one event," Beau says, smiling at his future wife. "Maybe two. Tops."
Marlow closes her eyes. "The things you do for love."
"It'll be fine," I reassure her. "I'll be there too. I promise it won't be as painful as you think."
"I'm wearing a nail polish color called Kotton Kandy Kisses ." Marlow scowls, flashing me her manicure. "Doesn't get more painful than this."
"When in Rome, right? That's what you told me, remember?" I snort as my phone rings. I check the caller ID and frown. A private number. Huh. Tentatively, I answer the call. "Hello? "
"Hello, Miss Kingsley."
My heart batters against my ribcage at the sound of Miguel's voice. Shoot!
"H...hello," I mumble, mouthing "it's Miguel" to my brother, who sits up straight, concern plastered on his face as he listens intently. "Uh..."
"I take it you're doing well?" he asks. "Back in Alabama?"
"Uh-huh," I hum, anxiety building in my chest. "Why...uh...why are you?—"
"Calling you?" He chuckles. Oh my gosh. Am I getting arrested?
Is he calling to warn me? By now, he probably realized that the stash houses belonged to The Vipers, not The Sons.
Does that mean I've impeded a federal investigation?
I hadn't even thought of Miguel since I left.
Or the repercussions. Double shoot. "Don't worry, Miss Kingsley, you're not in any trouble. "
"...I'm not?"
"No." He clears his throat. "Although you can only imagine how surprised I was when the agents investigating the coordinates you sent us informed me that the stash house belonged to The Vipers...not The Sons."
Triple shoot. "I...I don't know what to say?—"
"Say nothing," Miguel states.
"Huh?"
"I need you to keep your mouth shut and pretend our conversation in the park never happened, got it?"
"I don't understand..."
Miguel sighs. "The bust on The Vipers' stash houses proved to be very fruitful for the Bureau and, in turn... me . "
"Okay...and?"
"The Director was so impressed with the number of guns and drugs seized that I have been reassigned and..." He clears his throat. "Promoted."
Clean as a boy scout, my ass. Billy's going to be disappointed. "I see," I draw out, my butt sweating through my dress. "Congratulations, I guess?"
"Mhmm," Miguel hums in a clipped tone. "You tell your friends in Hawkridge that we will get them. Maybe not this year. Maybe not next, but The Sons of Sorrow will be dismantled sooner or later. Take care, Miss Kingsley." He pauses. "And remember, we're always watching. Always."
I blink, hanging up on Miguel. "Well, that was...interesting."
"What happened?" Beau asks. "What did he say?!"
"He said?—"
"Savvy! Beau!" Momma sings as she bolts toward the table, Daddy and two other men in tow.
I recognize the pompous face immediately.
She didn't! The woman's got no shame! "Mayor Lockwood, you remember my daughter Savannah, don't you?
" She tosses me a sly wink as if she's doing me a favor.
"And Savannah, you remember the mayor's son James, don't you?
" She tugs on the sleeve of a walking Ken doll.
"Doesn't he look all grown up? James here graduated from Harvard this past year. "
I give James a weak smile. "Nice to see you again, James."
"You look incredible, Savannah." James doesn't hesitate to yank my arm up and plant a kiss on my hand. "I didn't think you could get more beautiful, yet here we are."
Ew.
"Mayor Lockwood," Daddy chimes in, turning his attention to Beau and Marlow. "I'd like you to meet my son and his fiancée. They're visiting us from... Europe ."
Is that the story? Beau's been in Europe these past three years? Oh boy.
"Pleased to meet you," Mayor Lockwood says, shaking Beau and Marlow's hands. "Where in Europe are you visiting from?"
"So, Savannah, I think that—" James sits down in an empty chair beside me as Beau manages to lie his ass off to the Mayor of Mobile. Family of fibbers, that's what we are. "Savannah?"
"Huh?" I shake my head, realizing I'm completely ignoring whatever nonsense is pouring out of poor James's mouth. "Sorry, what did you say?"
He grins, running a hand through his perfectly groomed hair.
"I said, are you free this weekend? My parents are hosting a fundraiser for trees or bees or something, and I'd love to have a pretty thing like you on my arm for the evening.
" He flashes me his artificially whitened smile. "What do you say?"
I inwardly scoff. "Do I look an accessory to you, James Lockwood? If you want something pretty on your arm, I can recommend a darling little boutique that specializes in jewels for the obtuse."
James throws his head back and chuckles. "And she's funny too!" He looks up at my momma. "I don't remember her being this feisty back in the day. "
"Neither do I," Momma say through a fake smile, scolding me with her eyes alone. "Savannah's spent the summer on the west coast; perhaps she left some of her manners behind." She tilts her head. "I'm sure she'd love to join you this weekend, wouldn't you, Savannah?"
"Don't you have to"—Marlow nods toward the hanging clock—"go get ready or something? It's almost your call time."
"Right!" I jump out of my seat. "Can't be late to the finale, can I?" Patting James on the shoulder, I mimic my momma's phony smile. "We'll talk later, okay?"
"But—"
I pretend I don't hear him as I dash out of the restaurant and high tail toward the dressing rooms. Most people only need an hour to get ready, but when you're on a televised pageant, the minimum time one requires is three hours.
A full three hours.
"Now remember, the final question is worth the most points," Momma says a couple of hours later as she douses my hair in a gallon of hairspray.
“I know, I know,” I say as the stage manager yells, "two minutes to showtime."
Momma lets out a heavy exhale, more nervous than I am. "Make sure to keep your answer simple, sweet, and positive. Don't go off on any tangents, okay?"
"I'll be fine, momma! It's not my first rodeo.” I cough, waving my hand in front of my face. "I think that's enough hairspray Momma, unless you want me seeing flying unicorns.”
"Okay!" Momma sucks in a nervous breath as she kisses my cheek. "You got this, Savannah! Stand tall and act confident!"
"Will do!" I toss her a sassy thumbs up and get in line with the other contestants as our cue music starts blaring and the host's voice booms from the speakers.
"Your mom's cute," Iowa whispers as we make our way to the stage. "Mine didn't even wanna come."
"She's something alright," I whisper back as bright stage lights nearly blind me. "Good luck."
"You too!"
"Iowa!" The host announces, and a spotlight shines on Connie. "Alabama!" I smile and wave to the audience. "New York..."
After introductions, I patiently wait for my turn in the hot seat. I hate going last during these things. It messes with my nerves. I'd rather get it over and done with. But's fine. It'll be fine.
"Thank you, New York," the host says. "Last but certainly not least, please give a round of applause for Alabama, Savannah Kingsley."
Here goes nothing. I hop off my stool and head to the podium.
The host smiles at me. “You look lovely this evening, Alabama.”
"As do you," I say, garnering a blush from our sleazy middle-aged host.
"You're too kind." He grins, flipping his cue cards. "Alright, Alabama, our question to you is: what is one piece of advice you'd give a young woman in today's society?"
A beat passes as I think about the question. Really think about it. Probably more than I should. Advice? Who am I to give anyone advice? I'm still learning. About myself. About the world. About life. About...love. What do I know? What can I share? What can I contribute?
Hmm...
"A couple of months ago, my answer to this question would've been something along the lines of...know your self-worth, trust yourself, and treat yourself with respect?—"
I pause, catching Momma's worried expression. Swallowing, my gaze shifts a seat down to Marlow, and I smile, remembering our first encounter and the initial judgmental thoughts I had about her.
"And while that advice is solid and important, what I want to share with y'all today is..." Memories of the past summer flood my mind and relax my shoulders. "Is the importance of knowing one's internalized prejudice."
The crowd stays silent, a distant cough echoing from the far end of the room.
"I think as humans we all tend to flock toward people and things that are familiar, that are comfortable, that are known and secure, and sometimes, that tends to put a divide between us and others .
" I clear my throat. "This past summer, I met many people that I instantly labeled as other.
Their way of life was different than mine, their appearance was different than mine, and though I hate to say it out loud, I thought I was better than them.
"But then something magical happened..." I grin down at Marlow.
"I got to know them. I got to see behind the surface, behind the labels, behind my own preconceived notions of who they were.
When I shed those socially constructed standards of proper and improper, of good and bad, of right and wrong, I discovered that these people were some of the kindest, warmest, most loyal, and loving individuals I'll probably meet in my whole life.
"So my advice to everyone, not just young women, is to get to know people before you judge them and brush them off as other , because, if you're lucky like me, you might find a best friend, a sister, even a—" I take a breath, my heart on the verge of breaking all over again.
"Maybe even a soulmate." I glance over at the host and give him a melancholy smile. "Thank you."
Shoot. That was definitely not short or sweet. That was long-winded and far too personal. Momma's gonna kill me.
"No, thank you." The host clears his throat. "Alabama, everyone."
It starts off slow, the applause, but within seven seconds, the crowd roars and rises to their feet.
Like a beating drum growing louder and louder, I hear my name being chanted at the back of the venue.
I narrow my eyes, following the husky hoots and hollers until my gaze lands on a sea of leather vests and plaid bandanas.
Oh, my Lanta...
A sparkly hot pink sign that reads Princess for President is hoisted in the air, and the arms holding it are attached to none other than the Vice-President of one of America's most notorious biker gangs.
No. Freaking. Way.