Chapter One – The Encounter

Sarah

This damn iPhone. Damn technology. And these damn fingernails. I struggle to finish typing out the text message on these tiny screen buttons, with my phone hidden underneath the table.

Anything, Johnny. Please. I just need anything. I'm desperate, I type out, having to backspace several times to fix my typing mistakes when my manicured nails get in my way.

Johnny is considerably faster at texting than I am – probably because of his masculinity and the fact that he doesn't go in for regular manicures – and a reply comes quickly.

Sorry, Sarah. I can't do it.

For a brief moment I drop the phone to my lap and sigh out loud. I should be used to it now. I've pretty much run through my entire list of contacts and exhausted all my options and I've heard I can't do it more times in the past week than I have in an entire lifetime. My description to him, desperate, is a misnomer at this point. I've far surpassed desperation and I'm quickly approaching the next level – depravity, the kind of desperation that leads you to do crazy things like sell your kidney on the black market or succumb to prostituting yourself on the streets. I'm not sure which one I'd prefer at this exact moment, but one doesn't sound any worse than the other.

“Are you listening to me?”

I look up and realize that I've been so engrossed in myself, I've forgotten that my best friend, Katherine, is sitting across from me at the table. Decked out with her diamante-studded Chanel sunglasses atop her head, her long eyelashes barely peeking out from underneath her bangs, she gives me that look.

“Of course I was listening to you,” I say, and gently place my cell phone into my purse, which sits next to me on its own chair.

Truth be told, I didn't hear a word she said. I forgot she was even here. Kate isn't “forgotten” often, unless it's me who forgets her presence. Wherever she goes, from the moment she steps into the room, all eyes are on Katherine Carrington – and it's not because of her bubbly personality.

“What did I say, then?” she asks, her fork partially up, ready to take a small bite of the prosciutto stuffed mushrooms on her plate, which if I'm being honest, absolutely sicken me at the thought.

For most people, this would be the point that they would stutter and struggle to come up with a small tidbit of information that they might have heard, knowing that the odds of failing miserably are great. But this is Katherine. I have good chances.

“Prada,” I say, picking up a forkful of penne pasta and placing it very lady-like in my mouth.

“Like I was saying,” she says, her eyes wide, “their new line is...oh, my God, Sar, it's absolutely fabulous. I don't think I've ever seen anything more amazing. Even Daddy was impressed. It was the best Fashion Show I've been to yet. Oh, and while I was in Paris, I met this man...”

I keep eye contact with her, but tune out again. Having a conversation with Katherine Carrington is like watching The Young and the Restless – you can miss half an hour of the conversation and still pick up exactly where you left off, because it never changes. There are only three things Katherine Carrington cares about – haute couture, money, and rich men.

Katherine's father, who is affectionately – and creepily – known around circles of women as “Daddy Carrington”, is part owner and half the brilliant mind behind Carrington and Kennedy. Daddy Carrington, to describe him best, makes Donald Trump look as ugly as Carrot Top, as important as the valets outside this restaurant, and as broke as a McDonald's fry cook. Saying he has more money than God would actually be an insult to this man.

Kenneth Carrington and his partner, Sheldon Kennedy, own hundreds of hotels across the entire world. It all started as a ten-room dump motel in 1953, somewhere outside Juarez, Mexico, that even the roaches wouldn't inhabit. Somehow, by 1981, the year Katherine and I were born – only two months apart – Carrington and Kennedy Hotels had morphed into hundreds of upscale hotels in the biggest and richest cities across the world, that only the elite could afford to stay at. Elite like Kenneth Carrington and his family – wife Elsbeth (not to be mistaken with Elizabeth), scholarly son Richard (otherwise known as Little Rich), and doting daughter Katherine. Elite like Sheldon Kennedy, his trophy wife Margaret, and two doctor sons Calvin and Jude.

But not his daughter – the one he long ago disowned, kicked out of the family. The daughter he no longer has – Sarah Kennedy.

Yep, that's me.

I could sit here and write a list for you, detail all the reasons I've been disowned, cast off, discarded, renounced – pick any word you prefer – from the Kennedy family. But it would take ages, and truthfully, it would bore you so much you'd wish for death. Suffice it to say, I no longer exist to my mogul father. My mother acknowledges my existence, but only to avoid maternal shame and losing her title as trophy mother and wife. My brothers love me – and not only out of obligation, which I'm quite proud of – but don't speak of me around Daddy. After all, they don't want to end up like me – cast away from Island Kennedy by their own father, without a cent of Daddy's money.

That was two years ago. I've managed since then, finding a job as a legal aide at one of the top law firms in Manhattan. It hasn't been easy. I'm not living in Trump Towers, but I have a decent little apartment, not far from Times Square and close to the best shopping district the city has to offer. Elsbeth used to consider me as one of her own daughters; now she'd much sooner let a homeless man who lived in squalor inside her house than she would me. Rich used to adore me, even had a pretty intense crush on me in high school; now he doesn't speak to me, much like my parents.

But Katherine...Katherine has always stuck by me. Through thick and thin. Through bad and good. Through all the dirty, ugly details of my falling out with my father, she has always been there for me.

“Sar, I keep telling you – you should come next year,” she says, placing her cup of coffee gently on the saucer it came from. “It's the most fabulous thing.”

“Yes, well, Kate, some of us do have jobs,” I remind her, picking up my own coffee cup to take a sip.

“Oh tosh,” she says. “You know I'll take care of it.”

“Your dad would sooner pay immigrant workers a fair minimum wage than pay to send me to Fashion Week in Paris.”

She points a long, pink manicured nail at me. “See, that's how rumors get started. You know Daddy pays those sweet little housekeepers more than fairly.”

I smile at her, a real shit-eating grin, and bat my eyelashes slightly.

“Daddy doesn't hate you,” she says. “He just tries to stay neutral, so he stays in your dad's good graces. I'm sure once I asked, he'd be more than willing to bring you along.”

I bite my tongue. That's what I call the Famous Kennedy Load of Bullshit – deserving of the importance the capitalization gives it – but I can't tell Katherine that. Like any spoiled, rich socialite, she's brainwashed to think that Daddy Carrington walks on water and can do no wrong. I've heard her tell stories about how he's been knighted by queens and blessed by one of the Popes...which anyone with half a brain would know is a complete load of bullshit, but an impressive story nonetheless.

Unfortunately, being a Daddy's Girl at one point myself, I can't bring myself to tell her the truth about her life. I can't bring myself to tell her that her thirty years on this Earth has been one big, elitist lie after another.

I can't break her heart like mine was, because I know how it feels when the only world you know comes crashing down around you.

I'm opening my mouth, about to give her a polite but definite decline, when I see her overly made-up eyes open wide. Suddenly, a look comes over her face similar to the one she makes when she sees a Gucci purse she's been eyeing, or a pair of Louboutin pumps, shiny and brand new in the window. I know she's seen someone.

She raises her hand and lifts herself up out of her seat slightly to give a little wave behind me, and I'm about to turn around to see who she's discovered, when she calls.

“Lance!”

I've just turned around and that's when I see him, stepping out of that shiny, black BMW. Just like him, the disgustingly pressed suit and the black wingtips that I'm surprised he graces the dirty New York streets with.

I try not to groan, so as not to hurt Katherine's feelings, but I'm sure underground workers in China can hear it.

She's waving him over frantically, and I wish I could call Scotty to beam me up, or otherwise morph myself out of here.

“Katherine,” I hear him say in that overly-saccharin voice. “A little early for cocktail hour, isn't it?”

“Oh, Lancey,” she says with a smile. She stands up and behind hiding my face, I can see her embrace him in a hug. “You silly. A little brunch, that's all.”

I only lower my hand so I can grab my coffee, but out of the corner of my eye I now see him turn his head toward me.

“Sarah,” he says, still smiling, but noticeably less cordial than he greeted Kate.

I finish sipping my coffee and swallow before slightly smiling his way.

“Lance.”

“It's good to see you out and about,” he says. “How is the law profession treating you?”

I see the snide turn in his upper lip, and I know that I'm meant to see it.

“It's amazing,” I respond. “I love my job.”

“Secretarial work is a good look for you,” he says. “Lucky for you, hard labor hasn't aged you a day.”

Thirty seconds. He's beat his new personal record of asshole-ism. I want to pounce on him like a territorial lion and claw his eyes out with my newly done acrylic nails. The only reason I think twice is because the dress I'm wearing for today's outing cost me two weeks' pay, makes my Target clothes look like dishrags, and I'd hate to dirty it with his blood.

“Being an unadulterated dickhead hasn't aged you a day either,” I say with a smile. “That's a nice suit – tell me, is it real skin from one of your clients you screwed over or is it a really good reproduction?”

He chuckles. “Same Sarah, as always.”

“As always. And being a thief hasn't changed you either.”

He ignores my jab and goes back to Kate, and I turn back to my coffee, proud as a peacock that I made it through the minute-long exchange that was forced onto me.

Lance Bass – the only man in the world that I can't stand, and have more hatred toward than my own father. As is her personality, Kate worships him. Me, personally, I'd rather strangle him with his self-imposed crown until he begs for my mercy. His BMW has more class than he does.

It wasn't always that way. I mean, is it ever? You don't always immediately hate a person from the moment you know them. I didn't always hate him.

From the age of thirteen, when we entered junior high, Katherine and I both attended Thornhill Academy. Of course, one of the most elite private schools in the country; only the best for the Carrington and Kennedy children. As eighth graders, we met suave, savvy, sophomore Lance...although back then, he went by James. His father, James Sr., owned the best law firm in the entire state of New York, Bass and Associates. Carrington and Kennedy Hotels used him as their exclusive lawyer, which meant he was included in our immediate circle.

His mother, Diane, a lowly teacher by our inner circles standards, would have tea with our mothers every Sunday morning after church while our fathers would converge in my father's huge upstairs office, undoubtedly talking business. From the time I entered the Academy, there wasn't a Sunday that Lance wasn't at my house – which only led to bad, horrible things.

From the moment we were introduced to him, Lance was known as the “bad boy” of Thornhill. At least, as “bad” as a rich lawyer's son attending a private school can be. While the other heirs were busy studying to make good marks so they could attend law school and medical school and make their fathers proud, Lance was the one wearing sunglasses in the back seat of the class room, trying to impress the girls. When the other boys turned sixteen and drove to school in brand new Cadillacs and Lexuses, Lance was the one to pull up in an electric blue Ferrari, looking better than candy to a toddler.

I was the least immune to his gravitational pull.

By the time I turned sixteen, the three of us – Kate, Lance, and I – were inseparable. It started with “Tea Time Sundays” as he called it. Soon, the three of us walked home from school every day – until of course he got the car, when he would drive us home. Eventually, he would only let me have the front seat, relegating Kate to the back.

I knew things had started to change when he would go out of his way to drop Kate off at home first. It would just be me and him, cruising the streets like the blue-collar teenagers, listening to Radiohead and Pearl Jam. Rebelling, basically, because I knew that if my father knew about it, he'd drop dead of a heart attack and proceed to roll over in his newly-dug grave.

And in case you're wondering, listening to the Devil music of Radiohead and Pearl Jam isn't the reason my father disowned me. At least, not the only reason.

You know how it goes from here. Sixteen-year-old girl and eighteen-year-old boy, cruise in his car listening to music. Conveniently, they find themselves on the scenic outlook, more commonly known as “Lover's Lane”. By the grace of God, it's an unseasonably warm day and the young girl, prepared for an early-spring chill, has dressed in a tasteful cardigan. Of course, it's so hot, she has no choice but to remove it, leaving her soft, creamy skin exposed in her school-approved camisole. Suddenly, the boy realizes that this thirteen-year-old girl has blossomed into a pubescent sixteen-year-old with an hourglass figure and, God's only gift to horny teenage boys, cleavage.

One thing leads to another, and innocence is lost.

You'd be half-right.

God knows – and I'm ashamed to admit it so openly – I was ready and willing. That blonde hair, those green eyes, and that pathetic not-so-bad-boy facade had me from the get-go. And for a while, it seemed to be that he felt the same way. I knew him; I had been best friends with him for three years. I watched as puberty took its evil and embarrassing toll on him, listened to his voice change to that deep tone that made all the girls swoon. I was not immune to his sex appeal, but that didn't change the fact that I saw him as one of the best friends I had ever had, aside from Kate.

But just as it looked like it might happen, something suddenly changed in him. Suddenly, I was untouchable; he backed away from me as if I was Chernobyl, started the car, and drove me home with hardly a word. I went inside with perfectly-coiffed hair, pissed as all hell.

I knew it was over when, instead of going to Prom together as was the plan, he went with someone else. And I guess I've never really gotten over it.

But now that I'm older, thirty-two to be exact, I have a lot more reasons to hate him.

No, really; I swear I do.

“What is it with you and him?” Kate asks me once he walks away and she sits back down.

“Whatever do you mean?” I ask sweetly, as if I can even pretend I don't know what she means.

“You can't even give him a simple, civil 'hello',” she says.

“He's scum,” I say. “The man has absolutely no morals. He's the biggest thief I've ever known – and that's saying something considering the high society circle our parents run in aren't known for being big on morals. Everybody knows he's the biggest lying, cheating, dirty lawyer in New York, a rather low standard for lawyers, period. And he's a Ponzi schemer.”

“That's not true,” Kate insists. “He's a sweet man.”

“Please,” I half-scoff. “The man would steal the shirt off his own mother's back if he stood to gain something from it.”

“I don't understand how the two of you came to have such a distaste for each other,” she says. “You two were joined at the hip in high school. Everybody knew you had a thing for each other.”

“We had a thing for about a week,” I say, emphasizing the words in my voice in lieu of using air quotes. “What thing we did have was imagined at best – mostly by you. It equaled up to no more than a close friendship, cruising in his fancy car that Daddy paid for, him dreaming that his disgustingly charming personality could win him an all-expenses-paid trip in my pants.”

See, I've conveniently left out the part where I tell her that he had an all-access pass. It's better that way.

“He wasn't like that, Sare-Bear,” Kate says, and I cringe inwardly at the use of the childish nickname my Daddy used to call me...you know, before I was dead to him. “Lance is a good man. He comes from a good family. He had a bit of a rough edge in high school, but it was just a personality quirk; something that made him different from the other 'Daddy Rich Boys' in school.”

It doesn't escape me – the irony of her referring to our schoolmates in a derogatory manner, considering she's the apple of her father's eye and gets everything she wants.

“Everybody knew he had it so bad for you, Sar,” she says.

Her tone of voice is serious; she says it in such a way that you know she's turned off her debutante nonsense and she's being completely honest with you. But it's funny, because all I can think is, I remember the whole thing going down very differently.

“Well, I don't know what everybody else saw that made them think that,” I say. “Lance and I were just really good friends. And then we grew apart. I become one person and he became a completely different person. He became...what he is today. And I don't find it appealing, neither in a romantic sense or in a friendly sense.”

Looking at her face, I can sense a displeasure. Actually, it's almost disappointment. It's odd; from the outside, the first impression one usually has of Katherine Carrington is that she is a spoiled, rich brat whose only interest is spending as much of her Daddy's money as she can and keeping up the ridiculous appearances that come along with her life. But like an onion, when you peel back the skin, you find one astounding layer after another.

“It is what it is, Katie,” I say, knowing I'll soften her with the nickname. “Trust me, there's no love lost between Lance and I. I'm totally fine with where the two of us stand.”

I can tell she's not completely satisfied with my answer, but I just don't feel like talking about it anymore. I know of only one thing to do, so I suddenly perk up, straightening my back and lifting my chin in the air regally.

“Shall we excuse ourselves for tea?” I ask, fanning my hand out towards the sidewalk next to me.

I hear a small giggle escape her throat. She knows that I'm making fun of our mothers, who would always “excuse themselves” for tea on the “veranda” as if they were the most important people in the world; the fact escaping them that behind the fancy exterior, they were really simple people walking out to the porch.

“To the veranda?” she asks, returning to her lady-like appearance.

“After you, m'lady,” I say.

We both stand from the table, continuing to be as ridiculously elegant as we can possibly stand without launching into a throe of giggles at each other. I smooth my dress down and grab my clutch purse from the chair, and quickly start to follow after her towards her Mercedes.

I don't even realize I'm passing his table until I'm stopped, abruptly, by a heavy hand wrapped around my wrist.

I gasp slightly, and look down, seeing his fist wrapped around my arm. It's not quite what I would call a death grip, but it carries a certain desperation to it, and he certainly doesn't know his own strength.

For the longest time, he doesn't speak to me, he only stares. I look away for a moment to his brunch partner, who seems as stunned and confused as I am. It has the air of a business meeting, a very important one by the looks of it, and I'm rather shocked. It's definitely not appropriate behavior, even for him.

“Sarah?”

I look over, and Katherine has come to a full stop, turned toward me, looking between me and Lance with a mixture of emotions – confusion, curiosity, and a touch of what almost seems like fear.

“Are you coming?” she asks me.

“In a minute,” I say. “Go on ahead without me.”

She does, turning the corner to head towards the car without a second thought because, obviously, she trusts him without question. I watch her until she's out of sight, and it's then that I glance back down – first at the business man. He has decided he's over the situation; he's back to sipping his drink, something that no doubt to me looks alcoholic, and avoiding the odd encounter in front of him. I can still see a touch of confusion and even bewilderment in his face, but knowing he associates with lawyers – and drinks alcohol at 10:30 on a Tuesday morning during a business meeting – God only knows what stranger things he's seen in his life.

I look back at Lance, and it's only then that he lessens his grip on my arm.

“I apologize for my backhanded jab at you earlier,” he says. “It was good to see you today after so long, Sarah.”

The tone in his voice is softened, and even the look on his face is almost endearing.

“It was good to see you again too, Lance,” I say, unable to help myself, because I'm so surprised, what else can I really say?

“It's been too long,” he says. “I'd like to catch up. If you would do me the honor, I'd love to take you for a drink tonight. What would you say to a scotch at Pegu, tonight at eight?”

For a moment, I consider it. I hate it, but there's still that little part of me – the part that is sixteen, that lives for him, that breathes him in, that wants him to live for me and nothing else in the entire world. It's so appealing, the idea of just me, him, and a bottle of scotch between us, because it's been so long.

And then I remember the sixteen years of scorn.

“I don't drink scotch,” I say, twisting my arm to encourage him to release me.

He does, and I rip my arm away. I'm slightly thrilled at the look of surprise on his face.

“And I may not be my father's daughter anymore, but I still have enough class to not grace you with my presence,” I finally say. “Go to hell.”

It's with only a smidgen of satisfaction that I walk away from him; mostly, I'm pissed.

But that's no surprise. After all, it is James Lance Bass.