Chapter 3 Drunken Betrayal

# Chapter 3: Drunken Betrayal

Richard left for Washington on a Thursday morning, kissing my mother on the cheek and reminding her about the charity gala they would attend upon his return. Three days of freedom stretched before me like a blank canvas. Mother had her own schedule—spa appointments, lunch with friends, a museum board meeting—which meant the house would be mine for long stretches of time.

I spent the first day doing precisely what was expected of me: finishing a paper for my Advanced Literature class, practicing piano for an hour, and having a polite dinner with my mother. The perfect stepdaughter, the model student. By Friday evening, however, the familiar restlessness had settled into my bones.

My mother left for dinner with her college roommate, promising not to be late. "There's salmon in the fridge if you're hungry," she called as she left, as if I were still twelve instead of nineteen.

The moment her car disappeared down the driveway, I made my way to Richard's study. Not to snoop this time, but with another purpose entirely. His liquor cabinet was legendary among his political friends—rare scotches, limited-edition bourbons, vintage wines. All off-limits to me, of course.

I selected a crystal decanter containing amber liquid and poured myself a generous measure. The scotch burned pleasantly down my throat, warming me from the inside. One glass became two as I wandered through the silent house, trailing my fingers along the walls, feeling both like an intruder and the rightful inhabitant.

By the third glass, a pleasant haziness had settled over me. I found myself in front of the piano, playing fragments of Chopin with more emotion than technical precision. The alcohol had loosened something in me, some tightly wound spring I hadn't realized was coiled so tensely.

I was midway through a particularly challenging passage when I heard a key in the front door. My fingers froze on the keys. Mother wasn't due back for hours.

The door opened, and I heard the click of heels on marble. Not my mother's light step, but something more purposeful, more measured. I knew who it was before she appeared in the doorway.

"Don't stop on my account," Veronica said, leaning against the doorframe. "Nocturne in B-flat minor. You play beautifully."

I took another sip of scotch, letting the liquid courage bolster me. "What are you doing here?"

"Richard asked me to pick up some documents for his meeting tomorrow." She stepped into the room, her eyes falling on the crystal tumbler beside me. "I see you're making good use of his absence."

"Are you going to tell on me?" I challenged, the alcohol making me bolder than I would normally be.

A smile played at the corners of her mouth. "I'm not in the habit of reporting on other people's... indiscretions."

She moved toward me, her perfume—something subtle and expensive—preceding her. Without asking permission, she picked up my glass and took a sip, her eyes never leaving mine.

"Macallan 18. Good choice." She set the glass down, her lipstick leaving a perfect imprint on the rim. "Though perhaps wasted on someone drinking it like it's cheap vodka."

"I didn't realize you were a scotch connoisseur on top of being a political advisor and professional blackmailer," I retorted.

Instead of being offended, Veronica laughed—a genuine sound that transformed her face, softening the sharp edges I'd come to associate with her.

"You're drunk," she observed, but there was no judgment in her tone.

"Not drunk enough," I countered, reaching for the glass again.

She caught my wrist, her grip gentle but firm. "Maybe slow down a bit."

The touch of her fingers against my pulse point sent an electric current up my arm. I pulled away, suddenly needing to put distance between us. Rising unsteadily from the piano bench, I headed for the stairs.

"Where are the documents you need?" I asked over my shoulder. "I'll get them for you."

I could feel her following me, her presence a tangible thing at my back. "Richard's bedside table. A blue folder."

I climbed the stairs, gripping the banister more tightly than usual, aware of how the alcohol had affected my balance. Veronica followed, silent as a shadow.

Richard and my mother's bedroom suite was at the end of the hallway, a space I rarely entered. It felt like trespassing, though I supposed Veronica had been here before. The thought sent an unexpected stab of something like jealousy through me, which I immediately tried to dismiss.

The blue folder was exactly where she'd said it would be. I picked it up and turned to hand it to her, but she was closer than I expected. We nearly collided, and her hands came up to steady me, gripping my upper arms.

"Careful," she murmured.

We stood there for a moment, too close, her hands still on my arms. I could see the individual flecks of color in her dark eyes, smell the subtle notes of her perfume beneath the scotch on her breath.

"Why are you really here?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Her eyes searched mine. "I told you. The documents."

"Liar." The word hung between us, not an accusation but a recognition. "You could have picked these up earlier. You knew I'd be alone tonight."

Something shifted in her expression—surprise, perhaps, that I had seen through her. Or maybe it was something else entirely.

"Perhaps I wanted to see you," she admitted, releasing my arms and taking a step back. "Without your parents present."

The confession startled me. I handed her the folder, our fingers brushing in the exchange. "Why?"

"You intrigue me," she said simply. "You're not what you seem."

"Neither are you."

She smiled at that, a small, private smile. "No. I'm not."

The moment stretched between us, taut with unspoken possibilities. Then, abruptly, she turned and headed back downstairs. I followed, the alcohol in my system making the descent treacherous. In the foyer, she slipped the folder into her sleek leather briefcase and turned to face me.

"Thank you for your help. I should go."

"Stay," I blurted out, surprising myself as much as her. "Have a drink with me."

She hesitated, glancing at her watch. "Your mother—"

"Won't be home for hours," I finished. "Unless you're afraid to be alone with me?"

It was a challenge, one I hadn't planned to issue. For a moment, I thought she might refuse. Then she set her briefcase down.

"One drink," she agreed.

We returned to Richard's study, where I poured us each a measure of scotch. The silence between us wasn't uncomfortable, but it was charged with something I couldn't name.

"To secrets," I toasted, raising my glass.

"To those who keep them," she countered, touching her glass to mine.

The scotch burned less this time, warming rather than scorching. I settled into one of the leather armchairs, tucking my feet beneath me in a way that would have earned a disapproving look from my mother.

"Do you hate him?" I asked suddenly. "Richard."

Veronica considered the question, swirling the amber liquid in her glass. "Hate requires emotional investment. I don't care enough about Richard to hate him."

"Then why are you collecting evidence against him?"

"Insurance, as I said before." She took a sip of her scotch. "And leverage."

"For what?"

Her eyes met mine over the rim of her glass. "That depends on what I want."

The way she said it made my skin flush hot, though I wasn't sure why. I drained my glass, welcoming the fuzzy warmth that spread through my limbs.

"And what do you want, Veronica Reed?"

She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she set her glass down and rose from her chair, moving to stand by the fireplace. The low light caught the angles of her face, casting shadows that made her look both softer and somehow more dangerous.

"Many things," she finally said. "None of which I'm likely to get by discussing them with my employer's drunk stepdaughter."

The dismissal stung more than it should have. I stood up too quickly, the room tilting slightly.

"You know what? I hate him," I declared, steadying myself against the desk. "I hate his fake smile and his controlling nature and the way he treats my mother like she's just another campaign asset."

Veronica watched me, her expression unreadable. "Is that why you were going through his files? Looking for a way to hurt him?"

"Maybe." I moved toward her, my inhibitions dissolving with each step. "Or maybe I was looking for a way to understand you."

I was standing directly in front of her now, close enough to see the pulse beating at the base of her throat. The scotch had made me reckless, burning away the caution that would normally have held me back.

"Do you know I hate you too?" I asked, my voice low.

Something flickered in her eyes—amusement, perhaps, or challenge. "No," she replied coolly. "You don't hate me. You hate yourself."

The words hit like a physical blow. I stepped back, anger flaring hot in my chest. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know more than you think, Alicia." The way she said my name—soft, almost intimate—sent a shiver down my spine despite my anger.

"Get out," I demanded, turning away from her. "Take your documents and go."

I felt rather than saw her move closer. Her hand touched my shoulder, turning me to face her. "Alicia—"

I don't know what made me do it. The alcohol, certainly. The anger. The confusion that had been building since the night we met. Whatever the reason, I surged forward and pressed my lips to hers, cutting off whatever she had been about to say.

For a heartbeat, she remained perfectly still, and I thought I had made a terrible mistake. Then her hand slid to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair as she deepened the kiss. Her lips were soft but insistent, tasting of expensive scotch and something uniquely her.

The world narrowed to the points where our bodies connected—her hand in my hair, her other hand at my waist, pulling me closer. The kiss was nothing like I had imagined (and I had imagined it, I realized, more times than I cared to admit). It was hungry, almost desperate, as if we were both trying to consume something we'd been denied.

When we finally broke apart, both breathing hard, I felt dizzy from more than just the alcohol. Veronica's usually perfect composure was shattered—her lipstick smudged, her eyes dark with desire.

"I shouldn't have done that," she said, though she hadn't released her hold on me.

"No," I agreed, my hands still resting on her shoulders. "You shouldn't have."

And then I kissed her again, and this time there was no hesitation from either of us.