Spellbound - Cara Lynn Shultz [118]
I had met Brendan’s parents at the hospital—it was kind of incredible to see Aaron and Laura Salinger together. Talk about opposites attracting. Where Laura was frosty and proper, Aaron was warm and more than a little bawdy. The rubber glove jokes alone…
“So we have security detail,” I muttered. “I wish I could say I minded, but I’m glad that you’re going to be safe. At least, until they find Anthony.”
But according to Brendan, his first day back was exceedingly uneventful—in terms of surprise attacks by sociopathic teenagers, at least. I should have known he was downplaying it. Cisco clued me in to the near social hurricane Brendan’s return to school had caused. Not that Brendan would tell me: after his first day back, he brushed it off as “fine” and brought my books over so I could keep up with my studies—especially since midterms were right after Christmas break. Oh, joy. As if Latin didn’t make my head already feel like it was cracking open before the concussion…. But tucked into the back of my Latin textbook was a little present—Brendan’s old midterm. Cheating, schmeating. Hey, a concussed girl’s gotta do what a concussed girl’s gotta do.
Ever the charmer, Brendan—who healed ridiculously fast, the show-off—brought some kind of snack and coffee for Aunt Christine every afternoon after school, still trying to work his charisma on her. She had significantly thawed to the idea of me having such a serious relationship—and the fact that Brendan took a dive off a cliff for me helped a lot. I had never realized before how tough Christine was to win over. Ashley’s boyfriend would probably have to resolve all third-world debt before Christine would even let him in the door.
I ached from head to toe—literally—but that wasn’t even the worst of my problems. New York media really liked the story. I’d known the Salingers were rich. And I’d known they were “prominent.” But I had no idea what that meant to New York society until Ashley called me, squealing at the top of her lungs to let me know we were the lead item on the New York Post’s famed Page Six.
I hobbled up out of bed, grabbing my laptop to check out the story. There it was: Tycoon’s Son Risks Life for Gal Pal.
“Oh, no,” I groaned. The photos they used were our school ID shots. With a rakish smirk and unkempt hair, Brendan looked like he could be staring out from the cover of Alternative Press. And I looked like the cover model for Swamp Thing Weekly. I scanned through the story—troubled former student attacked me, Brendan saved my life—and then I got to the last line.
Anthony Caruso is believed to have fled the country. His father, noted defense lawyer Ron “The Piranha” Caruso, is being questioned by police.
I wasn’t sure how to feel. I didn’t feel comfortable wishing him dead, but only because I knew that was a crummy thing to wish. I should have felt guilty for hoping the police would find him on the bottom of the pond, but I didn’t. Anthony was still out there—somewhere. Who knew if or when he’d return? Two weeks? Two years? Would he show up on my doorstep when I was thirty, holding a grudge for years?
I kept hoping for some starlet to be arrested for a DUI to get the attention diverted somewhere else.
The media eventually moved on to another story—some actress’s sex tape leaked online, and let’s just say she was pretty freaky. And even though I had to put up with stares and whispers from my classmates when I returned to school—especially because I still had a few lingering, nasty cuts on my face—after a few weeks the most dramatic event in my life was me, breaking the laces on my Converse high-tops.
And then, one Saturday around Thanksgiving, about three weeks after the “Rumble on the Rocks” (as one paper called it), Angelique came over.
I was lounging in bed, giving my still-tender ankle a break and pretending to study Latin, when, in fact, I was reading Pink Is the New Blog, when I heard Angelique’s voice in the living room. Aunt Christine adored Angelique. Mostly, Christine figured her appearance, which