Page 39 of All Saints: Pledge

By the time I decide to step back, he's pulling my dress up and appraising his work.

I stare down at the ample cleavage Kendall has wrought. I'm incredulous as I flex my biceps alongside my chest, pushing them together slightly. My breasts jiggle and sway alluringly. Hot damn, my modest chest has never looked better. Especially in a dress like this. I look like I should be starring in my own episode of Bridgerton with cleavage like this.

Kendall's glance turns appreciative, and his fingers twitch like he wants to reach out and stroke the tempting roundness spilling over the top of the dress. “Goal achieved.” He holds out a tube of lipstick to me. “I want to give you all the ammunition.”

Hot damn, this is ammunition indeed. The lipstick color is called Sirens, and it’s deep, deep red. I sigh, knowing not to fight with him about this. I tuck the vial of red directly between my breasts. Handy pocket, ready-made. "Where did you learn to do this?" I can't take my own eyes off my cleavage. I reach up and pat them as if I haven't owned this particular set of breasts from birth. They'd been gifted to me tonight in one of the most bizarre holidays known to womankind.

“DragTok.”

I look up to find Kendall is completely serious.

We're silent for a long moment.

“Well, God Bless those Queens,” I say. “They know their cleavage creation.”

We both bust up laughing for a beat before Kendall folds my other clothes up and tucks them into his coat. “We need to talk about the interview now that you're ... dressed.” The dress may be scratchy, but if getting attention is the name of the game tonight, Kendall has handed me a trump card. He bends down and looks me in the eye, gaze straight and serious. “What do you want?”

In a moment of insanity, gazing into his blue eyes, a scant inch separating our bodies, I almost answer, “You.” Which would be absolutely bananas, so I shake my head. “Want from what?”

“Tonight. You need to make it clear you want something. From Oxford. From life, from the world. What is it that makes you tick? Why are you here?”

He says “here” like he's talking about more than just Oxford, and his interest seems genuine. Is he getting philosophical on me? Existential? Religious, maybe? It’s the third bizarre pivot to our conversation tonight.

I’m hesitant, not sure what answer he’s looking for. “I've always wanted to come here. All Saints was the way to get to Oxford.”

“You need something bigger.” His eyes dart back and forth between mine. "You need to want something big. Money. Fame. Legacy. Mastery.”

“I—” Only Jacqueline knows my deluded desire to change the world in a big way. I don't want to tell Kendall. It feels too personal. He's judgmental, stuck up, spoiled, irritating, and infuriating, and he’s going to laugh at me. And tell me that it’s what all young people want to do before the real world comes crashing in.

And yet.

His eyes are so open right now. Like I'm seeing the real Kendall. The one that could exist if he kicked that monumental chip off his shoulder and let his real self come through. He doesn't look judgmental right now, he looks genuinely curious.

And so I tell him. I tell him my secret. “I want to change the world.”

“Too generic,” he says thoughtfully, like he's going to craft my response into a spin piece for PR. “Be more specific.”

I clear my throat. I’ve prepared for this in my head a million times, but never said it out loud to anyone except Jaqueline. “I want to be a Political Strategist, hopefully someday cabinet member or presidential advisor. I’ve thought about pursuing either the Secretary of Education, or maybe something more in the political reform arena. Since I’m at Oxford, it would be easy to pivot to a foreign policy position, or an ambassador. I want a degree in both politics and either communications or education. I want to propose and support legislation that imposes limits on lobbyists and private influence over our representatives. I want to write and support initiatives that march the United States corporations right through the door of political revolution. I want to help every day people have power.”

He stares a moment. “That is specific.”

“You said you didn't want generic.”

“I did.” And he fights a smile that I do not find sexy. “It's altruistic.”

“Try not to sound so disappointed.”

He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “It's perfect.” His hand lingers, skimming my ear and then my collar bone as it drops.

“And what do you want?” I ask without meaning to. It just tumbles out. But I realize I want to know. Why is Kendall here? Why is he here in an underground tunnel, where he brought mea cocktail dress to wear to an interview for a secret society? Why, since we've been here, can't he keep away from me? How does he know where I am all the time? And why, even now, does he look at me with something like possession? “Why are you here, Kendall?”

“What I want doesn't matter.” His lips quirk with an ironic disappointment I don't understand.

“That's a bullshit answer, and you know it.”

Something blazes in his eyes, like I've lit a banked fire. I've thrown gasoline on embers.

I can feel it, no, I can see it forming on his lips. The word “you”. My skin catches fire. I'm overcome by the intensity in his eyes. Right before it shifts to something colder. “What I want is to win. If not the battle, the war.”

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