Page 4 of The Jezebel (Rivers Wilde 3)

“How could he? when you remind him so often?” I quip.

“Don’t get smart, child.” Her voice cracks like an ice-cold whip. My reckless good humor fizzles. I know how far to push my mother and I just danced up to the line.

“I was just joking. I’m sorry,” I say, filling my voice with contrition.

“Apology accepted,” she says with the condescension of a queen granting a pardon. Her ruffled feathers smoothed; she returns to the original conversation. “Now, tell me what agreement you two made about this job.”

“I’ll be home by mi

dnight, I’ll go straight to bed. I don’t have to leave for school until 7:45. All my homework is done, I took a nap, worked out, ate dinner and still had time to beat Pops at a round of checkers,” I rattle off my itinerary, knowing that this is the key to her approval. Do everything that’s expected, and she’ll leave me alone.

“That’s all fine, Regan. But you don’t get kudos for the basics.”

As if I want or need her kudos. I grit my teeth to stop myself from scoffing. My spirit may be rebelling, but for my body to get in on the action, I need to make sure she doesn’t suspect anything. “I know. I just wanted you to know that I have a plan to stay on track.”

“Your grandfather and I have great expectations for you. Don’t let that wild heart of yours lead you astray. Your greatest asset is your brain. Use it.”

She hangs up without another word.

I put the bulky cell phone, otherwise known as my electronic leash, into my purse. The only reason I didn’t “forget it” at home tonight is so I can text Weston and let him know the coast is clear before he heads over to meet me.

The son of a local drug dealer, Weston Silk isn’t the all-American boy or the tall, dark and handsome scholarly type my mother kept trying to set me up with.

He has hair the color of flame and eyes the color of the sky - a palette of heaven and hell that drew sighs from every girl he passed. Including me.

But I didn’t return his sly, slow smiles. I pretended not to notice the way he watched me. I had my eyes on a different prize. Wellesley College - the all-women’s liberal arts college all the way in Massachusetts was my dream school.

My family groomed my brothers, Remington and Tyson, to take over the family business. They groomed me to marry well.

I’d first seen Desiree Rogers in an interview just after she’d become the CEO of Johnson Publishing and it changed my whole world. She credited her time at Wellesley for giving her the confidence to pursue career opportunities in spaces that had traditionally been the domain of men.

Seeing her, someone who looked like me, say what my heart had always felt, changed my entire life horizon.

Highly competitive, Wellesley only accepted 5 % of applicants. So, I kept my head down and busted my ass. And I have a perfect GPA and near perfect SAT score to show for it.

When my admission letter from Wellesley arrived, I went to my mother expecting to be congratulated.

Instead, she handed me an envelope with my name scrawled on the back in her strident, slashing handwriting. Inside was an acceptance letter and the offer of a full ride from Southern Methodist University. A small yellow sticky note clung to the first page. On it, she’d written, “I know better.”

My grandfather, who usually took my side, wouldn’t intervene. The year before he exhausted any credit he had with my mother when he helped my twin brother, Remington, in his bid to attend a college she didn’t approve of.

They’d had the element of surprise on their side, then. Remi applied without telling a soul and got our grandfather’s buy in before they told my mother.

After losing that showdown, she’d been ready for me. The roots of her opposition ran deep and were fed by a constant supply of pride and resentment.

I was on my own.

I applied for a scholarship. But a school like Wellesley, that only takes the best and brightest, didn’t offer incoming freshman academic scholarships. All awards were based on financial need. And with a family fortune in the billions behind me, there was no chance of that. With my dream crushed under the heel of my mother’s will, I vowed to never ask for permission again.

If they wouldn’t give me my due, I’d just take it. I mailed in my acceptance form to SMU that very day.

Then, I pulled out my old yearbook and found the phone number Weston scribbled over his senior picture and called him.

I drove out to his house the next day after school and let him take my virginity.

Brief and not as painful as my mother swore it would be, the thrill of knowing that I was breaking one of my mother’s cardinal rules made it feel delicious.

I’m aware of what a cliché I am - the poor little rich girl dating the bad boy to stick it to her mother. But after a lifetime of glass towers and short leashes, the afternoons with him left me high on the rush of rebellion.

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