The Huntress [2018 Archived]

Chapter 17

Jamie

The first bad thing I ever did was snitch a candy bar from my local 7-Eleven. For some reason, I remember that night so vividly, although in retrospect it shouldn't hold any significance-just a fluke of memory we all have. It was three summers ago and the night sported a dark, almost bruise-black sky. It was so humid that my curls nearly stood on end. I remember trudging into the parking lot with Diana, stumbling down drunk and laughing so loud that it seemed to echo for miles. She had wanted an orange juice to wash down the vodka we had drank only minutes earlier.

And, well, the clerk thought we were cute and it was simply too easy to flirt and smile, even as hammered as we were. I still recall the burning taste of alcohol on my dry tongue, the pleasant swirl of emotions, and best of all, that feeling of being noticed, of being envied, that I constantly seemed to crave. The knowledge that everything I could ever want was laid out in front of me, and all I had to do was reach out. So I did.

Naturally, it was best candy bar I had ever tasted.

There was never anything that suggested that those feeling would ever change-could ever change. I would always be Jameson Longford, daughter to hot shot lawyer Jayne Grey and salt-and-peppered-hair surgeon Brooks Longford. Simply put, the world seemed to be mine for the taking.

How wrong I was.

"Jameson!" an irate voice called from the front doorway, shattering my thoughts.

I capped one of my gel pens with an annoyed click and shoved my notes under our antique fruit bowl. It wasn't like my mother cared about the "messy things" (her words, not mine) in life, meaning my grades. As long as I kept up a 3.8 GPA, she didn't bother me much about my studies, but still, I found that the less her nose was in my business, the better my life was.

"It's Jamie, Mom." I sighed, spinning on my stool. Why she insisted on calling me by a boy name would remain a mystery to me, but I suspected it having to do with her tendency for flair. All of my aunts and uncles had boorish names, Bill, Wendy, Mary, John. But true to nature, she preferred going by Jayne (she added a Y to it because it made more of a statement. Again, her words not mine). "But it's not like you would know that, being the one who gave birth to me."

She shook her head. "Please, no smart talk. It's very unbecoming of you, Jameson."

I stifled a groan. Unbecoming was one of her little pet phrases she learned in finishing school. She liked to model herself as a debutante before she got into the law practice.

"How finishing school-esque of you, Mom," I said, a taunt if anything. "The warden would be proud."

She rolled her eyes, choosing to ignore the touch of sarcasm in my voice. "For the last time, she wasn't a warden, Jameson. She was a headmistress."

I rolled my eyes. Headmistress. "Whatever."

She tutted, her teeth worrying at her lips while she simultaneously tried to look the perfect mixture of Perplexed and Put Together. My mother was nothing if not fashionable, almost anally so. Right now, even in the comfort of her own home, she wore a deep navy pantsuit and a full face of makeup, her auburn hair swept into an elegant Grace Kelly twist.

Jayne's the most banging mom in the courtroom, her partner, Harrison Barroni once confided in me at a dinner party at the Sheffards' last year, inspired by cocktails and emboldened by the rich food. I didn't think of relaying such a message to my mother, though I doubted she would take offense. Likely, she would have taken great encouragement from being dubbed the "most banging" mother in town-the sensitivities of her teenage daughter be damned.