Fate (New Hope Academy Book 1) Page 5

  “Katerina, they haven’t alerted the parents yet,” he says. “Dean Bello is getting a script ready now so they can start calling parents.”

  My legs feel weak, but I refuse to let them buckle in front of him.

  “Why would my dad send me here? If he is attacking this school, why am I here?” I ask. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “I haven’t quite figured that one out,” he says. “But I have a theory. I think your dad is wanting you here for a reason. So you can become friends with the people at this school. That way, when he recruits you, you will have a way in.”

  “He thinks I would kill my friends?” I ask.

  “It’s just a theory.”

  Oh, God.

  I think I’m going to be sick.

  My knees give away, and I fall down onto them.

  I lose my breakfast all over Tristan’s shoes.

  Sarcasm.

  I called my mum while Tristan cleaned the vomit off his shoes.

  She confessed everything to me.

  Well, I think she left out some, but she confirmed everything that Tristan said. My dad is a terrorists. My brother Dimitri is possibly joining, and Dad is trying to recruit Alik now. She’s hoping they won’t join, but my dad is a master manipulator.

  How have I lived with him my whole life and never known? I feel like such a twit.

  I go back to my room to sulk, but at four o’clock Tristan comes into my dorm room and informs me that I have to get ready for the dance because I’m going. He reminds me of my promise to Alik, and pretty much guilts me into it.

  As I get ready, I think about yesterday. When I met Tristan, I thought he was cute. Of course he’s cute. He’s twenty one. I should’ve known that a teenager could never be that muscular. I didn’t realize then that he was going to change my life.

  Oddly enough, I don’t find Tristan attractive anymore. Maybe it was because I puked on him. Or maybe it was the bomb he dropped on me this afternoon. I find myself wishing that I had never met the man.

  “Whoa,” Savannah says, as she walks in. “You look good.”

  Savannah, who is still in jeans and a t-shirt, walks in literally fifteen minutes before the dance is going to start. Her hair is in a pony tail. There is no way she can be ready in time.

  “You’re going to be late,” I tell her.

  “No, I’m not,” she says, quickly changing her clothes. She slips on a dress, and I zip it up for her. She doesn’t change out of her Converse shoes. She pulls out her pony tail and runs a brush through her wavy hair. “Done. With five minutes to spare.”

  This girl is a mess.

  “You should be glad you’re not Russian,” I say, shaking my head at her.

  I spent a long time on my hair, because what else was I going to do? I curled each section with a fat curling iron, giving myself big curls. I did a braid, pulling the front back and leaving it down in the back. I have on a blue dress that compliments my eyes nicely. It’s not super formal, but it’s not really a formal dance. My shoes add four inches to my height, and Savannah is still taller than me by a couple centimeters.

  We walk towards the dance together. Apparently this school has a ballroom, which Savannah tells me about on the way. This school was founded in the late 1800’s. They don’t have balls anymore, but still use it for dances, prom, homecoming and other alumni events.

  When we go inside, I can’t help but be impressed by the inside. I expected to see a lame school dance, like ones I’ve seen in movies with balloons and streamers, but they went all out.

  The ballroom is a circle. There are arches all around that lead to the outer hallway. On each wall there are old light fixtures that look like candles. I can tell they’ve been kept up nicely. And hanging down from the ceiling there is a chandelier that matches the light fixtures. The floor is marble, and the ceiling has a mural on it. I’m trying to figure out what the mural is when Tristan walks up.

  “Katerina,” he says.

  “Tristan,” I say, trying to sound like I’m not still freaking out.

  “There’s Kaiden and Madox,” Savannah says, running off to join them.

  “The president’s son should be here any moment,” he tells me. “Do you want me to introduce you?”

  “And say what? This is Katerina Vasin. She’s from Russia. And, oh, by the way, her father wants to kill you,” I say, not bothering to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “No thank you.”

  “He doesn’t know,” Tristan says.

  “It doesn’t matter if he knows or not. I know. How can I look him in the eyes knowing what I do?” I ask. “I would feel like a monster.”

  “Try to remember, it’s your father who is the monster. Not you” he says, not saying anything more.

  I look at the entry way and notice a bunch of guys in dark suits walk in. In between the group, there is a boy. I know immediately that this must be the president’s son. As soon as he gets inside, he is surrounded by a bunch of girls, all trying to get his attention.

  I roll my eyes.

  How desperate.

  “Are you going to dance with somebody?” Tristan asks.

  “With who?” I ask, looking around. “With one of my many admirers.”

  “I guess Russian teenagers are sarcastic too,” he says. “Good to know it’s not just an American thing.”

  “You’re beginning to get on my nerves.”

  “A lot of guys will ask you to dance tonight,” he tells me. “You’re very unobservant for being the daughter of such a powerful man. Hasn’t your father taught you anything?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Do you not see all the guys in here looking at you?”

  I turn around to face him. “Are you mad? Nobody is looking at me.”

  “If I was a teenage boy, I’d probably look at you. It’s the accent,” he says.

  “Well you’re not a teenager. So don’t look at me,” I say, turning back around.

  He laughs. “I have no interest in looking at a sixteen year old girl.”

  “Are you purposely trying to deflate my ego?” I ask.

  “Maybe,” he says. “Somebody needs to.”

  “I can’t believe I thought you were cute when I met you,” I say to him.

  “You thought I was cute?” he says, in a mocking tone. “I’m flattered, really.”

  “Shut up,” I say, looking at the crowds of people dancing. They look like they’re having fun. It’s then that I decide, it doesn’t matter who my father is. I want to be apart of this. Apart of them. I want to be friends with them.

  I look over and see Savannah, Kaiden and Madox all dancing together. They look like they’re having a good time. Maybe I will join them at some point, but I think I need to meet other people too. People I have more in common with.

  Continuing to look around, I see the president’s son, still surrounded by girls. As if he feels me watching him, he looks up. When he meets my eyes, he doesn’t look away like most Americans do. He just looks back. He looks a bit surprised, maybe like he was expecting me to look away. One of the girls puts her hands on him, and he breaks his gaze to look at the girl. He pushes her away and the girl looks hurt.

  He leans over and says something to a guy in a suit. The guy says something to the girls and they all walk away.

  Wow. He has a lot of power.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to introduce you?” Tristan asks.

  “I’m positive,” I answer, looking away from the boy.

  “You know, in America, it’s impolite to stare.”

  “It’s not in Russia,” I say back. “So I can stare at whoever I want.”

  Tristan laughs. “I think I’m going to like having you on my team.”

  About that time, a guy in a suit walks up to me. One of the guys who was surrounding the president’s son.

  “Damon wishes to speak with you,” the guy says, in a polite, but authoritative tone.

  “If he wishes to speak to me, then tell him to speak to me
,” I say.

  “I’m sorry, maybe you misunderstood me. Damon Hartley wishes to speak with you,” he says, insinuating the last name.

  “Well you can tell Damon Hartley that if he wishes to speak to me, he can do so himself,” I say. “He doesn’t need to send a goon to come do his talking for him.”

  The guy is obviously not amused.

  “It’s all right, West. I got this,” a voice says from behind him.

  He steps out of the way, and I see the president’s son standing in front of me.

  “I’m Damon Hartley,” he says. “But you already knew that.”

  “I’m Katerina Vasin,” I say back.

  “Ya rad tebya videt’,” he says, in perfect Russian.

  “To she samoye,” I reply. “You speak Russian?”

  He nods. “English, Russian, French and Spanish. I’m think about learning Chinese next. What do you think?”

  “Chinese is good,” I say, lamely.

  “What brings you to America, Katerina Vasin,” he says.

  My crazy father who wants to kill you.

  “Oh, you know… family,” I say, like it’s no big deal.

  “So is your family in politics too?” he asks.

  “You could say that,” I say.

  “Maybe my father knows your father,” he says.

  “Maybe,” I say, then decide to do a quick subject change. Though I’m sure his father does know my father. “So where are your adorers?”

  “Something else caught my attention,” he says, smiling at me. He has a nice smile. “You are very pretty, Katerina.”

  The way he says my name makes my stomach feel funny.

  Gah, why do I have to find such an arrogant guy attractive? I mean, seriously! Not to mention this is the guy my father wants to kill—possibly he wants me to kill him. Yet, here I am, finding myself attracted to him.

  The song switches from an uptempo tune that has been playing since I arrived to a slow one.

  “May I have this dance?” Damon asks me, holding out his hand.

  I find myself reaching for it before I even have time to think.

  As he starts to lead me to the dance floor, I see Tristan laughing, obviously amused at what just went on in front of him. I hit him with my free arm as we walk past him, and I hear him say “ouch”.

  Good.

  It hurt.

  Damon pulls me close to him out on the dance floor, and I start to question why I agreed to dance with him. Touching is definitely not a good idea, because my stomach is all tight, and my heart is racing.

  “All the boys in the school are jealous of me right now,” Damon says softly to me.

  “I highly doubt that,” I say, looking in his dark grey eyes, which definitely is not a good idea. His eyes are amazing.

  “Trust me, they are,” he says. “You know, I’ve never believed in love at first sight, but I think you may have changed my mind.”

  “Don’t mistake attraction for love,” I say, wondering why he would even be attracted to me. “Besides, you haven’t seen me in the daylight. Suppose I’m hideous. Or what if I’m an awful twit? Or if I’m bonkers? You don’t know.”

  “My lady, you sounded British when you said that,” he says, using a fake, but good, British accent. “And besides, I don’t need to see you in the daylight to see how breathtaking you are. Trust me, you’re far from hideous. I guess time will tell with the rest, though I highly doubt it.”

  “I sound British sometimes because my mum is from London,” I say. “At home, we only spoke English, unless we had somebody over. Though, one of my older brother’s friends ended up learning English because he was over so much.”

  “So you don’t think somebody could fall in love at first sight?” he asks.

  “No. That’s rubbish,” I answer. “Though my dad swears he fell in love with my mum at first sight.”

  My heart hurts when I mention my dad.

  “If your mom is half as beautiful as you are, I can see why he did,” he says.

  “I look like my mum,” I say. “My brothers all took after my dad.”

  “How many siblings do you have?”

  “Two. Both older brothers,” I answer. “What about you?”

  “I’m an only child,” he says. “My mom died when I was three, so maybe my dad would’ve had more kids if not. After that he kind of focused only on his political career and never remarried.”

  “That’s sad.”

  “I don’t remember her, so don’t feel sad for me,” he says.

  “I can’t imagine not knowing my mum.”

  My mum is the best.

  I mean, she has to be the best in order to stay married to my dad all these years, even after finding out he’s a terrorist. I know she only did it for me and my brothers. And the deal she made to protect us—that’s selfless. I guess she sort of makes up for my dad.

  “You have the most gorgeous eyes I’ve ever seen,” Damon says.

  “Umm… thanks,” I say.

  “I want to kiss you,” he says.

  “Well, I don’t want to kiss you.” I step back from him. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have agreed to dance with you. I don’t even know you.”

  “Then get to know me,” he says, stepping closer.

  We start dancing again.

  “What do you want to know about me?” he asks me.

  “What is your favorite color?”

  “Out of all the questions in the world, that is what you ask?”

  “What’s wrong with that question? It’s a good one,” I say. “My favorite color is purple.”

  “Mine is black.”

  “Black?” I ask.

  “Yes. Do you have a problem with that?”

  “No. It’s just… weird that it’s your favorite.”

  “You asked.”

  “Right. I did. Well, I would ask where your from, but that’s pretty obvious,” I say.

  “I live in DC now, but I’m from Georgia,” he says. “And trust me when I say, I spend as little time in DC as possible. Politics give me a headache. I spent my summer in Peru, just so I didn’t have to deal with my dad.”

  “Is it nice?” I ask. “I’ve never been.”

  He nods. “It’s beautiful. I’ll have to take you sometime.”

  “You shouldn’t make plans with me,” I say.

  “Right. Cause I have to see you in the daylight first and make sure you’re not hideous, right?” he asks.

  “You are so frustrating.”

  “And you are so fun to mess with,” he says. “You can ask me more questions, if you like. Or you can just Google me. I’m sure Google will have all the answers you’re looking for.”

  “What’s Google?” I ask.

  His mouth falls open.

  “Wait. I think I know. It’s that search engine thing, right?” I ask.

  “That and a lot more.”

  “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I won’t search you on Yandex.”

  “What is Yandex?” he asks.

  “It’s Russia’s version of Google,” I answer.

  “Oh,” he says. “Why not?”

  “I’d rather just ask you. Besides, a lot of things online are a lie,” I say.

  “Good. Cause the paparazzi has gotten some horrible photos of me.”

  I just look at him.

  “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

  I nod.

  “You’re probably right,” he says, grinning.

  A girl darts past Damon’s minions and stands by us. She stares for a few seconds before she is able to speak.

  “May I cut in?” she asks.

  Damon doesn’t give me time to respond. “Sorry, my dance card is full. Katerina is my date.”

  “Oh,” she says, her face falling.

  She walks off, and I feel bad for her.

  “I’m not your date,” I tell him. “You only asked for once dance.”

  “Do you want to be my date for the evening?” he asks.

 
“No,” I answer.

  “Come on, Katerina. I can tell you’re attracted to me too.”

  “I’m sure all the girls are attracted to you,” I say. “I can’t help what my body feels when it’s around you. However, I am not controlled by my hormones. Just because you make my knees weak and my heart race doesn’t mean I have to be your date.”

  “I make your heart race,” he says, grinning entirely too big.

  I probably shouldn’t have told him that.

  My face warms a bit.

  “You don’t have to be embarrassed,” he says. “To be honest, you make my heart race too.”

  “We should be friends,” I tell him.

  “Friends,” he says, looking confused.

  “Yes, friends. My brother Dimitri was friends with his fiancé, Elana, before they dated,” I say. “We should be friends too.”

  “Dating friends?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “Friends. And you have to stop telling me I’m pretty.”

  “But you are.”

  “You also have to stop saying you’re in love with me,” I say, ignoring his comment.

  “But I am.”

  “I’m serious, Damon,” I say.

  “So am I,” he says. “But I can be friends with you. For a little while. How long does the whole friendship thing have to last anyway? A couple days? A week?”

  I shake my head at him.

  “I vote we go to Vegas now. Though I am only sixteen, so that could be a problem,” he says.

  “Vegas?” I ask.

  “I forgot you’re not from here,” he says. “Vegas is… well, let’s just say they have a lot of drive through chapels.”

  “A drive through church?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he says. “And you get married there.”

  My mouth falls open. “Americans are so weird.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  The song comes to an end, finally. Though, I think it was a mashup of a few songs. I step away from him. “It was nice dancing with you, Damon.”

  “Can I get your phone number?” he asks.

  I pretend like I’m thinking.

  “Friends text each other, right?”

  “I suppose,” I say.

  “Give me your phone and I’ll program my number in,” he says.