Interview with the Vixen
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-One
Chapter Eighty-Two
Chapter Eighty-Three
Chapter Eighty-Four
Chapter Eighty-Five
Chapter Eighty-Six
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Teaser
About the Author
Copyright
THERE’S NO PARTY like a Cheryl Blossom party.
Bass pumping, speakers jumping, bottles spinning in a game that’s only going to lead to kissing and crying and somebody breaking up on the front lawn after midnight, but isn’t that the fun of it?
It is for me, anyway.
Cheryl’s wearing cutoffs—the ones that Mommie Dearest always says are trashy, with that rictus smile she’s so practiced at giving her daughter—with a tight white tee and, of course, her signature Bombshell lipstick. Tonight, for the first time in a long time, she feels like a queen reigning over her wild kingdom. There, Chuck Clayton and half the football team playing some stupid game on the deck. Here, Alanna Chiang and the Vixens throwing out tipsy cheers by the pool. And by her side, her sometimes-loyal minions waiting for their next instructions.
She looks at Nancy and Midge and snaps her fingers. “Ladies!” she barks. “Fetch me a drink.” Then she turns to the group of girls mingling behind her and throws her hands in the air. “Who wants to play seven minutes in heaven?”
The boys over on the deck look up, jaws dropped, and Cheryl laughs with her red-painted lips wide open. Like she’s interested in any of them. “Sorry, boys, this is strictly—”
A scream slices through the night.
“—girls only,” Cheryl finishes, but the hairs on the back of her neck are standing up, and she half turns at the thud she hears behind her.
It’s some kid, hunched over and staggering toward her.
“Excuse you,” she says, her voice loud and sharp to counteract the chill rippling along her spine. “This party is exclusive. No sloppy messes allowed. Got it?”
The boy keeps coming, and he’s clearly hammered already, from the way he’s shambling along, and Cheryl has had enough. This is her house, her rules. No one defies Cheryl Bombshell in her own backyard.
“Hey,” she says. “Are you listening? Shoo, little vermin.”
There’s another thud to her left, and Cheryl whips around.
Another crasher, hunched over in the same way as the first.
“Take him with you, too!” she snaps, but the first one is still ignoring her, and so she takes a few steps forward, hands on her hips, her never-fail power stance. “I said, get—”
The first boy rears up, and now Cheryl is the one who screams, a short wild noise at the sight of the boy’s face—one she finally recognizes—contorted into a snarl that shows a row of dangerously sharp teeth that maybe used to be shiny white but are now stained and marbled a deep, dark red.
Almost as red as the color on Cheryl’s own lips.
And not teeth.
Fangs.
“BREAK THAT WALL—make them fall—across the goal line—take that ball—GO, Bulldogs!”
Veronica Lodge swishes, shimmies, and struts through the cheer. When they’re done yelling, she drops her poms, winks, and blows a kiss over her shoulder to an imaginary audience. It’s only stalling for time while the girls set up for the stunt, and when they’re ready, she hops up into their waiting hands, fingers digging into their shoulders for balance, and then she’s launched into the air.
Veronica rides the waves as long as she can before twisting and tucking backward, trusting that her teammates will be there to catch her.
They do—they always do—and let her down gently before hitting their final position, shoulders back and smiles bright and shiny.
They hold the pose for a few seconds before releasing, and Veronica claps her hands together. “Okay, girls, let’s—”
“Ronnie!”
Veronica glances back and smiles again, wider than her fake-cheer smile. “Stretch it out,” she says to the girls, and then spins, throwing her arms open wide. “Archiekins! Shouldn’t you be tackling somebody right now?”
Archie Andrews is sweaty and out of breath, a streak of mud across one perfect cheekbone. “Coach finished practice early,” he says. “I just came to watch you. Don’t you get dizzy when they throw you up there?”
“Nuh-uh,” Ronnie says, but she’s thinking more about what he just said: I came to watch you. Archie came to watch her.
Score one for Veronica Lodge!
“It’s cheerleading, Archie,” she says. “Not for the faint of heart.”
“I see that,” he says with that smile of his, and Veronica swoons on the inside. This right here, flirting with Archie? It’s her favorite part of practice.
“So,” she says, stepping up close and sliding her arms around Archie’s neck. “Where are you taking me tonight?”
“Tonight?” Archie furrows his brow. “Did we have plans?”
“Well, not as such,” she says, pouting just a little. “But I figured you just
hadn’t asked me yet. So—what are we going to do?”
Archie ducks his head. “Sorry, Ronnie—I would, but I already have plans tonight.”
Veronica lets her arms fall back to her sides. “Oh?” she says, careful not to sound like she’s bothered by this information, like she wasn’t planning on Archie being hers and hers alone tonight. “Who—”
“Archie!”
Betty Cooper’s perky blond ponytail almost smacks Veronica in the face as she half dances past her, her Vixens skirt perfectly pressed as always, and slides her arm around Archie’s waist. “There you are,” she says. “What time are you coming over later?” And then, like she’s only just noticed Veronica standing there, she puts her hand over her mouth. “Oh! I mean— Oh, you don’t mind, do you, Ronnie? We’re just going to watch a movie or something. No big deal.”
Veronica flashes a tight grin at her best friend as the stragglers of the football team pass them by, headed to shower off the practice sweat. “Mind? Why would I mind? You two have fun tonight,” she says.
“You sure?” Betty makes her eyes wide. “I mean, we could always swing by Pop’s after to hang, if you want. I told Jughead we’d go say bye before he and his dad go off on their fishing trip or whatever, and you know he’s always at Pop’s, so—”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Veronica says, and out of the corner of her eye, she spots the one and only Reggie Mantle chugging Gatorade. An idea blooms in her mind.
Perfect.
“In fact,” she says, raising her voice, “I completely forgot, but I already have plans, too. With Reggie!”
At the sound of his name Reggie looks over, one lock of dark hair falling perfectly across his forehead, and points at himself. “Me?”
“Yes, you, silly!” Veronica shimmies over to him and throws one arm around his neck. “We’re going out tonight. Remember?”
Reggie frowns like he’s trying to remember when he asked Ronnie out, except he asks her out at least three times a week—it’s just that Veronica never says yes.
Unless she needs a backup, of course.
“Oh, yeah,” he says, the confusion clearing from his pretty face. “Like I could forget.”
“Perfect,” Betty says, her cute little nose scrunched up from the effort of her smile. “I’ve got Archie, and you’ve got Reggie. What more could a girl ask for?”
Veronica has to bite her tongue to keep from saying what she wants to. Yes, I’ve got Reggie, she thinks. What more, indeed.
Betty slings her bag over her shoulder and waves. “See you later, V.”
“Bye, Ronnie,” Archie says. “Reggie.”
The boys do one of their oh-so-Neanderthal chest bumps, and then Archie and Betty walk away, Betty’s arm still possessively around Archie’s waist. It’s all Veronica can do not to let out a mournful sigh as she watches them go. Why is it always Betty and never her?
What does she have that I don’t?
“So.” Reggie rakes a hand through his hair and looks down at Veronica in a way she guesses is supposed to be hot but kinda makes him look like a puppy dog. Yes—that’s exactly what Reggie is: an overexcitable Labrador with big brown eyes and a deep-seated urge to sniff people’s butts. “You have great timing, Ronnie. My parents are out of town all week and—”
Veronica cuts him off. “You wanna go out? Pick me up at eight,” she says, all her faux perkiness dropped. “Daddy has a business meeting at the house, and I do not want to get trapped in another one of his deadly boring discussions about town planning regulations or whatever it is.”
“But what about—”
Veronica snatches her pom-poms up and shakes them in his face. “Eight o’clock sharp, Reggie. Or don’t bother coming at all.”
“UGH!” CHERYL SITS up and launches her phone through the air, not caring if she cracks the screen. Whatever; she can always buy another.
What can’t I buy? she thinks. Besides friends who won’t bail on me at the last second?
She slumps back against the headboard of her bed, pink satin sheets swirled around her legs. Perfect. Friday night and she has nowhere to go, nothing to do, and absolutely nobody to do it with.
This is the problem. Everyone wants to be Cheryl’s friend when it’s time for a party, when she’s offering up her pool on a perfect summer day, when it’s late and nobody wants to go home and Cheryl says, My parents are away for the weekend, everybody come to my place! Everybody loves the Cheryl who can smack you down with only three words, the Cheryl who’ll flirt to pass the time in study hall. But when it comes to anything real—
Everybody disappears.
Even her brother, Jason, is gone, away for the year at boarding school in Switzerland. Stupid Switzerland. At least when he’s here she has somebody to bother, but with him gone, she’s all alone.
Cheryl forces herself out of bed, because she knows if she doesn’t, she’ll stay there all night feeling sorry for herself. Maybe other losers stay in on Fridays watching sad movies and crying into their pillows, but she has not reached that stage of desperation yet. Cheryl Bombshell does not cry into her pillow.
She crouches to rescue her phone: no damage done.
No new messages, either. She taps back to her last message to Midge and Nancy, her so-called friends: I can’t believe you’re ditching me to go get felt up by some Neanderthal onion-breath Bulldogs. Hello!!! Dinner from my parents’ private chef?! Better than hot dogs and a tongue sandwich from those geeks!
Cheryl sighs, a mournful sound. Of course they haven’t replied. This is exactly it: Her girls will come hang out if and only if they have nothing better to do. Cheryl kind of gets it—if she had been asked out by a hot, fun, smart girl tonight, she’d have dropped her friends faster than her mom dropping her credit card for a round of Botox. But the key thing is hot and fun and smart. Nancy and Midge are about to be mauled at the drive-through by Chuck and Turtle, literally the two most boneheaded football players Riverdale High has to offer. That’s what offends Cheryl the most. How dare they hold those boys in higher regard than her?
“Fine,” Cheryl says aloud to herself, dropping her phone onto the cushioned landing of her bed this time. “I don’t need you. I have better things to worry about than you. Come on, Bombshell. Get it together.”
She closes her eyes for a minute, breathing in and out in a hypnotic sway, until she feels calmed. This Friday night she may have no plans, but in a week’s time she’s going to be the belle of the ball. Well: star of the gala, maybe. Center of attention at the opening of her family’s new hotel, at the very least. And center-of-attention necessitates the perfect dress.
Cheryl flings open the doors to her walk-in closet and breathes in the perfumed air, a smile finally settling on her face. She enters, running her fingers along the rows of velvet and leather and silk, most in her signature shade of vivid red, that perfect clash with her bright amber hair.
They think all I’m good for is my mansion and my money? she thinks. Well, I’ll show them. One day I’m going to run this town. And next week, this new hotel? It’s only the beginning.
“MOM! DADDY!”
Veronica stands in the foyer, fixing her signature pearls around her throat as she calls up to her parents. Reggie should be here any minute, and her parents always get so snotty if she leaves without saying good-bye. Best to keep them sweet.
“Daddy?” Veronica cranes her head back to look up the stairs, listening for any sound of her parents up there.
Nothing.
Huh. Weird. Her father has a meeting tonight, but Ronnie hasn’t seen anybody arrive, and before meetings her father always puts an old record on his top-of-the-line turntable and fills the house with Count Basie or Benny Carter as he mixes cocktails for his company.
Maybe whoever he’s meeting got here while I was in the shower, she thinks. So maybe they’re deep in conversation already and that means Veronica can slip out without bothering to say bye?
She rolls her eyes and groans. No, because then when she gets
home later tonight, they’ll chastise her for being rude and not introducing herself to their guest.
“So many stupid rules,” Veronica says, and she climbs the wide staircase in her spindly black heels. So many rules and yet Veronica tries her best to stick to them all, because her parents are just a little old-fashioned sometimes, and playing the perfect-daughter role is something she’s willing to do if it gets her points.
Earn points, win prizes. Like, say … the new Jaguar she’s got her eye on. Metallic black, leather interiors. I’m going to look so slick cruising around town with the top down, Veronica thinks as she approaches her father’s study.
“Daddy?” She knocks decisively, the way her father taught her—handshakes and knocks and ultimatums all must be delivered with confidence—and waits. “I’m going out now! Reggie’s coming to pick me up. So I’ll see you tomorrow, probably. Okay?”
She presses her ear to the warm dark wood of the door. “Daddy? Mom?”
Veronica opens the door.
Her father’s study is empty. Flames crackle in the fireplace, and there are three glasses on the low glass table between the two tufted leather couches. Three glasses—one for her mother, one for her father, and one for their guest.
Veronica wrinkles her nose in confusion. Where are they, then?
She takes a couple of steps forward, meaning to grab one of the glasses, see whether its contents have warmed or if they’re still icy cold. But those two steps bring her to a new angle and a scene unfolds before her and—
Veronica screams.
There, on the floor. Between the table and the couch.
A body.
No. Two bodies; the other is behind the couch, partially hidden. Her mother’s hair falls in a wave across the floor, half covering her face, frozen in agony.
“Mom!”
Veronica launches herself across the floor, sinking to her knees at her mother’s side. “Oh my god, oh my god,” she says, a trembling whisper. “Oh my god, Mom, please—” What is happening?
They look … but they can’t—her parents can’t be—
Dead?
No.
“Mommy.” Veronica shakes her mother, violently enough to dislodge the pearls, identical to Veronica’s, that are wrapped around her neck. “Mom, wake up—”
She stops, her eyes catching on something bright and shining. What’s that there?