Read Untamed (Untamed #1) for Free Online Page B

actually, you’re totally right. But as long as my husband is rich and good looking, I’ll happily play the role. We’re all smarter than the men we marry, anyway. Look at my mom. Being Daddy’s trophy wife got her millions in divorce settlements after he was caught screwing his assistant.”
    “His male assistant, this time!” Carrie laughed as the two launched into a detailed recount of Penelope’s father’s many affairs.
    And that was my cue to tune out.
    My phone vibrated for what seemed to be the hundredth time that day.
    Mother. Of course. Speak of the devil and she shall call.
    Reluctantly, I answered . “Yes?”
    “Reagan, your sister just reported that she saw you dressed in used clothing.” I could actually hear her shudder. “What is the matter with you? Are you trying to embarrass us?”
    I looked down at my ripped jeans and smirked. “It’s called vintage, Mother. And hello to you too. Lovely day, isn’t it?”
    “I have a splitting migraine, Reagan.” Which was codeword for hangover . “I do not have time for your childish games right now.” She gave an exasperated sigh. “I am calling because I wanted to discuss your outfit and jewelry for tomorrow’s dinner. Now listen to me…”
    Funny. I wanted to discuss the best combination of drugs and alcohol to get me through the night so I wouldn’t be inclined to stab myself in the eye with one her precious silver forks.
    Listening to her prattle on hammered home that tomorrow’s dinner was going to suck major ass. Even more than usual, it appeared.

    The fact that my family home was a full ten degrees colder than any other place in the entire world was a sure sign that something had to be wrong with us. It was even more frigid when Pierce and Quincy were there.
    Four perfect McKinleys. One me.
    “I told you to be on time, Reagan,” my mother was saying. “And dressed appropriately, for god’s sake. This is some of your ‘vintage’ clothing, I assume. You are going to have to change and there is hardly any time.” Her breath was coming out in little huffs and her grip on her martini glass was so tight her knuckles had turned white.
    “I don’t understand.” My sister’s frown was identical to our mother’s. At twenty-four she was a carbon copy of our mother, down to their flawlessly coiffed hair. “What possessed you to go to Harlem of all places?” The way she said it—her perfectly glossed lips curling—Harlem sounded like it was a disease of some sort. From the look on her fiancé’s face, Eric appeared to agree. “And how did you end up getting covered in paint?”
    “I told you,” I said, taking a deep breath in an attempt to keep my composure. “I just started volunteering at a women’s shelter on a hundred-and-thirty-second. My friend Sabine donates a lot of art supplies to the center and she asked me if I would be interested in supervising an art class for the kids there.”
    Pierce snorted. My sister and mother exchanged a look. It landed somewhere on the spectrum between concern and bewilderment.
    “Troubled youth of some sort?” Quinn asked.
    I rolled my eyes. “No, Quinn. Nice, friendly kids who have an interest in art, but can’t afford to pursue it.” Hell, despite their rough lives, most of the kids at the shelter were probably more stable than I had been at their age.
    “Our family donates more than enough money to charitable foundations, Reagan,” my father said, entering the parlor with his usual three fingers of neat scotch. “Every year, my company is recognized for its efforts. It is quite unnecessary for you to traverse gang-ridden neighborhoods in search of dangerous philanthropical deeds.”
    “ Dangerous? Do you think my seven-year-old students are making shivs out of paintbrushes?” I couldn’t believe them. “Plus, I’m not doing this for recognition. I’m doing it because I want to. Those kids need me. They appreciate me.” Unlike everyone else in my life.
    “They probably