Gluttony

  What happens in Vegas …

  It was her skin that Reed loved the most. The cheap hotel sheets were scratchy, but her pale, creamy skin was unbelievably soft and smooth, as if it had never been exposed to the outside world….

  “Do you … do you want to?” she whispered suddenly, her eyes still closed.

  “Want to what?” He kissed her cheek, then her forehead, her nose, and, finally, her lips.

  “You know.” She opened her eyes. A tear was pooling in one of the corners. “I don’t know it you brought … protection.” It sounded like she had to choke the word out. “But if you did, maybe we should—”

  Reed rolled off of her and propped himself up on his side. “Where’s this coming from?”

  Beth tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and, instead of turning to face him, stayed on her back, staring up at the cracked ceiling. “I know I said I didn’t want to, not yet, but that was before … You’re just really good to me, and I thought—I want to make you happy.”

  “You thought this would make me happy?” he asked incredulously, his voice rising. “You doing this as if—as if you owe me something? Do you think I’m that kind of guy? … Why would you think … I told you I’d wait. I told you I didn’t care.”

  “I know. But …”

  She didn’t need to say it out loud. He got it: She hadn’t believed him.

  “Why now?” he asked. “Why tonight?”

  At first she didn’t answer, and when she finally did her voice was almost too soft to hear.

  “Because I don’t deserve you.”

  SEVEN DEADLY SINS

  Lust

  Envy

  Pride

  Wrath

  Sloth

  Gluttony

  SOON TO BE COMMITTED:

  Greed

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  SIMON PULSE

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  Copyright © 2007 by Robin Wasserman

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  SIMON PULSE and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Designed by Ann Zeak

  The text of this book was set in Bembo.

  First Simon Pulse edition March 2007

  Library of Congress Control Number 2006933723

  eISBN 978-1-43910-785-0

  for Richard, David, and Natalie Roher

  And for Aunt Susan, who has heard it all—

  and is always willing to listen

  They are as sick that surfeit

  with too much as they that starve with nothing.

  —William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice

  I eat too much

  I drink too much

  I want too much

  Too much

  —Dave Matthews Band, “Too Much”

  chapter

  1

  “Anything worth doing,” Kane Geary intoned, gulping down a glowing green shot that looked radioactive, “is worth overdoing.”

  “Thanks for the wisdom, O Wise One.” Adam Morgan pressed his hands together and gave Kane an exaggerated bow. “What did I ever do without you to guide me through the mysteries of the universe?”

  “Less sarcasm.” Kane clinked his shot glass against the half-full pitcher of beer. “More drinking.”

  It was nearly midnight, and the bar was packed. To their left, a whale-size cowboy in a ten-gallon hat tucked hundred-dollar bills down the cleavage of a harem of spangled showgirls half his age. Against the back wall, a table of white-jumpsuit-clad Elvis impersonators argued loudly about whether The Ed Sullivan Show hip swivel properly began with a swing to the left or the right. The bartender, who wore a gold bikini and a cupcake-size hair bun over each ear, would have been the spitting image of Princess Leia—were he not a man. The walls were lined with red velvet and the ceiling covered with mirrors.

  Welcome to Vegas.

  Adam felt like he’d set foot on an alien planet; Kane, on the other hand, had obviously come home.

  “Where do you think Harper and Miranda are?” Adam asked, nursing his beer.

  Kane rolled his eyes and spread his arms wide. “Morgan. Dude. Focus. Look around you. This is nirvana. Who the hell cares where the girls are?”

  “If they got stuck somewhere—”

  “They’ll be fine. You’re the one I’m worried about.” Kane clapped him on the back. “You need another drink, kid. You’ve got to loosen up.”

  Adam shook his head. “No more. It’s late. And I’m—”

  “Lame. Very lame.” Kane grabbed Adam’s glass and downed the remaining beer in a single gulp. Then he filled it back up to the brim and slammed it down in front of Adam. “But we’ll fix that.”

  “Oh, will we?” Adam asked dryly.

  “Adam, my doubting disciple, if there’s one thing you learn from me tonight, let it be this.” He was silent for a long moment, and Adam began to wonder whether all that beer sloshing around in his brain had swept away his train of thought.

  “Yes?” Adam finally said.

  Kane leaned across the table, the better to wheeze his sour breath into Adam’s face. “This is Vegas, baby.” His voice was hushed, almost reverential. “America’s Playground. City of Lights. Sin City.” He leaned in even closer, as if to whisper a crucial secret. “This is Vegas, baby!” Adam recoiled as Kane let loose an ear-piercing whoop of elation. “Live it up!”

  “This is definitely not Vegas,” Harper Grace observed sourly.

  Miranda Stevens pulled the car over to the side of the road and shut off the ignition. “Thanks for the news flash,” she snapped. “If you hadn’t pointed that out, I might have mistaken that”—she gestured toward the hulking mound of rock and dirt jutting out of the desert landscape—“for the Trump Taj Mahal.”

  “That’s in Atlantic City,” Harper corrected her.

  “Gosh, maybe that’s where we are,” Miranda said in mock revelation. “I knew we shouldn’t have taken that left turn….”

  Harper tore open a bag of Doritos and kicked her feet up onto the dashboard. “I really hope that’s not sarcasm,” she said, neglecting to offer Miranda a chip. “Because the person responsible for stranding us here in the middle of East Bumblefuck should probably steer clear of the sarcasm right about now.”

  Miranda snatched the bag out of Harper’s hands, though it was several hours too late to prevent an explosion of orange crumbs all over the front seat of her precious Honda Civic. “And by the person responsible, I assume you’re referring to … you?”

  Harper raised an eyebrow. “Am I driving?”

  Harper, doing her share of the work? Miranda snorted at the thought of it. “No, of course not. You’re just sitting there innocently, with no responsibilities whatsoever, except, oh … reading the map.”

  That shut her up. Miranda’s lips curled up in triumph. Beating Harper in an argument was a rare victory, one that she planned to savor, lost in the wilderness or not.

  “Okay, let’s not panic,” Harper finally said, a new, ingratiating tone in her voice. “Look on the bright side. It’s your birthday—”

  “Not for another twenty-four hours,” Miranda corrected her.

  “We’re bound for Vegas,” Harper continued.

  “Maybe. Someday.”

  “And we’re not stranded,” Harper added, grabbing a map off the floor, seemingly at random, “just—”


  “Lost.

  “Detoured.” Harper spread the map across her lap and began tracing out their route with a perfectly manicured pinkie. “We just need to get back to the main highway,” she mumbled, “and if we turn back here and cross over Route 161 …”

  Miranda sighed and tuned her out, resolving to backtrack to the nearest gas station and get directions from a professional. Professional lukewarm coffee dispenser and stale-candy-bar salesman, maybe, but anything would be better than Harper’s geographically challenged attempts to guide them. Especially since Harper periodically forgot whether they should be heading east or west.

  This was supposed to be a bonding weekend—or, rather, a re-bonding weekend, given all the tension of the last few months. But it turned out that five hours in a car together didn’t exactly make for a BFF bonanza.

  Call it the sisterhood of the traveling crankypants.

  Miranda turned the key in the ignition, eager to start driving again—somewhere. Anywhere.

  A small, suspicious, gurgling sound issued from the motor. Miranda turned the key again. Nothing. With a sinking feeling, she lowered her eyes to the dashboard indicators: specifically, the gas gauge.

  Uh-oh.

  “Harper?” she said softly, nibbling at the edge of her lower lip.

  “Maybe if we circle around to Route 17,” Harper muttered, lost in her own cartographic world. “Or if we—wait, am I looking at this upside down?”

  “Harper?” A little louder this time.

  “Fine, you look at it,” Harper said in disgust, pushing the wad of paper off her lap. “And if you tell me one more time that I don’t know how to read a map, I’m going to scream. It’s not like I didn’t—”

  “Harper!”

  “What?”

  Miranda tore the keys out of the ignition and threw them down on the dash, then leaned her head back against the seat. She closed her eyes. “We’re out of gas.”

  She couldn’t see the look on Harper’s face. But she could imagine it.

  There was a long pause. “So you’re telling me—” Harper stopped herself, and Miranda could hear her take a deep breath. Her voice got slightly—very slightly—calmer. “You’re telling me that we’re out of gas. We’re out here in the middle of nowhere, and now we’re not just lost—”

  “We’re stranded,” Miranda confirmed. “So, Ms. Look On the Bright Side … now can we panic?”

  He woke her with a kiss.

  “Whuh? Where …?” Beth Manning opened her eyes, disoriented and unsure why she was sleeping sitting up, lodged into the corner of a van that stunk of pot and sweat socks. But she smiled, nonetheless. It didn’t really matter where she was, or how much her neck and back ached—not when Reed Sawyer’s chocolate brown eyes were so close and his dark, curly hair was brushing her skin.

  It was the best kind of alarm clock.

  “Was I sleeping?” she mumbled, slowly making sense of her surroundings. She remembered piling into the van, nestling into a space between the guitar cases and the drum that was just big enough for one—or two, if they sat nearly on top of each other. She had curled under Reed’s arm, leaned her head on his shoulder, promised to stay awake for the long drive, and then zoned out, staring at the grayish brown monotony of the landscape speeding by. “Sorry, I guess I must have drifted off.”

  “No worries,” Reed assured her, giving her another quick peck on the lips. “It was cute.”

  “Yeah, the snoring was adorable!” Hale called from the driver’s seat.

  That’s right, we’re not alone, Beth reminded herself. When Reed was around, it seemed like the rest of the world fell away. But in reality, his bandmates, Fish and Hale, were never far behind. Not that Beth was complaining. She was in no position to complain about anything.

  “And the drooling,” Fish added teasingly. “The drooling was especially attractive.”

  “I did not drool!” Beth cried indignantly.

  “Oh, don’t worry.” Fish, riding shotgun, twisted around toward the back and brandished his cell phone. “We’ve got pictures.”

  “Shut up, losers,” Reed snapped. But Beth just smiled, and snuggled into his side, resting her head in the warm and familiar nook between his chest and shoulder. He looped his arm around her and began lightly tracing out patterns on her arm. She shivered.

  Without warning, the van made a sharp left turn, veering into a parking lot and screeching to a stop. “Welcome to Vegas, kids,” Hale said, with a sharp blast on the horn. “Gateway to stardom.”

  Stardom couldn t come soon enough, if it would mean an entourage to carry all the instruments and equipment up to the room. Or, even better, a van with a real lock on the doors that would keep out any thieves desperate enough to steal fifteen-year-old half-busted amplifiers. But since they currently had neither roadies nor locking doors, the three members of the Blind Monkeys had to make due with what they had: the combined strength of three scrawny potheads.

  And one ever-faithful blond groupie.

  “You don’t have to help,” Reed told her, pulling his guitar case out of the back. Beth was loaded up like a packhorse with heavy, scuffed-up duffel bags—no one trusted her to carry the real equipment. “You can go check in and we’ll meet you inside.”

  “I’m fine,” she protested, ignoring the way the straps dug into her bare shoulder. “I want to help.” She was afraid that if she didn’t make herself useful, the other guys might realize that she didn’t really belong. Reed might finally figure it out himself.

  Yes, she was the one who’d found out about that weekend’s All-American Band Battle, and she was the one who’d convinced Reed and the guys to enter. But no matter how much she hung out with them, she’d never be one of them, not really.

  And she dreaded the day they got sick of her and left her behind.

  Alone.

  She couldn’t stand that. Not again.

  Reed shrugged. “Whatever.” He slung his guitar case over his shoulder and hoisted an amp, heading across the parking lot. Beth began to follow, but then, as the hotel rose into full view, she stopped. And gasped.

  The Camelot was the cheapest hotel almost-but-not-quite-on the Strip; Beth, a Vegas virgin, would have been willing to bet it was also the gaudiest. The gleaming white monstrosity towered over the parking lot—literally, as its twenty stories were sculpted into the guise of a medieval tower, complete with ramparts, turrets and, down below, a churning, brownish moat. It reminded Beth of a model castle her fourth-grade class had once built from sugar cubes, except that in this version, the royal crest was outlined in neon and featured a ten-foot-tall fluorescent princess wearing a jeweled crown—and little else.

  Then there was the piéce de résistance, guarding the palace doors. Beth goggled at the enormous, green animatronic dragon swinging its long neck up and down with an alarmingly loud creak each time it shifted direction. Periodically a puff of smoke would issue from its squarish mouth, followed by a warning siren, and then—

  WHOOOSH! A flume of fire blasted out of the dragon, a jolt of orange and red billowing several feet out into the night. Beth cringed, imagining she could feel the heat.

  “It’s not going to eat you,” Reed teased, tipping his head toward the front doors, which were now nearly eclipsed by smoke. “Let’s make a run for it.”

  Weighed down by luggage and guitars, it wasn’t much of a run, but they eventually made it inside the hotel and up to the room. The Camelot had obviously burned through its decorating budget before furnishing the guest rooms, and the Blind Monkeys had reserved the cheapest one available. It smelled like cigarettes, the toilet was clogged, and the tiny window faced a cement airshaft.

  There was one bed.

  Harper could barely keep her eyes open, but she wasn’t about to fall asleep, not when the skeezy tow-truck driver kept sneaking glances at her cleavage. He’d already offered—twice—to bundle her up in one of his ratty old blankets to protect her from the cold. As if she needed some middle-aged dirt-bucket to tuck h
er in—as if, in fact, she’d be willing to touch anything in this trash heap on wheels. Touching the seat was bad enough; these pants would need to be burned.

  Miranda, on the other hand, apparently had no such qualms. She was totally conked out, her head resting on Harper’s shoulder. All that complaining—Stop spilling crumbs in the car! Stop sticking your head out the window! Stop flashing the other drivers!—must have worn her out. Or maybe it was just the hour they’d spent shivering in the darkness, waiting for someone to pass by. With no cell reception and no idea how far they were from civilization, they’d been forced to flag down a trucker, crossing their fingers that he wasn’t a deranged ax murderer trolling the roads for pretty girls too stupid to fill their gas tanks.

  Trucker Hank offered them a ride, and got a quick thanks but no thanks for his trouble. They may have been stupid, but not that stupid. So instead, the guy promised to check in at the next gas station he passed and send someone back to help them.

  “We’re going to be out here all night,” Miranda had moaned, once the truck’s lights had disappeared into the distance.

  In fact, it had only been another hour, but that had been long enough. When Leroy had finally arrived with his tow truck, offering to take them and their wounded Civic back to “town,” they’d climbed in eagerly, only later realizing that the cab of the truck smelled like roadkill, as did Leroy.

  It was a long drive.

  “Here we are, gals,” he said finally, pulling into a tiny, one-pump gas station that looked like a relic from the stone age—or, at least, the fifties. (Same difference.) Harper poked Miranda to wake her up, and climbed out of the truck, sucking in a deep lungful of the fresh air. She’d been hoping to grab something to eat once they got into town, but …

  “Where is ‘here,’ exactly?” she asked dubiously.